Free Lady Dearing's Masquerade by Elena Greene

in London. His wife used to enjoy playing with you, years ago, and she commended you to his care.”
    Mary looked puzzled.
    “Do you remember Lady Fairhill?” Livvy asked. “You would have been about six when she visited the Hospital.”
    Mary nodded. “Yes. She brought us gingerbread, and taught me some embroidery stitches.”
    “Sir Jeremy is her husband. He wants to take you into his own family and care for you.”
    Mary eyed Sir Jeremy but continued to cling to Livvy.
    “Mary,” said Sir Jeremy in the gentlest of voices. “I do indeed have a particular interest in your welfare, but I don’t wish to cause you pain. I shall not insist that you leave Lady Dearing at present.”
    Mary wilted in Livvy’s arms.
    Sighing, Livvy looked around and saw the color returning to the other children’s faces. She turned her gaze back to Sir Jeremy and gave him a grateful look.
    “Children,” she said briskly. “It is time all of you returned to the house and got yourselves cleaned up.”
    She loosened her hold on Mary, who slowly withdrew from her embrace and went to stand near Philippa.
    “Go on, all of you. Hurry so you may be clean in time for our meal. And there will be no sweets for any of you for a week!”
    Philippa led the rest of the children as they ran off in the direction of the house. Livvy suspected they were all relieved to have gotten off so lightly.
    Then she turned back to Sir Jeremy. Furrows had formed above his brows; his jaw was set at a harsh angle. But the bereft look in his eyes belied everything else, softening her fear into pity.
    “If you continue to be so gentle, Mary will learn not to recoil from you,” she reassured him.
    He stared after the retreating children.
    “Allow her some time. I am sure it will be well.”
    He turned back to her, a muscle flexing in his cheek. “I believe you are laboring under a misapprehension, Lady Dearing. Do you think I am Mary’s father?”
    “I meant no offense,” she said, coloring. “If you say you are not Mary’s father of course I believe you. It is just that . . . you looked at her with such yearning. You have no children of your own?”
    “It was not . . . not possible.”
    “I am sorry,” she said quietly. “I must thank you again for being so patient with Mary.”
    His jaw tightened again. “I’m not such a brute as to drag her away forcibly. But neither can I leave matters as they stand. I cannot give a good report to the General Committee after such an incident.”
    She shivered. Things had been going so well . . . but he had all the power. It was time to abandon pride and plead, cajole, whatever was necessary.
    “I know how badly this looks,” she said. “But the children usually mind me very well, I assure you!”
    “Some of the Governors speculate that you overindulge the children. I have seen nothing to refute that claim.”
    “But you will. At present the children are too upset to make a proper demonstration of their progress, but perhaps, if you return tomorrow . . .”
    “Do you think they will not run away again?”
    “They will not,” she said, clasping her hands tightly in front of her. “Perhaps, if they become better acquainted with you . . .”
    “Do you know how that might be accomplished?”
    “You are of course welcome to make more visits. Perhaps spend a few days with each child, over a period of a month,” she said recklessly.
    He turned from her, broad shoulders tense. He seemed lost in thought; she could not see his face or guess if he liked the idea. It was beginning to terrify her.
    “I realize you are busy with the branch hospital project, and of course you have an estate to manage,” she said, unnerved by his stillness.
    “This is important,” he replied, turning back to her, his gaze darkly intense. “Very well. I shall come for a few days during each of the next four weeks.”
    “As long as you do not think it would give rise to gossip.”
    “I can care for my own reputation.