Free Rebel Baron by Shirl Henke Page A

money-grubbing carpetbagger taking advantage of a girl little more than half his age. He knew damn well he was a supplicant before Miss Lorilee's cool and elegant mother. And he did not like it. But nevertheless, he gave them a blindingly white smile and bowed, flourishing his hat as grandly as Colonel John Hunt Morgan himself.
           When the women reached the bottom of the stairs, Miranda immediately took charge, greeting Brand and making introductions. “Lorilee, may I present Brandon Caruthers, Lord Rushcroft.”
           When Brand took her hand, he could feel a faint tremor. After pressing a brief and most properly executed kiss on its back, he raised his head and noted the way her eyes fastened on his scar, then instantly skittered away. Many women found it romantic, but he was certain this one did not, judging from the slight flush of embarrassment staining her cheeks. In the dim light of Moreland’s cloak room, she must not have noted it.
           “Your servant, Miss Auburn,” he said with a smile which seemed to warm her the tiniest bit. Turning to her mother, he paused, asking, “Am I allowed to observe the amenities in your home, or would you prefer a handshake?”
           Arching one eyebrow sardonically, Miranda presented her gloved fingers for him to salute. “That is reserved for the world of business, not social calls, Major,” she said wryly. He bowed smartly over her hand. No tremor there, but he'd expected none any more than he did a missish blush.
           The widow turned and glided toward the door held open by a deferential servant who seemed to blend into the oak panels. The room they entered was enormous for a city house and filled with expensive but, to his taste, garish Rococo Revival furniture. If possible, the intricately carved oak pieces covered in dark blue brocade were even uglier than the more massive Gothic decor in the widow's banking offices.
           It said little for her taste if she'd made the selections. But, overall, he found the taste of the British as boorish as that of the noveau-riche Yankees who'd flooded into the South after the war, buying up gracious homes and refurnishing them like emporiums overflowing with costly bric-a-brac.
           Miranda noticed the way his gaze swept the room. She could sense that he did not like the ostentatious display of wealth. Neither did she. But Will had been so proud of his home that she had done little to change it after his death. “Please, be seated, my lord,” she said, gesturing toward a large chair facing the settee.
           Brand waited for both ladies to sit down before he complied. They took the settee, perching with starchy spines not touching the back cushion, a study in contrasts. Lorilee dressed in youthful pastel, her mother in a dull green day gown which was no more flattering than the gray suit she'd worn at the bank. Lordy, I've seen better-dressed squirrel hunters . He supposed she had no time for fashion with an empire to run.
           “Lori, will you pour?” she asked her daughter as a maid deposited an immense tray laden with a silver teapot, Sevres china and the rich, heavy foods so favored for late afternoon repasts in England.
           Obediently the young woman leaned forward and picked up the elegant teapot, filling the first of three cups. Her hands trembled ever so slightly, but she performed with perfect decorum as she'd doubtless been drilled to do by a succession of governesses.
           “Cream or lemon, my lord?” she inquired.
           All so very proper. “Just a touch of sugar, thank you, Miss Auburn,” he replied, wishing fervently for a good strong cup of black coffee. He hated tea. Smiling at her, he searched his memory for what other skills and interests young women of her class might possess. “Do you by any chance paint, Miss Auburn?”
           “Yes, watercolors, but not very well.”
           “Nonsense.