The Duke of Defiance (The Untouchables #5)(5)

She sank into a curtsey. “Good morning, my lord. My sister wishes to convey her deepest apologies, but her son is ill, so she asked me to come in her stead.”

Bran registered the tidy upsweep of her dark brown hair and the green-brown of her earnest eyes as well as the simplicity of her modest slate-gray gown. She was rather monochromatic, except for that hint of green in her eyes, and the tiny gold flecks that danced near the pupil. He recalled that she was widowed, which perhaps explained her somewhat dour appearance. Or maybe it was just that he was used to warmth and vibrancy and colors that defied possibility in England. Barbados seemed like an imaginary world now.

“I see. Do you have children of your own?” he asked.

Pale swaths of pink highlighted her cheeks. It was the barest bit of color, but he caught it. How could he not against the dull palette she provided?

Dull?

No, that wasn’t an apt description. Her attire was dull, her hair a bit too severe, but she possessed an attractive, feminine form. Indeed, her breasts were perhaps spectacular. And she was pretty, with long, dark lashes framing her eyes and rose-colored lips that were just a bit too full. Not too full, he amended.

“I do not,” she said, drawing his attention back to his question about whether she had children.

“Then how can you be qualified to help me with this endeavor?”

“My sister sent a list of characteristics and requirements you should seek.” She straightened her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “She also sent me with her express confidence.”

He liked her fortitude. “Well then, I suppose you will suffice. Come along.”

Her nostrils flared slightly, and her eyes widened just the tiniest bit, the gold flecks seeming to brighten. As he turned to lead her to his office, he considered that he might just have offended her again. He had called her abilities into question, but why wouldn’t he?

He strode toward the back corner of the house, where his office was located. It was a large chamber with a wall of bookshelves and windows that looked out to the garden. He moved behind the desk and indicated for her to take a chair on the opposite side.

She slowly sat, her gaze wary and her mouth tight.

He frowned. “My apologies if I insulted you.”

“If you’d rather I didn’t stay, you have only to say so.” There was a steely set to her shoulders and a clipped edge to her tone as she spoke. “Nora wanted to help you, but I’ll understand if you decide I won’t suffice.”

He dropped into his chair. She had cheek to go with her fortitude. He liked that too. He’d been prepared to deal with milksops and featherbrains when he’d returned to England—people like his mother and brothers. Not that they really were milksops or featherbrains, but they liked to put on as if they were, thinking it was somehow attractive. He supposed it wasn’t fair to assume an entire population shared the same characteristics as his family.

“I’m afraid I must also apologize for the other day. I meant no offense. Sometimes… I speak without realizing how my words might sound.”

One of her dark, slender brows arched. “Forgive me for saying so, but I’ve found that’s a trait shared by most men.”

A short, sharp laugh escaped him. “You may be right.” Hell, she was absolutely right. But he knew he was a bit worse than average. His mother had spent the first eighteen years of his life telling him so. “I should advise you that I will likely do it again. Inadvertently offend you, I mean.”

“Well, so long as it’s inadvertent.”

Yes, cheek to spare.

He glanced toward the reticule sitting in her lap. “You say your sister sent a list of requirements?”

“Yes.” She opened the reticule and withdrew a piece of folded parchment. Scooting to the edge of her chair, she set it on the edge of the desk in front of her, laying it flat. “Nora recommends someone well versed in manners, sewing and mending, and medicine.” She looked up from the paper. “Didn’t Evie have a nurse in Barbados?”

“Yes, and she excelled at all those things.” He thought of Amalie and how hard it had been for Evie to say goodbye. “Except perhaps the manners. Not that she didn’t teach them—she did. It’s just that things were different there. I didn’t imagine Evie would need to grow up as the daughter of an earl.” He bristled, the title pressing down on him like a mantle made of bricks.

“Your life has changed quite dramatically, I take it?”

In the span of eighteen months, he’d gone from third son to earl. He’d had to uproot his life, including his daughter from the only home she’d ever known. “Nothing is the same,” he said simply.

Except his feelings at being back in England. Though it had been fifteen years since he’d last walked on this ground, he was still the same eccentric Bran. Only now he was expected to lead the family and be the earl. That meant dealing with his mother, his brothers’ widows, and their daughters, of whom there were seven. He thought. Admittedly, he wasn’t sure.

Forget a mantle made of bricks, perhaps it was lead. And granite. And bricks.

But first and foremost came Evie. Always Evie.

“Whoever I hire must possess patience and kindness. Evie is…sensitive.”

“Plus she’s been through a great change. Yes, I must agree that finding someone who will help her make the transition to her new life in England is critical.”