Goodness! This time tomorrow everyone would think she was betrothed to Lord Avery. Her heart sped up at the thought.
“Yes, yes,” he grumbled slightly. “You’ve made that quite clear, Cordie. But first I should speak with Lord Aylesford, don’t you think?”
Chapter 7
“So you like to paint?” Greg asked Lady Arabella as she led him toward the library. Damn it all, she was enchanting. “That’s what you were doing when we arrived?”
Her face drained a bit of its color and she gazed up at him. “You probably shouldn’t mention that to him.”
Hadn’t she said to tell Lord Aylesford that they both enjoyed painting? Greg frowned. “I thought you said—”
“Don’t tell him I was painting today. It might put him in a mood.”
How very odd. Why would the marquess care one way or the other if his daughter had been painting today? She must have interpreted his thoughts or the expression on his face because she drew him to a stop in the corridor.
She picked at the bit of dried green paint on her finger and said very softly, “When I paint it reminds him of my mother, and I try very hard not to do that.” Then she glanced up to stare directly into Greg’s eyes. “You might as well know, Lord Avery, despite the fact that my grandfather is a rather powerful duke, my family doesn’t have the most pristine of reputations.”
Was that why her suitors were scarce? Some skeleton in her family’s closet? Greg was certainly not one to cast stones, not considering the fact that he lived in a glass house of his own. Still, he was curious, and he hadn’t stepped foot in Town for nearly a decade. Whatever was being said about her family had never reached his ears in Nottinghamshire. “What is the Winslett reputation?”
“I suppose you have a right to know if you’re to involve yourself in this plan.” A mirthless laugh escaped her. “Where to begin? Well, firstly, my grandfather is a tyrant of the worst variety. He’d make Ivan the Terrible shake in his boots. The only person he ever has a kind word for is Prissa, my sister, who is a veritable saint. Then there’s my mother. When I was a child, Mama ran off with her painting instructor. She left all of us in pursuit of art, and none of us have heard from her since.”
Her mother left her when she was a child? Greg did flinch at the thought. He’d never heard of such a thing. No matter how terrible his own mother was – and she was, most assuredly terrible - she’d never abandoned her children, much as some of them might have wanted her to.
“My father is the soft spoken sort, and he keeps to himself,” Lady Arabella continued, breaking Greg’s reverie. “And my brother is a hopeless drunkard, though you’ve probably already sorted that one out.” Her silver eyes, so sad, pierced his heart, and Greg had the overwhelming desire to brush his fingers across her cheek, to smooth away the worry that creased her brow and to vow that he would make everything right for her.
The poor girl. Cordie was right. Someone did need to help her. It might as well be Greg. After all, her secrets were safe with him, and when this sham of a betrothal was over, he’d never breathe a word of any of this to another living soul.
“If you don’t want to align yourself with us, even for such a short period of time, I’ll understand, Lord Avery.”
And abandon her after he’d given his word? No. She did need his help. Besides, Greg was far from perfect himself. He shook his head as he offered her his arm. “I will be honored to call you my pretend fiancée, Lady Arabella.”
She smiled softly as she slid her hand around his arm, and that pretty blush of hers stained her cheeks once more. Damn it all, she truly was lovely. And her innocent touch might very well drive him wild.
“In that case,” she said, “I mean, if you’re to be my fiancé, you should probably call me Bella. That’s what Papa calls me.”
Greg’s heart lifted a bit. “Then you should call me Greg. My family does.”
“Greg,” she repeated as though testing the name on her tongue, and the sound of it swirled around Greg like a caress. “Thank you. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for your kindness and assistance.”
He’d settle for a kiss. Of course, saying as much would hardly be appropriate. So he shrugged and said, “No need, Bella. I’m happy to be of service. Besides, I have a saint for a sibling myself. Tristan. I believe he helped your brother to your coach the other night.”
The lieutenant was the baron’s brother! They did have the same eyes, though Lord Avery was a bit taller. “He was very kind.”
“As I said, a saint.” Greg shook his head, hoping to charm her just a bit. “We less saintly siblings have to stick together, Bella.”
At that, she laughed. “After this favor you’re doing me, I think you shall be the saintly one in your family.”
Greg managed not to snort. One good deed would hardly qualify him for sainthood. A lifetime of atonement wouldn’t even bring him close. “Why don’t we find your father, shall we?”
They did find her father in the library as Bella had first suggested they might. The Marquess of Aylesford, an older man with a bit of grey at his temples, sat in an overstuffed leather chair, an old worn tome in his lap. At their entrance, the man’s brow lifted at seeing his daughter. “Bella?” he said as he rose to his feet. “What a surprise.”
“Papa,” she said, dropping Greg’s arm and stepping closer to her father. “I’d like to introduce you to Lord Avery.” Then she glanced behind her and smiled at Greg. “My father, the Marquess of Aylesford.”
“An honor to meet you, my lord,” Greg said, dipping his head in greeting. “Bella has spoken so highly of you.”
“Has she?” the old man asked, his eyes sweeping across Greg’s person. “Then you have me at a loss, Avery. I haven’t heard your name before.”
Of course he hadn’t. Bella had only met Greg an hour ago. “I do hope you’ll hear more of me in the coming years, Aylesford.”