Page 8 of The Untamed Heart

He glanced up at her before returning to the drawings. “Is he indolent?” he asked casually, but there was a disapproving edge to the question.

“No, not really,” Eustacia admitted. “Actually, he—”

She closed her mouth again, aware Sebastian would have her head if she said a word about him, and yet this honourable man would keep their secret. She knew it as certainly as she knew the sun would rise tomorrow. Perhaps if she confided a secret in him, a very large secret, he would unbend a little towards her.

His attention sharpened, and his eyes—which were an unusual shade somewhere between hazel and green—fixed upon her in such a way that she flushed under the scrutiny. Colonel Hamilton said nothing, but Eustacia could well imagine lesser ranking soldiers shrivelling under that penetrating gaze.

“If I tell you something in confidence, you’d not tell another living soul, would you.”

It wasn’t a question, but Eustacia was still relieved when he answered.

“Anything you tell me in confidence I would take to my grave, Miss Foxworthy,” he said with utter sincerity.

She smiled. “Well, it’s hardly a matter of life or death, not the sort of delicate information you are used to guarding, I’m sure, but Sebastian would be wild with me if he knew I’d told anyone.”

“You may have complete confidence that I will say nothing, not even to him if you do not wish me to.”

“Oh, no. I shall confess all, for I do not keep secrets from Seb, but you see, he’s been so very good to me. I should hate to cause him any difficulty.”

“If you would rather not tell me—”

Eustacia shook her head. “I fear you might get the wrong impression of him if you do not understand, for he puts a deal of effort into looking like a wastrel, I’m afraid, but the truth is he works terribly hard. Not physical work or derring-do in the manner of your life, but all the same—”

She took a breath, aware she was rambling and that Colonel Hamilton was watching her expectantly.

“He is a poet?” he said cautiously.

Eustacia smiled and shook her head. “No. But he is a writer, a remarkably successful one. He began out of desperation, for our parents died when I was fourteen and left us very little. They were rather an unconventional pair, artists both, and not terribly clever with money. If Seb could not find a means of supporting us, I would have been sent to live with my aunt—a dreadful creature—and I could not have borne it. Seb and I have always been very close. So, we racked our brains to think of ways to make ends meet. He’d always entertained me by telling stories, so I urged him to send one into the papers. They published it and… and it spiralled.”

“A remarkable achievement,” he said, nodding his approval. “But I do not understand the secrecy.”

Eustacia grinned. “Well, you see, he’d be mortified if anyone discovered who he is, for he writes under a pen name.”

He sat up a little straighter, clearly intrigued. “Indeed?”

Looking around her to ensure no one could hear their conversation, she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “My brother Sebastian is one of the most renowned names in the country, Colonel Hamilton, for he is Mrs Wildblood.”

It occurred to her to wonder if the colonel would have any inkling of whom she was speaking, for he did not strike her as the average reader of Gothic romances, yet his eyes grew wide with astonishment.

“Mrs Wildblood?” he repeated, sounding rather awed. “The Midnight Heir of Grimwyck Hall?”

“You know it?” she exclaimed, delighted.

“Know it?” he repeated with a wry huff of amusement. “That damned book got me through the worst of my recovery period, and The Dark Lantern, and The Ruined Chapel of Ravenscroft, The Midnight Bell, The Phantom on the Moor. Good Lord, I believe I have a dozen of them, possibly everything he’s written.”

Eustacia stared at him, completely disarmed and quite astonished that this gruff military man should be such a fan of her brother’s outrageously overblown romances.

It seemed the colonel too regretted his outburst, for he looked rather sheepish as he met her wondering gaze. “I would be grateful if I could er… rely on your discretion also. People make assumptions about a fellow for reading anything less frivolous than military memoirs or Livy in the original Latin. For my part, I owe your brother a debt of gratitude, and I mean that most sincerely.”

Eustacia beamed at him. “Then I beg you will tell him so yourself, for he finds the entire thing dreadfully embarrassing.”

For a moment he looked horrified by the idea, but he squared his shoulders and nodded. “I shall do so.”

Marcus studied Miss Foxworthy with interest. The revelation about her and her brother’s circumstances had clarified much. The fierce independence and unconventional force of character, her boldness and refusal to shy away from delicate subjects, were clearly borne of experience and necessity. Though she had made light of it, he suspected they had suffered a deal of hardship after the death of their parents.

The tea arrived alongside a delectable arrangement of sandwiches and cakes, and for a while they were quiet whilst Eustacia poured and they enjoyed their meal.

The sketchbook was still open upon the table beside him and his gaze returned to it as he ate. He was not a fool and assumed Miss Foxworthy had gone out of her way to find a subject to draw him out and put him at ease. She was clever and perceptive too, not that this was a surprise. Her painting of Miss Halfpenny had shown how keenly she observed people, and as much as that discomforted him, it was admirable. She’d have made a fine officer, he thought with a smile.