“Not that it matters, but I am known as Lord Thomas. I am the second son of a marquess, you see, and so–”
“We are well aware of all that English folderol about titles,” Evleen interrupted with a disdainful sniff.
He answered wryly, “I can see how I’ve impressed you.”
She tilted her chin, thus revealing the sweet curve of her neck which, to his chagrin, he found himself wanting to touch and explore with his fingers. “If you want titles,” she declared, “this family has them in abundance. My father was Ian O’Fallon, son of Daniel O’Fallon, who was the eighth Earl of Dunkerry, who was directly descended from the Duke of Connaught, who was—”
“Enough, Evleen,” said her mother. “I doubt Lord Thomas is interested in our family’s history, no matter how much royal blood runs through your veins.” She looked toward the coach, and the coachman waiting patiently atop. “Greetings to you, O’Grady. You’d best come in for dinner, too.”
After O’Grady climbed down from his perch on the coach, and Sinead led him inside, Evleen said airily, “What a pity it’s the cook’s day off.”
“A pity,” Thomas remarked with caution. He had detected her gritty undertone.
“It is also the butler’s day off, as well as the footman, the parlor maid, the scullery maid–”
“I do get your point,” Thomas interrupted dryly. He wanted to tell her he didn’t give a groat for titles, that they didn’t mean a damn thing, but he stopped himself. Why should he defend himself? Why did he want to impress this girl? The bubbly young belles in London were mostly docile creatures who deferred to his supposed lordly presence with much manipulating of fans and fluttering of eyelashes. He had never given much thought to it, but wasn’t that the way girls were supposed to act? But this Irish lass was different.
Never had he encountered a girl quite this bold, who didn’t care one whit about impressing him and apparently said anything that came into her head, no matter how outrageous.
Now she had tilted her head to the side and was looking at him quizzically. “I can hardly wait to hear why you’ve come so far out of your way to this God-forsaken corner of the world.” She smiled wryly. “If it’s a dip in the ocean you want, shouldn’t a fine gentleman like you be in Brighton?” She made a show of shading her eyes and gazing up and down the distant coastline. ‘I don’t see any fancy resorts around here.”
“I’m not looking for a resort, I—”
He was distracted by a tall, pleasant-faced man and a freckle-faced boy with bright red hair who were rounding the corner of the cottage. They were speaking in a strange language, he guessed Gaelic, when they spied him, and both stopped in surprise. “We have a guest,” Evleen called. “Lord Thomas, this is my good friend, Timothy Murphy, and this is my brother, Patrick O’Fallon.”
Startled, Thomas took a second look. There was something about the boy... something around the nose and the eyes that reminded him of... Lord Montfret. Even though Thomas had been but sixteen or so at the time, he clearly remembered when the debt-ridden rascal fled England, creating a juicy local scandal, causing his family great pain.
Could Montfret be this boy’s father? No, that was absurd. Except for that uncanny resemblance, this boy looked as pure Irish as his name. O’Fallon suited him perfectly, what with his red hair, eyes as blue as Evleen’s, and open face covered with freckles. No doubt the boy and Evleen shared the same father, as well as mother, and unless Patrick had an older brother, he most certainly was the tenth earl of... whatever that Irish title was. Thomas knew little of Ireland’s nobility. In England, it carried little esteem.
With a graceful bow, surprising in one so young, Patrick said, “I am most pleased to meet you, sir. Are you from England?”
There’s a surprise. The boy knew his manners, as opposed to most of the Irish Thomas had met on this trip. Likeable all of them, and most friendly and helpful, yet their speech and manners were far from the polished perfection of the ton. Come to think of it, Evleen spoke like a lady, too, except for the brogue, of course, but it was melodious sound that touched off something inside him that made him yearn to hear more. Thomas bowed to Patrick in return. “I am indeed from England.”
“That’s too bad, sir. My mother doesn’t like the English.”