Free McAlistair's Fortune by Alissa Johnson Page B

“Well, whether you believe it or not, it is a ruse. It has something to do with a deathbed promise Mr. Fletcher made to the late Lord Rockeforte—Alex’s father. Can’t imagine what sort of promise it was that required matchmaking or why he thought to include me. I barely knew the man.”
    “Can’t you find a husband on your own?”
    “Certainly, I can,” she answered quickly, and hoped he couldn’t see her flush in the dying light. Probably, she could find a husband on her own. She’d never actually received an offer of marriage, but then, she’d been careful not to lead any gentlemen in that direction. “I’ve simply no interest in the endeavor.”
    “Why not?”
    She picked up a small twig and tossed it into the fire. “One could just as easily ask why one should.”
    “Children and a home of your own.”
    “Haldon is my home, Mr. McAlistair, for as long as my family resides there. Beyond that, not every woman relishes the idea of planning her life around marriage, birth, and running a house.”
    “Many do,” he pointed out. Then he added, “McAlistair.”
    She blinked at him. “I’m sorry?”
    “It’s McAlistair, not Mr. McAlistair.”
    “Oh.” Goodness, the man really was odd. “McAlistair is your first name?”
    He shook his head.
    “ Have you a first name?” she inquired.
    “Yes.”
    She waited a beat. Then another. Then laughed and rolled her eyes. “La, how you do go on.”
    “Mr. McAlistair was my father.”
    “Generally, that is how it works.”
    “I don’t care for the reminder.”
    “I see.” She plucked at a blade of grass, torn between doing what was polite and letting the matter drop, and doing what she wanted, which was to satisfy her insatiable curiosity. “Was he unkind?”
    “I don’t know,” McAlistair answered without a hint of emotion. “He left when I was four.”
    “I’m very sorry.” She plucked at the grass again. “I suppose you haven’t any siblings, then?”
    “I’ve six younger brothers.” He handed her some of the remaining bread.
    “Younger?…Ah.” She bobbed her head and, because she was starving, and he was holding it out so insistently, and it was such a small portion, really, and…oh, very well, because she was weak, she accepted the food. “That makes sense.”
    It wasn’t until she’d taken a bite that she realized he was staring at her again. She chewed and swallowed. “What?”
    “Makes sense?”
    She cocked her head at him. “Did you expect me to condemn your mother?”
    “Yes.”
    “Oh. Well.” He certainly was blunt. “I don’t see why. Most members of the demimonde consider extramarital affairs to be fashionable—provided the lady has produced at least one male heir, of course.”
    “Are you a member of the demimonde?”
    “No, but I’ll not judge an abandoned woman for seeking comfort. She wasn’t left a choice, was she? Pity she couldn’t have obtained a divorce.”
    “You approve of divorce?”
    Heavens, were they having an actual conversation? “Under certain circumstances, yes. I don’t think people should go about changing spouses willy-nilly, but neither should it be so difficult for a woman to free herself from an injurious union.”
    “Like the women you help?”
    She took another bite of bread. “Exactly.”
    He stared at her, unblinking, for a full five seconds, as if considering her very carefully. “My brothers have different fathers.”
    She stopped midchew. “What, all of them?”
    He nodded once.
    “Well. I see.” She swallowed and thought this new bit of information through. “Perhaps she required a great deal of comfort.”
    It was hard to tell in the encroaching darkness and with the way the fire cast light and shadows across his chiseled features, but she rather thought he might have smiled.
    Then she was absolutely certain he was scowling. Not at her, mind you, he was staring at something off to her left, but still, he was scowling.
    Confused, she followed his line of sight.