Leslie Lafoy (4 page)

“I think we should reserve our judgments for a bit,” Sera offered diplomatically. “We have, after all, arrived on his doorstep completely unannounced and it’s been a great shock for him to discover that not only is his brother not returning home, but that he has three nieces of whom he was apparently uninformed. People are never at their best when in shock. With time, he may become a bit less…”

Sera floundered, mentally reviewing all the observations she’d made in the brief span of her acquaintance with Mr. Carden Reeves. The man had an instinctive disdain for convention. Opening his own door. At noon and wearing only a fine silk dressing gown. A dressing gown which had left precious little to her imagination—especially when he leaned his wide shoulder against the doorjamb and casually crossed his arms and ankles. It had taken every ounce of her self-possession to keep from ogling the long expanse of his bared and well-muscled thigh.

And it was obvious that he made a habit of presenting himself that way to women. He’d been completely at ease, perhaps even unaware of what his stance offered for her perusal. Carden Reeves—every wide-shouldered, narrow-waisted centimeter of him—fairly radiated a sense of confidence.

The man was clearly a rake. A seducer of women. She’d known that the instant he’d opened the door and met her gaze. She’d felt the heat bolt through her from head to toe, stealing her breath and instantly—but, mercifully, only momentarily—scattering her wits. He’d been aware of his instant, powerful effect on her, though. And he’d been amused. She hadn’t known whether to be insulted or embarrassed and so she’d opted for wary and businesslike instead. It had seemed to go better after that. Until his callous remark about hoping Arthur had produced sons.

“Uncle Carden might become a bit less what, Miss Sera?” Beatrice pressed, her eyes narrowed in the way she did when puzzling something.

Handsome. Tall. Incredibly well built. Deliciously roguish. Temptation incarnate. “Pompous,” Sera answered crisply, deciding that it probably came closest to being the root of all his shortcomings.

As she expected, Camille asked, “What does ‘pompous’ mean?”

“Full of himself, darling. Your Uncle Carden thinks very highly of himself.”

“Why?”

She should have expected that question, as well. But she hadn’t and now found herself backed into a corner by her own doing.

“Because he’s handsome,” Amanda supplied with all the authority of a woman three times her age.

Beatrice, always doubting anything her older sister said, instantly demanded, “Is Amanda right, Miss Sera? Is Uncle Carden handsome?”

Seraphina recalled the well-chiseled features, the blue-gray eyes, the sinfully dark hair with the merest wisps of silver at the temples. And the smile. That dazzling, heart-tripping, sensibility-rattling smile. There was no denying the patently obvious or avoiding a very basic discussion of some essential truths.

“Yes, he’s a very handsome man. And while some men manage to go through life without letting their good looks affect their self-opinion, it would appear—at first glance—that your uncle isn’t one of them. With time, he may prove otherwise. We must allow him the opportunity.”

“He’s a ladies’ man,” Amanda announced.

Seraphina swallowed down her shock and deliberately kept her tone breezy as she asked, “And might I inquire as to how it is that you’re familiar with that expression?”

The look in Amanda’s eyes said that she knew she’d crossed the line of propriety. But ever undaunted, she smiled bravely and replied, “Everyone in Belize says that Mr. Hopkins is a ladies’ man. Surely you heard it, too.”

“I have, but I wasn’t aware that you had, as well,” Sera admitted ruefully. There being no erasing what was certainly dubious knowledge at best, she elected to do what she could in making it as valuable as possible. “Your uncle may be a great many things—a romancer of women among them—but he isn’t at all like Mr. Hopkins, Amanda.”

“How are they different?”

Amanda and her persistence. Someday it was going to well and truly land her in water far over her head. And hot water at that. Sera quickly sorted through the possible answers, hoping to find one that would adequately inform Amanda of realities of which she needed to be aware and yet leave her younger sisters innocent.

“Your uncle strikes me as the kind of man,” she answered carefully, “who prefers significantly older and considerably more mature companions than those favored by Mr. Hopkins. And we’ll say nothing further on the subject. It’s a generally inappropriate one for young ladies.”

“Then why did you talk about it?” Beatrice instantly asked.

And curiosity will someday kill the cat. But where cats had only nine lives, Beatrice apparently had thousands of them. Which, given her proclivities, was a very good thing. Sera gently smiled at her. “If I don’t explain such matters to you, who will?”

“Uncle Carden?” Camille guessed.

Sera’s stomach turned to lead even as she maintained her smile. The very thought of entrusting Carden Reeves with the social education of his brothers’ daughters was something she would have preferred to avoid contemplating. But she had. Many times. It had been one of her first worries as they’d set sail and Belize had disappeared from sight. Of course, she’d assumed that he would be a man very much like his brother and could therefore be trusted to handle the responsibility … well, responsibly. But having finally met him, she knew that she’d presumed too much. Carden Reeves was not the kind of man who appreciated prim and absolutely proper women. In fact, he probably didn’t know any. And went well out of his way to evade any that might inadvertently cross his path.

She’d considered this possibility in the long days and nights at sea, but she’d refused to dwell on it. The ramifications had been too unpleasant. She hoped to remain with the girls, but was prepared to be thanked and sent on her way. She could endure that fate and had a plan of sorts for her life after that moment. But if she needed to remain with them to protect them, then she might well be placed in the position of having to beg for employment as their governess. She’d been forced by circumstances to beg once in her life and …

“Miss Sera?”

She deliberately and gratefully shut away the memories. “Yes, Beatrice?”

“What will happen to us if Uncle Carden doesn’t ask us to stay with him?”

“He will, darling,” she assured all of them. “You needn’t worry yourselves about such things.”

“He may ask us to stay,” Amanda countered, “but it would be only because he thinks he must be polite. I don’t think he much likes the idea of our being here. You could see it in his eyes when we were coming up the walk.”

True. He’d have had an altogether different look in his eyes had one of them been a nephew. “As I said earlier, your uncle wasn’t at his best in that moment and we must give him time to recover from his initial shock.”

“What if he never recovers, Miss Sera?” Beatrice posed. “What if he truly doesn’t want us to stay here? Where will we go?”

Men of Carden Reeves’s social class did not throw their orphaned nieces into the street. People would speak badly of him for doing so. The girls might not be wanted or appreciated but their being offered a home was a certainty. It might not be what she had been envisioning for them, but it would be a roof over their heads, food on their plates, and clothes on their backs. There were millions of people in the world who couldn’t hope for as much and she knew it. She also knew that another reassurance—no matter how sound and rational—would fall on still disbelieving ears. The girls wanted to be certain that there was another road to deliverance.

“My father had distant relations living in Devonshire,” she lied. “If your uncle proves himself a complete ogre, we shall go in search of my family and see what we can make of ourselves as farmers.”

Camille knitted her brows for a second and then said, “I don’t know how to farm.”

“Neither do I,” Sera confessed, “but I’m willing to try new experiences.”

“As we did with sailing,” Beatrice pointed out happily, instantly accepting the possible adventure. “None of us—except Miss Sera—had ever been on a ship before we left Belize, but we did well with it after a bit. Remember how the captain told us we were excellent sailors?”

Camille wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t like the frowing-up part.”

“I wouldn’t want to be a sailor,” Amanda contributed. “They don’t have any teeth.”

Camille’s entire face wrinkled this time as she added, “And they smell bad, too.”

Beatrice tilted her head to the side and stared at the closed parlor doors. “Uncle Carden smells good.”

Amanda offered a most unladylike snort and said, “I think he wears perfume.”

Sera studied a painting on the far side of the room, pretending that she hadn’t heard the comment. She didn’t want to explain how Carden Reeves had come to have a woman’s scent on him at midday. She didn’t even want to think about it.

The realization came with all the power and surprise of a thunderbolt. She’d assumed that he was unmarried! The way he’d looked at her—all but getting himself a spoon—had suggested that he was accustomed to pursuing women for the possibility of conquest. And while some men discontinued the habit after taking a wife, some didn’t. She knew that from bitter personal experience. Carden Reeves could be a married rake; the perfume clinging to him might well be that of his wife.

Sera sighed with relief. All the way here—through all the doubts she’d entertained once it had been too late to change course—she’d imagined passing the girls into the arms of a loving aunt and uncle, of immersing them in a household full of noisy, cheerfully welcoming cousins.

As she’d stood on the doorstep explaining her presence, the dream had evaporated like smoke. Now … She strained to listen, hoping that from somewhere in the house she might hear the sounds of children’s voices, children’s feet. What she heard was the rattle of a tea cart, a moment of complete silence, and then the turning of the heavy brass knobs on the parlor doors.

The doors were pushed open and the cart rolled in. The young man pushing it was no servant. He didn’t have the proper demeanor. And he was too finely dressed by half. Tall, well built, and with the greenest eyes she’d ever seen, he met her gaze and grinned before turning his attention to the girls.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he declared jauntily as he maneuvered the cart around the end of one settee. “Carden said he had four pretty callers, but I can see that he was understating things as usual.”

He brought the well-laden cart to a halt at the side of a damask upholstered chair and straightened to his full—and considerable—height. His gaze came to Sera’s. “I know it’s hardly proper, but given the circumstances … Allow me to introduce myself. I’m John Aiden Terrell—called that only by my parents and simply Aiden by my friends—late of Saint Kitts and a friend of Carden’s. His man, Sawyer, is out on errands and rather than subject you to poor hospitality, I’m taking up the slack in his absence. Tea, my dear ladies, is served.”

Remembering the expectations taught in her childhood, Sera graciously moved to the chair beside the service. Seating herself, she quickly counted the teacups. Six. He intended to partake with them and expected Carden to do the same when he returned.

“Thank you, Mr. Terrell. It is a pleasure to meet you. I do hope you’ll join us,” she added, gesturing to the open end of the settee on her right. “Shall I pour?”

“Please,” he said, splitting his coattails and lowering himself to the cushion shared with Camille. “Though it will take a few minutes more for the tea to be perfectly steeped.”

Camille peered around him to consider the various items he’d brought. “The biscuits look delicious.”

The smile John Aiden—Aiden—Terrell flashed Sera as he reached for the fine china plate spoke volumes and instantly set her at ease. Although a young man, he obviously had some experience with children. Enough to know a politely indirect plea when he heard one.

“And they are delicious,” he said, offering Camille her choice from the plate. “Would you care for one, Miss…?”

“I’m Camille,” she answered, grinning as she looked up at him, a biscuit firmly in hand. “Thank you very much, Mr. Terrell.”

“I’d guess that you’re about five years old. I have a sister who’s five, you know.” He didn’t wait for a reply but rose slightly and extended the plate toward the other settee, his gaze meeting Beatrice’s as he said, “And you, Miss…”

“Beatrice.” She took a biscuit and offered her thanks.

“I’d guess you’re about seven or eight. Am I correct?”

“I’m seven.”

“And I’m Miss Amanda Elizabeth Reeves. I’m nine.”

Fighting a smile, and with one dark brow ever so slightly cocked, he offered Amanda the plate of biscuits, saying, “I would have guessed much older, Miss Reeves. You’re very grown-up for nine.”

“I’m told so quite frequently,” she replied, selecting a biscuit of her own.

“I would imagine so,” he agreed, his struggle to contain his smile growing more obvious.

The conversation between John Aiden Terrell and the girls continued, but Sera was aware of it only as a dull drone in the back of her perceptions. Carden Reeves, dressed in a finely tailored suit, filled the parlor doorway. Good Lord, he was handsome. Wickedly so. He’d have had to have been a saint not to use it to his advantage. No doubt even nuns noted his presence on the street. The appraising look in his eyes as he met her gaze told her what she already well knew—Carden Reeves was no saint. The slow warmth spreading through her also told her that she was no nun; she was a fool.

Angry with herself, Sera tore her gaze from his and focused it deliberately on the exchange going on around her.

She’d no more than done so when John Aiden seemed to become aware of his friend’s presence. He turned toward the door, saying, “Ah, Carden. You’re decent. Care to join us? I brought an extra cup.”

“Actually,” she heard him reply, “I thought I might leave you to carry on the conversation with my nieces while Mrs. Treadwell and I speak privately.”

There was no way that Mr. Terrell could politely refuse to do so and no way she could avoid the necessary exchange. She’d have to make the best of it, have to keep her wits about her and her memories near at hand.