Free A Heart's Treasure by Teresa DesJardien

pressed the tables edge to edge, making one long one at which they all could sit. The innkeeper’s wife, Mrs. Hummock, was startled when she returned with a rack of toast to find them thus arranged, but only for a moment before she assured the others that their breakfasts would be forthcoming shortly. Haddy was disappointed to learn there were no kippers to be had, and mumbled something about ham having to do.
    * * *
    Xavier saw at once there was nothing for it. With the tables pushed together, there was only one seat left by the time he moved around the table; he must take the chair to Genevieve’s right.
    This put his blind eye toward the lady—but he reminded himself not to be glad of the paltry convenient way to avoid her gaze. He pulled out the chair, also checking the impulse to make an excuse about not being hungry. After all, he’d decided just this morning that he’d not let this journey discomfort him. He could fake being in a state of utter calm and control. Hadn’t he had many opportunities in which to practice?
    Take this morning. He’d pushed his eye patch up somewhat out of the way while he’d shaved, but hadn’t completely removed it. Haddy had still been in the room. Xavier had one hard and fast rule: he didn’t subject others to the sight of his injured eye, not even his best friend. He just behaved as if he always left the patch on when he shaved. Haddy, bless him, had seen the act dozens of times, and today hadn’t bothered to pay Xavier any particular mind anyway.
    As he’d listened to Haddy’s mild curses at the unaccustomed task of also shaving himself, Xavier had relaxed so far as to take a moment to re-evaluate his own visage. Despite the fact he knew every inch of his puckering scar, every raised dot where a surgeon’s stitch had gone in or come out, he knew at a conscious level that his appearance disturbed others less than his instinct always made him think it did. His chin was strong, his mouth even, his nose straight. His hair was thick and dark, with a bit of wave that others tried to emulate with the use of pomade but which haloed his own head quite naturally. Even the good eye was an acceptable gray with long dark lashes complementing it. He also knew that, even with the scar and patch, he’d turned a head or two.
    Well…perhaps his birth had done most of the head-turning for him; there was always a young miss on the hunt for a title or a fortune. He was Viscount Warfield, a title he’d use until he took his father’s place as the Earl of Fenworth—and there were too many eligible females wanting a chance to be a viscountess and eventually a countess. If the title wasn’t enough, he’d plenty of the ready to satisfy all but the most avaricious seeker. And certainly no one could fault his standing as a most acceptable social parti . He was welcome anywhere he’d worked to make it so. How better to hide from the truth than in a crowd? How better to learn to ignore a lady’s too-long stare than to encounter such stares often?
    So he’d remembered who and what he was as he gazed at himself in the morning mirror. He was Lord Warfield the Pleasant. The partygoer. The ever-gallant, the sociable fellow…who was at heart always alone. And that was his secret, the price he paid for his ability to go forth of a morning, to dance with a lady and make conversation with her: that he was alone in his bed at night, unable to inflict anything but his daylight public persona on a woman. It was his way of facing the world despite his marred appearance, and had been so for a very long time.
    And would continue to be so. Especially with Genevieve, a friend too dear, too long a part of his world, to lose through selfish yearnings.
    Now he waited until the innkeeper’s wife had set a full plate in front of him and he’d nodded his thanks to the lady. Then, forcing his chin up, he turned so he could see Genevieve. She wore a pretty pale yellow dress this morning, with a variegated