Silas stared down at the young woman, his focus only leaving her pale face to glance at Lady Henrietta for guidance. When the stoop-shouldered woman gave nothing, appearing as shaken and incapable of words as her ward, Silas sensed he’d need to step in and right the situation. He was obviously to blame for whatever had afflicted his betrothed, though he knew naught what his mere greeting could have caused.

Perhaps this was a precursor to their wedded life? Though he desperately hoped Lady Mallory was not a woman prone to the vapors or flights of fancy. Quite specifically, Silas was worried about Lady Mallory resembling the characteristics of his mother.

Besides, Mr. Peabody would be disappointed to hear he’d ruined all the solicitor’s hard work over the previous six months within two minutes’ time with his abysmal manners. Not that Silas cared a whit what the incompetent man thought.

“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.

“I’ve only seen Castle Keyvnor from afar,” she shared, a new light coming into her pale grey eyes. “The place appears menacing yet fascinating at the same time. I have heard—from both Miss Felicity and Tressa—that spirits roam within its vast corridors.”

Spirits? Silas hoped his betrothed did not believe in the fallacies of ghouls, ghosts, witches, and curses.

It was not as if Silas could speak of any hauntings within the castle walls. He hadn’t been permitted beyond the front stoop.

“I only arrived in Bocka Morrow yesterday. I have yet to explore the castle in any regard.” It was not a lie. He had reached Cornwall the day before, and since the butler had turned him away, he’d been unable to sightsee on the property. At her crestfallen look, Silas continued, “However, when I do find the time for exploration, I will certainly keep my eyes and ears open for anything of an occult nature.”

His answer seemed to satisfy her, and her smile returned.

The woman would unquestionably do for his countess: demure and cultured, if a bit shy. And agreeable.

Yet, something hinted that there was more to the woman. He watched her as she took a deep drink of her tea, her eyes closing briefly as she enjoyed the flavor—or possibly the soothing heat—of the liquid.

Silas only need avoid shackling himself to a woman as flighty and fickle as his mother. Prone to emotional tirades and undeniable shifts in demeanor, his mother, while loved and cherished by all her children, had not been their provider. After fleeing England—and the control of his father—Silas, as a young child, envisioned a life of adventure full of marvelous, grand places and people. Instead, his mother had been content to stow her children in a one-room flat in a seedy part of Paris while she explored her artistic endeavors.

Years later, Silas had pondered the true reasoning behind his mother’s flight from England. Had there been a man she thought herself in love with? Perhaps pursued a promise of a future together. When he’d asked, his mother had waved off his questions as she did everything. Her children’s hunger, their education, a sprained ankle in need of a doctor’s care—his questions were no more important to her than those.

Meaning, there was aught that interested his mother beyond her own self-interests.

Silas would not wed a woman like the countess.

“Tell me, Lady Mallory, what hobbies have you?” he asked, setting his cup aside but keeping his intense stare on her. Even in her youth, it was said that his mother had such tendencies, and perhaps his betrothed would hint at similar interests, thus allowing him to avoid years of heartache before they commenced.

Her back stiffened, and Lady Hettie let loose an unladylike snort.

Did women in England not spend their free time in pursuit of hobbies?

Truly, what hobby would he deem normal and not in keeping with a woman in possession of a capricious mind?

Surely, needlepoint was acceptable. Even watercolors were a tolerable pastime. Though, a musical talent would be preferable to a love of oils or sculpting.

At this point, it would only further tarnish his family name if he walked away from their betrothal at such a late juncture. The banns had been read, the match announced in both London and his local parish, and he’d even found his mother’s simple gold wedding band in his father’s desk at Ditchley Hall.

When both women remained silent, Silas feared he’d overstepped some invisible boundary between cordial social call and intrusive interloper.

He pushed to his feet, the stool thankfully remaining upright after his sudden action.

“I think it is time I return to the castle,” he mumbled. “It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Lady Mallory. I look forward to our joining in the spring.” There, simple enough as goodbyes went. “Lady Henrietta, also lovely meeting you. I do believe you and my sister will take to one another quickly.”

Neither woman moved from their seats on the settee as he bowed. In fact, Lady Hettie hadn’t so much as taken a sip from her cup, though she’d brought it to her lips several times.

“You are staying at the castle?” she inquired, though her focus was on the cup in her hands.

“Yes, until after my cousins’ weddings. Then I will return to my estate, or mayhap accompany my brother to London.” It seemed important he answer the woman’s question, though he owed her no response. “Safe travels to you and Lady Henrietta. I look forward to your arrival at Ditchley in the spring.”

For a man who prided himself on knowing what was what, Silas could not determine with any certainty if he was or was not looking forward to Lady Mallory’s arrival at Ditchley. What he could say with all certainty was that despite this short time speaking with her, he did not have any greater understanding of the woman before him, or why she’d need resort to a union with a stranger coordinated by her father’s solicitor. She appeared like every other young woman he’d met since arriving in England.

“Good day, Lord Lichfield.” Lady Henrietta pushed to her feet, her hunched shoulders making it impossible for her to reach her full height, though he suspected it was shorter than her niece’s. “Mallory and I wish you well. My brother, the marquess, and Mallory’s mother look forward to traveling to Hampshire when the time comes.”

“My family will be honored to meet the Marquess and Marchioness of Blandford.”

The door to the salon opened as if the servant had been waiting with his ear pressed to the wood in wait.

“I will show you out, my lord.” The butler nodded toward the foyer, and Silas had little choice but to follow.

Their meeting had done little to ease his trepidation regarding their coming nuptials.