Dangerous to Kiss (23 page)

“Gussie, I could not be happier for you.”

“I had almost given up hope.” She sniffed into his collar.

“Not you,” said Hart, extricating his wife from her brother’s embrace and taking her into his own arms, “else I would still be a bachelor.”

This brought more laughter. As several conversations started at once, Deborah stood there arrested. In her whole life, she had never witnessed such informal manners. Babies as yet to be born were never mentioned in mixed company. She wasn’t being judgmental. She was simply marveling at the exuberance of this strange family.

With everyone laughing and talking, she took a moment to study Gray’s mother and sisters. She had an impression of tawny good looks and wealth and breeding, then a silence descended as all eyes turned to her and Quentin. For a moment, she experienced a shaft of pure panic. Her arm went around Quentin’s shoulders; his arm crept around her waist. Then Gray was beside
them, making the introductions, and the moment passed.

The countess considered Deborah gravely for a long moment before she smiled. “So this is Deborah,” she said. “And you are Quentin. My dears, welcome to our home. Those words seem so inadequate, but I mean them sincerely.” She reached for Deborah’s hands and took them in a firm clasp. “You’ve both had a bad time, but that’s over now. We are going to do our best to make you forget it.”

For a moment, Deborah thought that the countess was referring to her abduction, but a quick look into Gray’s calm, untroubled eyes corrected that impression. He had intimated that he would tell his family only what he intended to tell the world, that the shock of his father’s death had caused Quentin to lose his memory, and they had spent a few months in the country to get over the tragedy. No one was to know that they had witnessed the murder, or that they had gone into hiding when they reached England. It would rouse too much curiosity, too much speculation, and add nothing to her peace of mind. She was here because she was Quentin’s guardian, and because she and Gray had to decide on the boy’s future.

The warmth of her reception was more than she had expected. A lump formed in her throat. She liked the countess on sight, and intuition told her that the feeling was mutual. She was clearing her throat, trying to find her voice to reply to these kind words, when Gray drew one of his sisters forward to meet her.

“My sister Gussie,” he said, slipping an affectionate arm around his sister’s shoulders. “You wouldn’t know it to look at her, but Gussie was once the bane of my existence. Older sisters tend to be tyrants, you know, but now that she has Hart and Jason to manage, we rub along tolerably well.”

Gussie ignored the ensuing laughter. She, too, reached for Deborah’s hands and held them in a firm clasp. “Deborah,” she said, and smiled warmly. “I hope you do not believe everything this rogue tells you. As though he would allow a mere female to lord it over
him! He is the tyrant, though you would not know it to look at him.”

“Yes,” said Deborah, “I believe you.”

“Oh ho!” Gussie threw Gray a challenging look. “There is a story here, if only I could discover it.”

“Gussie!” Hart laughed, not very convincingly, and pulled his wife to his side again, where he anchored her with one arm fast around her waist. He spoke to Deborah. “These Graysons take a bit of getting used to. This kind of teasing is second nature to them.”

“Yes, I believe that too,” said Deborah demurely.

Jason and Quentin were becoming restive. There was a short consultation with Hart, then making their excuses, they went charging up the stairs to the old nursery where a set of tin soldiers was set out for battle.

Deborah watched Quentin go with a start of alarm. Without him, she felt lost. She felt the touch of Gray’s hand on her shoulder and glanced up, and the look he gave her helped steady her nerves.

Gray, aware that his mother was avidly watching the interesting byplay between himself and Deborah, drew Deborah’s attention to the last member of his family to be introduced. “And this is my sister Meg.”

The girl was lovely—heart-shaped face dominated by the Grayson eyes. Her hair was fair, though not so blond as her brothers’ and sister’s, and her expression was frankly curious. Deborah had a fleeting recollection of Millicent Dench, the girl at Miss Hare’s who would try anything for a dare. Precocious, she thought, and was very glad she was not Lady Margaret Grayson’s governess.

“Lady Margaret,” murmured Deborah, acknowledging the introduction.

“Oh, please call me Meg.” Her eyes scanned Deborah in a slow perusal. “I have never had a governess who looked anything like you. I wish I had green eyes and hair the color of vintage sherry. Blond hair and blue eyes are so common.”

“Only,” said Gray dryly, “in this family. Meg, where are your manners?”

“Oh.” Crestfallen, Meg looked from Deborah to
Gray. “Did I say something out of turn? It seems to be a failing of mine.”

“Not to my ears,” interposed Deborah. “I have never yet heard of any female objecting to a compliment. Thank you, Meg. That was very nicely said.”

The countess linked her arm through Deborah’s. “Come along, my dear, and I shall show you to your room. You will want to get settled before we dine. Quentin has the room next to yours. I hope that is convenient?”

Deborah was swept away on the countess’s arm, with Gray’s sisters following them. As soon as they had taken the first turn in the stairs, Gray rounded on Nick.

“Oh no,” said Nick, answering that look, “I told Mother exactly what you told me to tell her. I never even hinted that your interest in Miss Weyman was anything but brotherly. Well, I wouldn’t, would I? You might decide to repay me in kind, and I wouldn’t appreciate it any more than you would.”

“Nick, let’s get one thing straight. I have no interest in Deborah Weyman, brotherly or otherwise. I feel a responsibility for the girl, and that is all. Do you understand?”

“Oh yes,” said Nick, clapping Gray on the shoulder. “I understand perfectly. I say, let’s open a bottle of champagne. It’s not every day that a fellow hears he is going to be an uncle.”

Hart threw one arm over Gray’s shoulders and the other over Nick’s and began to propel them toward the library. He was grinning from ear to ear. “An uncle is all right in its way, but just you wait. One day, you will hear that you are going to be a father, then you’ll really have something to celebrate.”

Nick cocked one eyebrow. “How do you know we haven’t already heard it?”

Speechless, Hart stopped in his tracks, and stared first at Nick, then at Gray. “You don’t … I can’t … surely …”

Nick decided to put his brother-in-law out of his misery. “Don’t worry, Hart. To my knowledge, there are no little … um … unhallowed Graysons running
around the country, though I can’t vouch for Gray. What do you say, Gray?”

Gray was no more amused than Hart. “It’s that kind of loose talk that starts up vicious rumors. What if it got back to Mother, or one of our sisters?”

Nick winked at Hart and sailed into the library. “Or to Miss Weyman? Poor Gray! She is going to hear plenty and there is nothing you can do about it.” Unperturbed, grinning, he pulled on the bell rope to summon a footman.

The rumors reached Deborah sooner than Nick had foreseen and came from a most unexpected quarter. After dinner, while the gentlemen lingered in the dining room, enjoying their port and brandy, the ladies retired to the drawing room for tea and conversation. Before long, Gussie and Meg were practicing a duet at the piano, and the countess had picked up her embroidery.

For the first little while, the countess, very subtly, delved into Deborah’s background. Deborah was prepared for the questions, and told, very candidly, a tissue of lies that would take a month of Sundays to disprove, but which satisfied the countess’s curiosity. After this, they talked of Quentin and how his father’s death had affected him. Finally, there was a silence.

After a quick glance at the piano assured the countess that Gussie and Meg were absorbed in their music, she smiled confidingly at Deborah. “Gray is very grateful for all you have done for Quentin.”

“Yes?” said Deborah carefully.

“He feels that these last few months have been very hard on you, and he wishes to make it up to you.” Deborah made no response to this, and the countess went on brightly, “You are to look upon your time with us as a holiday from all your cares. Gray has asked me to sponsor you in society, arrange parties and so on.”

This was news to Deborah and she opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it. It was all part and parcel of Gray’s plan to protect Quentin, and she
had given her word to be guided by him. All the same, she felt a little uneasy about the idea of being sponsored in society, and more uneasy still at the interpretation the countess might put on all this unwarranted attention for a mere governess. She smiled and uttered the first inanity that came to mind. “His lordship is too kind.”

The countess nodded, reflecting that it really was mere kindness on Gray’s part, and that’s what was so disappointing. When he had come to her room before dinner for a quiet tête-à-tête, and had given her explicit instructions respecting Miss Deborah Weyman, she had leapt to the conclusion that at long last her son had met a woman who could hold his interest. She should have known better.

Her hopes had been dashed almost at once. Miss Weyman was a guest in their home, he told her, because she was indispensable to Quentin’s peace of mind. She had been with the boy for four years, and had devoted herself to Quentin, especially in these last months following the tragedy. They owed her a debt of gratitude that could never be repaid. Now that Quentin was soon to go off to Eton, some provision must be made for the girl. He did not see why she could not make a suitable match with one of the many eligible young gentlemen who flocked around Meg.

The countess could think of many reasons, not least the disposition of his own sister. Meg was no shrinking violet. She would not take kindly to another woman poaching on her preserves. Not wishing to provoke an argument, the countess had said nothing of this. Instead, she had mentioned the lack of a dowry. Gray had waved away this objection. Gil had left Miss Weyman a handsome legacy, and so the matter was settled with one caveat. Deborah was proud to a fault. She must not suspect that they aimed to marry her off.

Now, facing Deborah, the countess got down to business. “It would be a grave mistake, Deborah, to put too much weight on my son’s interest in you.”

“What!” exclaimed Deborah, startled.

The duet at the piano died a sudden, discordant death.

The countess groped for the right words to convey her message tactfully. “You are a guest in my home, Deborah. I feel responsible for you. I like you and don’t wish to see you get hurt.”

“Hurt?” Alarm coursed through her. Were they going to abduct her again?

“What Mama is trying to say,” said Gussie, coming over and making a place for herself on the sofa beside Deborah, “is that she hopes you are too sensible to lose your heart to Gray.”

Meg flounced over and plumped herself down on a stuffed armchair. “It’s so pathetic the way women moon over him, like dogs salivating over a juicy bone. Haven’t you noticed? There are no maids in Mama’s employ under the age of fifty. They never last a week. It’s too comical for words, don’t you agree?”

“Meg,” remonstrated the countess, “you make it sound as though Gray encourages them. You know he never would.”

“Oh, wouldn’t he? That’s not how my last governess told it. Miss Peachum, you remember her, Mama?”

“Well, of course I remember her. I had to give the woman notice, didn’t I? And what do you mean, ‘that’s not how Miss Peachum told it’?”

Meg’s eyes sparkled. “She said that though Gray had spoken no words to her, none were necessary. His speaking eyes said it all. I had to put her wise about a few things.” She plucked a sugar plum from the dish on the tea table and popped it in her mouth. “It did the trick.”

“What did the trick?” demanded the countess, torn between terminating a conversation that was not fit for Meg’s innocent ears and her desire to know more.

“I told her about the little house in Hans Town. It was cruel, I suppose, but in the end it was better for her to know that there was no hope for her.”

“You know about the house in Hans Town?” asked the countess, thunderstruck.

“Of course I know,” replied Meg, and she reached for another sugar plum. “Doesn’t everybody?”

Deborah, who had been trying with diminishing patience
to get a word in edgewise, suddenly pressed her lips together. She looked with interest at each lady in turn. When the silence lengthened, and no one made a move to satisfy her burning curiosity, she gently prompted, “The little house in Hans Town? That’s in Knightsbridge, isn’t it?”

Gussie said, “It’s best if she knows, Mama.”

The countess mopped her brow with a scrap of white lace. Finally, coming to a decision, she said, “You must remember, Deborah, Gray is a single man.”

“A rake, in fact,” said Meg merrily.

The dowager pinned her younger daughter with a flinty eye. “Meg, one more word out of you, and you may retire to your room.”