Page 10 of Bound By The Christmastide Moon

“Do have a seat, Lady Mallory.” When she shook her arm free from his, Silas opted to guide her to the settee. “I believe the butler said tea would be sent.”

Lady Hettie sat next to her ward, and Silas was left with the choice of either a chair by the hearth—across the room and at the women’s backs—or a stool positioned on the opposite side of the low table before their settee.

Eventually, a knock came at the door, and a young maid pushed a cart into the room, stopping at Lady Mallory’s elbow.

“That will be all,” Lady Hettie blustered, not bothering to turn toward the maid.

With a hesitant smile, the girl dropped into a curtsey and fled the room, returning the door to its closed position. When the latch clicked into place, Silas focused once more on his betrothed.

He noted that even in her frenzied state, she was quite beautiful—in classic Rose style. Long, light brown locks that hung in precise curls. No doubt they would shimmer with golden highlights when exposed to the bright sun, not that England came with many clear, sunny days free of the ever-present cloud cover the country was known for. White, porcelain skin showed a healthy love of the indoors but the hint of freckles across the bridge of her nose exposed a possible secret affection for morning walks. Despite her attractive, poised demeanor it was her eyes that kept him enthralled. He’d seen them cloud over with something akin to a storm rolling in from the sea, enveloping the landscape and casting everything in the darkest shadows. It must have been a trick of the light, perhaps the dimming of a candle that had made her grey eyes darken moments before.

Lady Mallory continued to struggle with inhaling a satisfying breath. Her chaperone whispered in her ear as she rubbed her back.

His piqued interest would not remain unnoticed for long. Moving to the short stool, Silas lowered himself, all the while praying the delicate contraption held his weight. Blessedly, the thing did not crumble or even so much as creak. As if a switch were flipped, Lady Mallory focused on him, her eyes going from cloudy to clear within an instant as she reached out to the tea service. A perfectly composed smile settled on her heart-shaped, full lips—though she could not hide the increased weight on her shoulders.

“Tea, my lord?” Her posture was recumbent, and her voice even with hints of a soft melody.

Silas wagered the woman had an exceptional singing voice.

“My lord?” Lady Mallory’s brow furrowed.

“Yes, please,” Silas sputtered. Anything that did not use up his remaining coin was exceedingly welcome. “Tea would be very welcome.”

Lady Hettie reclined on the settee and glared at him, not hiding her scrutiny. Though he supposed her age and social standing as the marquess’s sister precluded her from a few social niceties.

“Lady Henrietta Hughes,” Silas coaxed, making certain his voice remained calm and low, relaxed. “I offer my thanks for accompanying Lady Mallory to Bocka Morrow. As she had an aversion to London, and I was journeying to Cornwall for my cousins’ weddings, this was very beneficial for all.”

“We reside in Northern Cornwall,” Lady Hettie grunted. “’Twas not as far as London, or this body I’ve been cursed with would not have made the distance, I assure you.”

Silas glanced at Lady Mallory, but the woman seemed oblivious to the tête-à-tête between her chaperone and him as she prepared three cups of steaming tea. Not once did she pause to question if he preferred cream, sugar, or honey; yet, she combined the perfect amount of cream and sugar for Silas’s liking. It was how his mother took her tea each day, and it had grown on the countess’s three children.

“You are one of three siblings?” Lady Hettie questioned as if reading his mind.

Unsettling.

Lady Mallory handed her chaperone a delicate teacup and saucer, painted with perfect roses, before leaning across the table to Silas’s cup.

“Thank you.” He glanced down into the swirling tea, giving himself a moment to think before the impending questions about his lineage were asked. It was the way of things in England—it was not a man’s integrity or worth, but his family connections that meant everything. “Yes, I was blessed with a younger brother and sister, Slade—or Sladeston—and Sybil.”

“I have an elder brother, as well. Adam,” Lady Mallory offered, bringing her cup to her lips. “He mainly resides in London and only returns home for holidays. We are not close.”

She pressed her lips tightly.

He wanted to smile, offer a measure of reassurance. Speaking of family, no matter the closeness, was a difficult thing. He’d often found himself giving too much information, or none at all.

“While I am very close to my siblings, it is because it is only the three of us.” Silas would not mention that Slade had had an unfortunate run-in with Lady Mallory’s brother in London only a few short weeks back. Thankfully, word had not gotten back to the marquess, thus affecting his and Mallory’s betrothal. “And you, Lady Mallory, are you enjoying your stay at Tetbery Estate?”

Silas was no stranger to uncomfortable, awkward conversations. It seemed every interaction with his mother, the Countess of Lichfield, ended in some odd utterance or proclamation. Once, for the brief period she’d fancied herself a sculptor, Mary Louisa had demanded her children refer to her as Charioteer. Many years later, the countess had taken to local superstitions and insisted the trio walk backward whenever in her presence.

Shaking his head, Silas realized he’d missed whatever Lady Mallory had been saying.

“…Miss Felicity Fields and her servants, as well.”

“Very good.” At least he hoped that was the appropriate response.

“Do give your family our felicitations on their upcoming nuptials.”

He certainly would, as soon as his aunt acknowledged his existence—if that ever came to pass.