Frovtunes’ Kiss (23 page)

“Lady Monteith.” Graham approached the faded petit-point armchair. Bending at the waist, he lifted Estella's hand to his lips. “Ma'am, I am your late husband's relative, Graham Foster. I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Graham Foster? Not Nigel, then?” Shadows gathered in Estella's dark eyes.

“No, Mother, not Nigel.”

“Well, then.” She produced a polite smile that trembled slightly at its corners. “Won't you join us for tea, Mr. Foster? You must forgive us, though. We seem to have misplaced our splendid Meissen tea service and must make do with the Minton set I purchased in Staffordshire before my marriage to Lord Monteith. It's quite lovely, mind you, but not nearly as elegant as the other.” Her gaze darted about the room. “We seem to have misplaced a great many things lately.”

Not misplaced, Moira reflected dismally, but left behind at Monteith Hall. “Mother, would you like to see the Hall again? Return there to live, perhaps?”

“Why, yes, I would, indeed.” Her matter-of-fact reply held the question in no higher account than what cake she'd like with her tea. “We should go soon, in fact. Your papa will be waiting for us. He must wonder why we've lingered so long on holiday without him.”

Graham's hand closed on Moira's shoulder. She could not help turning toward it and seeking its warmth beneath her chin.

How she'd hoped—prayed—things would be better with her mother by now, that the confusion would have cleared once Mrs. Stanhope had settled her into a routine. On the contrary, Mother seemed worse than ever, her thoughts more mired in the past. Moira wondered if moving back to Monteith Hall would make any difference at all.

The reverberation of the tea cart along the corridor's bare floorboards interrupted her musings. Bare floorboards. Yes, when she last walked the parlor floor, her footsteps had reverberated throughout. Now, however…

Gazing downward, she realized her knees were cushioned by a thoroughly unfamiliar throw rug. They certainly hadn't brought this broadloom of green vines on a russet background from Monteith Hall. Another rug lay beneath the front window.

Where on earth had they come from? Or, more to the point, where had the funds to purchase them come from?

“Mother…”

Mrs. Stanhope entered the parlor at that moment and positioned the refreshment cart beside her mother's chair. Smiling, the housekeeper whisked a silver cover off a platter. Moira's breath caught at what she saw.

Tea cakes dripping with honey. Clotted cream. Fruit preserves. Cinnamon biscuits. Good heavens!

A sense of outrage clogged her throat. Such extravagance. Such sinful excess. How was it possible? Even if the funds she had sent had managed to arrive so quickly, the money was simply not enough for luxuries like these.

She pushed slowly to her feet. How
could
Mrs. Stanhope have been so reckless with their meager savings?

“My goodness,” that very woman exclaimed as she hurried back into the hall. “I nearly forgot. I've made a lovely bread pudding, as well. I'll be right back with it.”

Estella nodded and lifted the teapot. Moira felt as though she staggered at the brink of disaster.

“Excuse me a moment,” she murmured and followed Mrs. Stanhope into the kitchen. The sound of the housekeeper's uneven soprano sent her ire soaring with each carefree note.

“Mrs. Stanhope, a word, if you please.”

“Of course, Miss Moira.” The woman looked up from the worktable, where she was just lifting a linen cloth from an oblong pan. Inside, cubed bread oozed with buttery vanilla sauce dotted with raisins. A warm, sweet aroma set Moira's mouth watering despite her indignation. “I do hope you and the new Lord Monteith brought your appetites.”

A deep breath helped contain the urge to bellow. Moira clutched her hands together. “Mrs. Stanhope, what have you done? Sugar, butter, new rugs? What is the meaning of this?”

“I…whatever do you mean, Miss Moira?”

Sheer frustration propelled her to the worktable. Gripping the pan, Moira lifted it, then smacked it against the countertop. The bread pudding shimmied within its syrup. Splatters flew.

Mrs. Stanhope flinched. “Why, Miss Moira—”

“Don't
Miss Moira
me. Not after months of meting out every ingredient, of painstakingly rationing our foodstuffs, of barely holding financial disaster at bay…” Her words dissipated on a nauseating wave of fury. Trembling, she clenched her teeth and fisted her hands. “I demand to know where all this abundance comes from.”

“But…” Mrs. Stanhope eyed her sideways, her wary frown suggesting Moira had quite taken leave of her senses and was liable to exhibit even more deranged behavior at any moment. As well she might. “They were delivered the day before yesterday. Didn't you arrange it, Miss Moira?”

“Delivered?” Several seconds ticked by on the wall clock before she was able to close her mouth, swallow, and form an answer. “I most certainly did not. Who delivered them?”

“Two men in livery came in a coach, which is odd, now that I consider it.”

“Livery?” Suspicion hissed through her like a serpent. “What color?”

“Royal blue.” Mrs. Stanhope tilted her head. “With silver trim, I believe.” Her eyes went wide. “Why, that's the—”

“The new Monteith livery, yes.”

“We left the Hall so soon after the change was made, I'd forgotten.” The woman took up the discarded linen cloth and began mopping at the butter sauce dispersed by Moira's tirade. “Are you angry with me, Miss Moira? Should I not have accepted the delivery?”

Angry? Quite right. But not with this trustworthy woman. “Mrs. Stanhope, do forgive me. I don't know what came over me. I'm so sorry. It's just …well, never mind. You did exactly right.”

The woman beamed, and Moira did an about-face, blazing a path back to the parlor. From the doorway she wagged a beckoning finger at Graham. “Would you mind helping me find something in the coach, please?”

He sat perched on a footstool in front of her mother's chair, his long legs drawn up and his cup and saucer balanced on his knee. Her mother was saying something that had him grinning. At Moira's request, he nodded, set his teacup on the cart, and placed his hand over one of Estella's. “Would you excuse me a moment, ma'am?”

“Yes, but don't be long. Your tea will grow cold, and besides, we have so much to catch up on. Moira, dear, did you know Nigel's been all the way to Egypt? No wonder his presence at Monteith has been woefully scarce these past months.”

“Yes, Mother. We'll be back presently.” Tugging Graham by his coat sleeve, she conveyed him out the front door and down the garden path. At the gate, she halted and released him. “All right, you. Come clean. Who stocked the cupboards?”

       14      

M
oira wanted to be furious, but this man made it a devilish difficult task. Especially when the afternoon sunshine gilded the ends of his hair, rekindled the African sun in his skin, brightened his eyes to aquamarine, and—oh, how she hated to admit it—lent him the dashing magnificence of an Egyptian king.

She blinked and banished the pharaoh from her sights, bringing Graham Foster clearly into view. He was trying to smile, yet looked uncharacteristically at a loss as he fidgeted with his cravat.

“There's no need to be angry, Moira.”

“Have you not heard a blessed word I've said about accepting charity? When I went to London, it was to secure what I believed to be…”

Her voice caught. Blast. What she didn't need now were tears, but there they were, pushing against her eyes and closing her throat until all she could do was hiccup into her hand. She spun away, but Graham caught her shoulders, turned her, and gently drew her to him.

“I was only trying to help.”

“Assisting me in my quest is one thing, and for that I'm eternally grateful.” A sob rushed out, unstoppable for all she whisked a fist to her mouth in the effort to contain it.

Without a word, he anchored his arms around her and pressed his forehead to hers, waiting patiently to catch whatever utterances made their way past her weeping.

She gathered her breath, stepped backward until his hold loosened, and wiped angrily at her eyes. “Handouts are quite another matter. I will not live my life as anyone's poor, dependent relation. How dare you think so little of me and of my capacity to care for me and mine.”

“It was only the other day you called me sweet, Moira.” His hands nestled warmly at the curves of her neck. “Have I once more reverted to blackguard?”

“Oh, don't do that. Don't try to be adorable.” She shoved his arms away, then regretted it, immediately missing their steadying strength.

“Adorable. Egad.” His mouth pulled. “A sweet, adorable blackguard. Please don't tell Shaun. I'd never live it down.”

“Oh, you're impossible.” She pushed through the gate and strode half the length of the picket fence before halting and doing something she hadn't done in many years. She stomped her foot.
“Why
won't you understand? I'm an able-bodied person. I can obtain some sort of position. A teacher, a governess. I sew tolerably well. I could take work as a seamstress.”

“A seamstress?” Quicker than lightning he was beside her, grasping her elbow and turning her to face him again with considerably more insistence than she might have preferred. “And do what, Moira, sit in some garret fifteen hours a day wearing out your fingers and your eyes for a pittance that will keep you merely half-alive? I'd sooner die than allow you to come to that.”

“Allow me? Of all the impertinence.” Her chin came up. She was about to take him to task when suddenly the admonishments flew from her mind. His expression was fierce, his jaw stony. She realized what he'd said—but had he meant it?

I'd sooner die
.

Would he? For her? Her heart swelled at the thought, but… Was this simply more of Graham Foster's dramatics? Cavalier sentiments tossed out for effect, for excitement, for sport?

“I will not accept charity,” she said. “Not from you. Not from anybody.”

“Would you rather your mother go hungry?”

“I—” Her mouth snapped shut. She despised his logic. “You needn't put it that way, as if there were no prospects between the one and the other.”

“Damn your pride, Moira Hughes. You're the one always extolling the virtues of family.” He took possession of her face in both hands. He brought his own face close, until the heat of his breath fell like kisses across her lips. “You little hypocrite, too stubborn to live by your own credo. You'd rather starve than accept help, even from someone for whom that help presents no hardship whatsoever. Or is it simply me, Moira? You'd rather not be beholden to
me?”

Between his palms, she felt her color rise. That had, indeed, once been the case. She
had
balked at trusting a man who claimed family meant nothing. Yet, more recently, she'd glimpsed another side to him, a side that, when acknowledged aloud, made him cringe and her smile.

Still…

“In my place, would you accept handouts? Should I possess any less integrity for being a woman?”

His hands dropped to his sides. “No.” His shoulders bunched; he thrust his hands in his trouser pockets. “Consider it a loan, then.”

“One I might never be able to repay. Especially in light of what we learned yesterday at the bank.”

“You could always don your maid's uniform and work it off. Of course, it would cost me a fortune in chipped porcelain…” Grinning crookedly at her simmering scowl, he tipped his head from side to side as if weighing the pros and cons of the matter. “Then again, watching Letty's ensuing descent into madness would be priceless.”

In spite of everything, laughter came tumbling out. How could this man so infuriate her and at the same time reduce her to such mirth her belly shook like so much bread pudding?