Breakfast the following morning was a smashing success, and Bran couldn’t have been more relieved. Evie had declared Mrs. Shaw the best toast maker in the world and now swore she wouldn’t eat anyone else’s. Bran had told Mrs. Shaw that Evie wasn’t joking. Mrs. Shaw had responded that she was up to the challenge.

He hoped she meant for the long term, but respected her desire to take things slowly. It was a smart strategy—for all of them—but he recognized the inherent self-preservation. He would likely do the same thing.

Bran sat on the floor and opened the crate that had just been delivered to his office. His insides melted as soon as he saw the contents—their life in Barbados. Why had he waited so long to open this? Perhaps he hadn’t been ready. Leaving had been painful, and these were just a reminder of that agony.

They also brought joy. Memory after memory assailed him as he looked at the shells in the jar that Evie had collected on the beach. They used to take walks together, at first with her mother, and then just the two of them after she’d died. Every time Evie found a shell, she clutched it in her hand until they arrived home, and then she’d drop it into the jar, which had sat on Bran’s desk. Well, it would go right on this desk too. He pulled the jar from the crate and twisted his body to set it on the corner where he could look at it every time he sat there.

Turning back to the crate, he eyed a book and couldn’t recall why it would be in this box. He picked it up and opened the cover. A pressed flower, dulled from age but still vivid in its color, smiled up at him. He remembered now—there were dozens of them in this book. He wondered if he could somehow frame them and hang them in every room of the house. Yes, that was precisely what he would do.

“My lord?” Bucket, the footman who most often performed the duties of butler since Kerr’s dismissal, came to the doorway. “Lady Knighton has arrived. She’s in the sitting room.”

Every muscle in Bran’s body tensed. “Thank you, Bucket. Don’t forget—I don’t want tea or anything else. Even if she asked for it,” he added as he stood from the floor.

Bucket stifled a smile. “She did, in fact.”

Bran liked that Bucket saw humor in the situation. “I suppose I should don my coat.” He’d brought it downstairs in anticipation of his mother’s arrival but hadn’t put it on yet.

Crossing to the chair near the fireplace where the coat was draped across the back, Bucket picked it up and held it for Bran to slip into. The footman brushed at Bran’s shoulders before Bran turned to face him.

“You could be a valet, Bucket.”

“Perhaps someday. Or a butler.” He shrugged. “Kerr always told me I’ve much to learn.”

“I’m sure he did. I’m not sure anyone is up to Kerr’s expectations,” Bran said with more than a touch of sarcasm.

Bucket didn’t hide his smile this time. “You may be right.”

“Will you notify Mrs. Shaw that Lady Knighton is here so that she may bring Lady Evie to the sitting room?”

“At once.” Bucket turned crisply and departed.

With great reluctance, Bran made his way to the sitting room. At the threshold, he paused. His mother stood with her back to him, her pale blonde hair unmarred with white, at least as far as he could tell from this distance. He doubted he’d get close enough to see. She was angled toward the now-bare space on the wall where her portrait had been.

Perhaps sensing his presence, she turned. She was still beautiful, her skin pale and only slightly wrinkled, her eyes dark and commanding, her stature poised and regal. “Knighton.” She shook her head. “How odd that sounds on my tongue when I look at you.” Her gaze took stock, raking him from his head to his feet. “You look well, if a bit…wild. You need to trim your hair. And probably a new valet since he allows you to be seen like that.” Her criticism was as familiar as it was grating.

“My valet is exemplary, thank you.” He inclined his head toward the void on the wall. “I thought you’d like to have your portrait. I’ve no need of it.”

Her eyes hardened, and he instinctively flinched. That was the look she wore just before she took him to task or beat him with whatever implement she could find. But just as soon as it happened, the moment was gone. She seemed to relax, and the air in the room loosened. Bran exhaled.

“I do like that portrait, but it ought to stay in one of the houses. Perhaps it would be best to take it to Knight’s Hall. I presume you’ll go there in the summer?”

He gave a single nod. He’d like to go there immediately, thinking he’d prefer it to London, but he had too many obligations here. He was still trying to find his way in the House of Lords, though Kendal had been most helpful.

She circuited the room. “You look like your father, except the eyes, of course.”

Yes, he had her eyes. Damn them.

“I never would’ve imagined it, but you’re taller than either of your brothers and more broad shouldered. They took after my side of the family, I suppose.” Her father and brothers had slighter builds—and thinner hair. But Bran had no idea how his brothers had aged, nor did he care.

She sat down on the settee and stared at him. “Aren’t you going to sit?”

He supposed he must. He went to a chair that was situated near the hearth—about as far from her as he could manage—and lowered himself slowly. His entire body was on alert just as he’d been as a child. He’d never known what would set her off, only that it was almost always him. His disdain of clothing, his particularity about food, his hatred of being touched.

“You’re as aloof as ever,” she said.

Particularly with you. “And you’re as critical as ever. I am not your child anymore.”

Her eyes flashed with that coldness again. “You will always be my child.”

Unfortunately. “Yet I am now the earl, and I would demand a measure of respect.”

Her eyes widened briefly, and she inclined her head. “Spoken like a true earl.” Was that pride in her voice? Bran took no pleasure in it. “I’m glad to see it,” she said. “Will you be looking for a countess?”

He didn’t want to share his plans with her. He didn’t want to share anything with her. He had no intention of reestablishing a relationship of any substance. “Yes.”

“Excellent. There are several lovely young women who’ve come out this year and last. Lady Philippa Latham would be a grand match, but the rumor is that she’ll wed the Earl of Saxton. Ah well, he is the heir to a dukedom, so I suppose you can’t compete with that.”

This was the mother he knew—blaming him for things that he couldn’t control. Except in his youth, she’d insisted that he could control what he wore or ate. She’d never understood the near pain it had caused him. Sometimes donning clothing had been akin to a thousand pins poking into his skin. Or what he imagined that to be anyway.

“Nor do I wish to,” Bran said. “I’m not in any hurry to marry. Furthermore, I do not want or need your advice or assistance.”

“You must beget an heir. At least I hope you can. Eight grandchildren and not one of them is a boy.” The contempt in her voice was clear. “I managed two spares, and sadly, they were needed.”

Did she miss his brothers? He’d thought she would’ve been practically prostrate with grief, but she’d never been terribly demonstrative. In fact, one of the things that bothered her most about Bran’s “defiance” was his open and deplorable show of emotion.

“Believe me, I wish I hadn’t been needed.” Then he could be back in Barbados, and he wouldn’t have had to tear Evie away.

The muscles in his mother’s jaw clenched. “Yes, well, here you are. We all do our duty.”

“Tell that to my daughter. She’s left the only home she’s ever known and now finds herself in a strange place.”

Her eyes flashed with offense. “England isn’t strange. It’s her home. She simply requires care to help her adjust.”

Bran narrowed his eyes at her for a moment. “You assume I haven’t thought of that. She has a nurse and a governess. Both are quite accomplished.”

“Wherever did you find them?” She asked as if he wouldn’t know where to look. And he supposed he hadn’t if not for the help and support of the Kendals, and most importantly, Mrs. Shaw herself.

As if conjured by his thoughts, she arrived at the sitting room door with Evie. Both of them looked rather charming—their gowns were the same color. Had they planned that?

Evie eyed her grandmother with a blend of curiosity and caution.

Bran’s mother reacted to the direction of his gaze, pivoting on the settee so that she faced away from him and toward the doorway. “My goodness, is this Lady Evangeline?” The question held a wonder that Bran had never heard from his mother. It made him unsettled.

Evie took three steps toward her and performed a beautiful curtsey. “Good afternoon, Grandmother.”

“Come and sit with me, dearest.” She patted the settee next to her, and Bran had to bite his tongue lest he tell Evie to sit somewhere else instead. “Is that your governess?” She flicked a half-interested glance at Mrs. Shaw.

“Yes,” Evie said, smoothing the skirt of her dress down over her knees after she perched on the edge of the settee. “Mrs. Shaw is the sister of the Duchess of Kendal. She’s a splendid governess.”

Bran’s mother’s eyes darted to his with surprise. “Indeed?” She looked toward Mrs. Shaw, who remained at the threshold, her expression serene. “Are you going to join us, Mrs. Shaw?”

Bran blinked at his mother. Had she just invited the governess to sit with them? Bran would’ve wagered everything he owned against such an occurrence.

Mrs. Shaw’s brows elevated slightly as she looked to Bran. He understood her question and inclined his head in response. She moved slowly into the room and took the chair to his right, across a low table from the settee with Evie and her grandmother.

Bran watched as his mother smiled dotingly at his daughter. He’d never, ever seen an expression like that on her face. “How do you like London?” she asked Evie.

“It’s a bit dreary compared to home,” Evie answered.

“Now then, England is your home,” she said disapprovingly. There was the mother he knew and despised.

“I suppose it is now.” Evie’s tone was sullen, and she kicked her legs a few times. She stopped abruptly, and Bran attributed that to the glance she darted toward Mrs. Shaw. Bran looked in her direction and saw that she was watching Evie with encouragement. Her presence was somehow helping this moment, and Bran wouldn’t forget it.

“Come now, dearest,” his mother said, making Bran cringe with the use of an endearment. He tried to think of what she’d called him and realized she hadn’t called him anything nice or pleasant. He’d just been sardonically referred to as “Bran the Defiant.”

“I know England must be very different, but you’ll come to love it more than you did that other island. Ours is far bigger, you know. And we have large, remarkable cities and of course many more people like us.”

“What do you mean, ‘like us’?” Evie asked.

Yes, Bran wanted to know the answer to that too.

“I mean more educated and refined people. Your father is an earl now. You understand how important that is, that he has very specific duties to his country, people, and the crown.” She flicked a glance toward Bran, as if asking if he understood that as well. Of course he did. It was like an albatross around his neck.

Evie looked at Bran and gave him a small smile. “Yes, but he’s still my papa.”

Bran’s mother addressed Mrs. Shaw. “What do you plan to teach Lady Evangeline?”

“All manner of things. I’ve only just begun my employment. I’m still ascertaining what she knows.”

The dowager countess pursed her lips. “She’s only five. What can she possibly know?” Her aghast tone made Bran’s teeth grate.

“I’ll be six next month, and I can read,” Evie said, somewhat defensively which only exacerbated Bran’s irritation. How dare his mother make Evie feel bad—Bran wouldn’t tolerate it. “And I know my numbers up to one thousand.”

“She’s already completing mathematical equations,” Mrs. Shaw added.

Bran’s mother looked at Evie and…smiled? “How wonderful. What a bright girl you are.”

Bran was shocked to see her approval. He distinctly recalled her saying that his younger sister needn’t learn anything from books, that her most important accomplishments were to be beautiful and accommodating. That his sister had adored books from a very young age had been a problem, and so she’d learned to hide them.

“She reminds me a bit of Gwen,” Bran said, thinking that he ought to arrange to see his sister. “Do she and her husband ever come to London?” She’d married last year, and they lived somewhere in the north of England.

“They haven’t yet. I just saw them last month, and they’re quite well.”

Bran wouldn’t take her word for it. He and Gwen didn’t correspond often, but she’d written to him when she’d become betrothed, and she hadn’t sounded all that enthusiastic. But then what did he know? She was ten years his junior, and as a result they’d never been very close.

His mother turned her attention back to Mrs. Shaw. “How did you come to be a governess? Your sister is the Forbidden Duchess, is she not?”

Bran flinched at the nickname. He recalled the conversation he’d had with Kendal and the others at Brooks’s. But to hear his mother say the name in front of the duke’s sister-in-law seemed rude. Then again, Bran could fit everything he knew about Society’s rules into his pocket.

Mrs. Shaw, to her credit, didn’t react. Her composure and expression remained serenely intact. “Yes, she is. I’m widowed, and I wished for an occupation of some kind.”

“I see.” His mother pursed her lips and gave Mrs. Shaw a condescending glance that flayed Bran’s nerves.

He wouldn’t stand for any sort of disparagement about Mrs. Shaw from his mother. “We’re quite fortunate to have her, aren’t we, Evie?”

Evie’s eyes glowed, and her face took on the most animation it had since her arrival. “Oh yes. She’s such fun.” She smoothed her hands over her skirt again. “She also teaches me many things.”

“Well, that’s good, then. Now, Lady Evie,” his mother said, “as the daughter of an earl, you must learn to comport yourself with poise and confidence. You must be well-spoken but not overly talkative. I’m sure your governess will ensure these things.” She sent another patronizing look toward Mrs. Shaw. “Nevertheless, I shall be here to oversee your upbringing as well.”

Bran froze. He didn’t want her meddling in their lives. He hadn’t given much thought to it but rather hoped she’d go back to Durham. Where had she been living since her husband had died? It didn’t really matter, nor did Bran care.

“Aren’t you returning to Durham?” he asked tightly.

“No, I’ll stay in London for the Season. I’ve rented a small town house.” She smiled at Evie. “Now I can visit often.”

Bran abruptly stood. If he didn’t move, he worried he might say or do something he shouldn’t, such as cast off his cravat. He paced to the windows and back again, noting that Mrs. Shaw was watching him.

She rose from her chair and looked at her charge. “Come, Evie. I think we’ve stayed long enough. It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Knighton.”

“And you, Mrs. Shaw. I do hope you’ll keep me apprised of Evie’s progress. I’ll be sure to send along anything I think would be helpful in her tutelage.”

Mrs. Shaw blinked, and Bran suspected her smile wasn’t entirely genuine. “That is most kind of you. I shall look forward to it.”

“Goodbye, Grandmother,” Evie said as she slipped from the settee.

“Goodbye, dearest.”

Bran gripped the back of his chair as Mrs. Shaw and Evie left. They were scarcely gone before he turned on his mother. “You will not participate in Evie’s upbringing. I’ll allow you to visit when invited and nothing more.”

His mother stood, her gaze frosting. “Without the influence of a mother, she needs me.”

“No, she doesn’t. I’d rather she were raised by wolves.” He stepped around the chair and speared her with an intense stare, allowing all the rage from his childhood to wash over him. “You forfeited the right to be a mother every time you called me worthless, every time you struck me, and every time you looked at me with disappointment and loathing. As you pointed out, I will always be your child. I should think that would’ve counted for something, but with you, it didn’t. As a parent myself, I feel a connection to my child—to love and cherish and protect her. I never felt any of those things from you. I won’t allow you to poison my daughter.”

She stared at him a long moment. “Poison?” she asked softly. “I don’t think I poisoned you at all. Just look at the man you’ve become. Your father would be so proud.”

His father, but not her. And he wasn’t even sure he believed that. “I think it’s time you go. I’ll inform you when you may visit again.”

She nodded, and he was surprised that she didn’t argue or berate him. He was also glad.

After she left, he made his way to his office, feeling a bit dazed by the entire encounter. He stripped off his cravat and tossed it onto a chair along with his coat. He unbuttoned his waistcoat but didn’t remove it.

His mother was everything he remembered while managing to be something different at the same time. Was she simply a better grandmother than mother? He shook his head, unsure if he’d ever be able to puzzle it out.

“Lord Knighton?” Mrs. Shaw’s voice intruded into his thoughts.

He’d moved behind his desk and looked toward the door where she stood. Again, he wanted to ask her to call him Bran but knew she would say it wasn’t seemly. His eye caught his discarded clothing, and he remembered that he didn’t care. “I’d like you to call me Bran.”

Her eyes widened, and she gave her head a small shake. “I couldn’t.”

“You could. Knighton still seems so foreign to me. Could you please try?”

“I’ll try, but I make no promises.”

“Fair enough. Come in.” He gestured for her to sit in the chair that wasn’t draped in his garments. “Sorry, I’m afraid I had to disrobe.”

“I see that. I’m growing used to it. Or trying to, anyway.” She dropped into the chair.

“If you’d like to go about without your corset, I wouldn’t object.”

Her eyes widened again, but the reaction in their depths was different. This wasn’t surprise, but perhaps shock with a dash of…titillation? He suffered his own reaction—desire. He thought of her without her corset. Or her chemise. Or any of her clothing. He abruptly sat down, lest she notice the hardening of his cock.

“I came to talk about your mother.” She ignored his last comment, and he decided that was for the best. It was bad enough that half his brain was currently fantasizing about her, nude and spectacular.

“My mother,” he repeated in an effort to coax his entire brain to focus on what it ought.

“Evie was nervous to meet her.”

“I know. And how did she feel after?” Bran mentally chastised himself for not immediately going up to see his daughter. He’d been too wrapped up in his own response.

“Better, but… She doesn’t know what to make of the relationship between you. She asked me if you liked her. Haven’t you discussed any of this with her?”

Hell. “I hadn’t thought it was necessary.” Because they’d been in Barbados. But now they were here, and his mother apparently wanted to be an active part of their lives. He wanted to throw something. “It is, of course.”

“I think so. I’m happy to help in any way that I can.”

To do that, she’d have to understand. “Will it come as any surprise to you to hear she was as cold a mother as you can imagine? I was a difficult child, by all accounts, and my brothers were perfect. We looked different—they were beautiful and golden-haired—and we acted different. They were charming, and I was…defiant.”

“But you are handsome.” She immediately blushed and looked down at her hands.

His cock, which had begun to diminish, grew once more. “Thank you.”

“What do you mean defiant?” she asked.

“I refused to wear clothing or eat what I was served and any number of other things. I didn’t try to be naughty or difficult. I just was. My mother showed no compassion, no care. She punished me for every shortcoming and ensured that I knew I wasn’t as good as my brothers. She constantly told me that it was fortunate I was the third son and would never be called upon to be the earl.”

While he’d spoken, she’d raised her hand to cover her mouth, which had opened wider with each horror he’d revealed. She finally lowered her hand to her lap. “I’m so sorry. Of course you don’t want her participating in Evie’s care.”

“I do not. I informed her that she would be allowed to visit once a month, upon my invitation. Some months I may not feel inclined.”

She nodded slowly. “I don’t know what to say. I’d thought losing my mother was the worst that could happen to a child, but I think I was wrong.”

Yes, he thought it was perhaps better to have lost a loving parent than to have suffered one’s abuse. “Do you remember her?”

She shook her head, and there was a deep sadness in her gaze. “Not really. I was five when she passed.”

“Evie already doesn’t remember hers.” He glanced toward the open crate on the floor. “Those are our things from Barbados. There’s a miniature of Louisa in there. I should put it in Evie’s chamber.”

“That’s a lovely idea. I wish I had one of my mother.”

“Have you no image of her?”

“My father has one. He’d always intended to have it copied for Nora and me, but he never managed to do so.”

Bran nodded. “You’re not close to him?”

Her shoulders arced in a slight shrug. “Not particularly. Nora says he was different before Mama died, but I don’t remember.”

He supposed that made sense, especially if he’d loved his wife. Bran wondered if he seemed different after Louisa’s death. He didn’t feel different. But then he wasn’t sure the love he’d felt for her had been the kind that altered one’s soul. He knew what that felt like because it was how he’d describe his love for Evie.

Mrs. Shaw looked at the crate. “You took my advice.”

“It was excellent, yes. Thank you.” She’d been here only a day, but already he felt her presence quite profoundly.

“I’m glad.” She studied him briefly, then stood. He didn’t want her to leave yet. “I think you should talk to Evie about your mother—don’t tell her the specifics, but she should understand why you think it’s best for her to have a limited relationship with her grandmother.”

Bran scrubbed a hand along his jaw. He wasn’t sure how to do that, but she was right that he needed to. “I’ll do that.” He stood and walked around his desk to where she was standing. “I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to be Evie’s governess. You’ve already made such a wonderful impression on the household—on us.”

Pink bloomed in her cheeks. She was incredibly lovely. He remembered the pillowy softness of her lips beneath his and the fervent grasp of her hands on his back and neck. The temperature in the room elevated, and he was glad he’d shirked his coat.

“That’s…good.” She pulled her gaze from his and turned toward the door. “I need to get back upstairs.” She quickly fled, leaving Bran to realize he had a very big problem. Yes, they were friends. And yes, they could make this arrangement work. But he still wanted her. And if he was reading her correctly, she wanted him too.