Free Douglas: Lord of Heartache by Grace Burrowes Page B

small child?
    “You don’t want to leave Rose with strangers?”
    “Maybe it’s that, or maybe I am the one who feels homesick, and I fret over my child to deal with it.” She took another sip of brandy, which Douglas took for a small concession to nerves.
    Interesting.
    “I should note,” Douglas said, addressing the drink in his hand, “you look quite nicely put together tonight.” Even he, however, knew the dress Guinevere wore, while flattering and elegant, was not in the first stare—or the second. Still, the forest-green color became her, and the style accentuated the curves she’d kept camouflaged in her drab attire heretofore.
    Had she worn that dress for him? The notion was both surprising and… pleasing.
    “Thank you, my lord.”
    He’d wanted to set her at ease with his compliment, and based on her expression, had failed. Abruptly, Douglas wished he had a fraction of the charm her wealthy cousins could exude, a fraction of their experience with the ladies.
    “Shall we take ourselves in to dinner, or would you like to linger here?”
    She accepted his proffered arm without protest, gods be thanked. “I am hungry. You must be as well.”
    He was nigh ravenous, which seemed to occur more often in her company.
    “I suggest we spend tomorrow getting acquainted with the estate books,” Douglas said as he seated her at the small dining table. “Greymoor ordered them readied for our inspection, and the ground will need a day or two to dry before we can safely ride across country.”
    In truth, Guinevere would want to stick close to the nursery for a day or two, though Douglas kept that notion to himself. Over the soup course, he instead invited her to list the aspects of the external estate she’d be most interested in assessing. Her list was exhaustive and would keep them in the saddle for days.
    “You are not simply self-reliant as a function of your status as mother and land steward, are you?” Douglas asked as he refilled their wineglasses. Guinevere had been right about the cellars, and the kitchen was apparently attempting to make a good impression.
    As was he, curiously enough.
    The chicken had been excellent, as had the ham . The golden highlights Guinevere’s hair caught from the dinner candles and firelight were also most appealing.
    “I was my parents’ only child, as Rose will be my only child,” Guinevere reflected. “My father never enjoyed robust health, and my mother died when I was little. We were not well situated, Father having disdained to remain at Enfield and take over the reins from Grandpapa. My earliest memories are of reminding my father it was time for supper.”
    Did she also have memories of reminding of him of what he’d recently eaten? “Was there adequate provision for that meal?” Douglas asked, knowing he could be considered rude for doing so.
    “There was—as soon as I learned to cook and to manage the stipend Grandpapa sent.”
    A briskness in her tone suggested the time had arrived to change the subject. “How old were you when you came to Enfield?” He ought to be offering her more wine or a bite of pear, except he wanted to take advantage of her willingness to answer questions.
    “Eleven or so.”
    A girl of eleven might help her mother in the kitchen, or begin to prepare simple dishes with supervision. In a household with any means, she did not cook whole meals on her own or manage budgets.
    “You look displeased,” Guinevere remarked as she cut into a pale, succulent pear.
    “I expect I frequently look displeased to you. Usually, I am merely thinking.” In this case, about a young girl who’d had an aunt and grandparents, at least, in a position to take her father in hand, and who had neglected to do so.
    “While you think, perhaps you can tell me how it is a second son was not educated to take over the entailed estate in case tragedy struck the heir.”
    Turnabout was fair play, and to be expected with a worthy opponent.
    “I have wondered