at the dower house with builders and carpenters. And Deborah had just approved Mrs. Dawson’s choice of two maids, and Hunter’s of a second footman and a groom.
She was climbing the staircase to return to the library when two men walked through the open front door. Since the servants were all busy elsewhere, she hurried back down.
“Can I help you, sir?” she inquired, for her visitors were clearly gentlemen. She addressed the elder, a tall, thin man with a shock of white hair and an expression of baffled fury.
“I very much doubt it,” the old gentleman snapped. “Since I’ve no idea who you are.”
“I’m Mrs. Halland, sir. Mrs. Christopher Halland.” It still sounded odd on her lips.
The old gentleman’s eyes seemed to spit. He looked her up and down from her hair escaping its pins to the hem of her dusty gown. The blatant rudeness chilled her.
“Is that what you think?” he uttered. His companion was staring at her, too,—quite hard.
“It is, sir, what I know,” she replied, although her mind was wondering exactly what he meant.
His lips curled, and she braced herself for whatever insult was coming next, but fortunately, Hunter’s footsteps were heard hurrying across the hall from the servants’ quarters, and her discourteous caller was distracted.
However, her hopes that she could leave Hunter to deal with him were quickly dashed, for he turned at once to the butler, saying familiarly, “Ah, Hunter. See to packing this…female’s bags and show her out if you will. Make sure she takes nothing that belongs to the estate. And then send for my grandson.”
The knowledge hit her with a huge flush of anger. Lord Hawfield.
“Steady on, Grandpapa,” the younger man said uneasily.
Both his grandfather and Deborah ignored him, gazing instead at Hunter, whose face remained expressionless, though there was a hint of panic behind his eyes.
“You may ignore his lordship’s jest, Hunter,” Deborah said, willing her voice not to shake. “But certainly, please send for Mr. Halland.”
Chapter Six
She had no idea if Hunter would obey her, and she could not afford the indignity of waiting around to see. As if using someone else’s voice, she added, “His lordship may wait in the drawing room if he chooses. Or if he does not care to accept my hospitality, he may wait in the reception room.”
The old man’s eyes showed a tendency to pop with fury, especially when Hunter bowed to her and said, “Yes, madam.” By then, she had turned her back on her visitors and was forcing herself to walk sedately to the staircase. She hoped the trembling of her legs would not betray her.
“You are more generous than I,” Christopher’s voice drawled, and she spun around to see him leaning against the still-open front door. In his shirt-sleeves, he looked rather delightfully rumpled and flushed, as though he had run all the way from the dower house when he’d seen his grandfather’s carriage approach. “I’d tell him to wait at the inn. What the devil do you mean turning up in my house and insulting my wife? If you weren’t my grandfather, I’d throw you out on your ear.”
He walked across the hall, as though he were about to do just that.
“You may go, Hunter,” Christopher said. “Grandfather, if you can keep a civil tongue in your head, we can go up to the drawing room. Otherwise, you might as well go.”
“You have no idea what you have done!” Lord Hawfield burst out. “But by all means, let us go upstairs. There is no reason the servants should hear your folly.”
Christopher did not reply, merely strode past them with quick, angry steps, his scowl black. Deborah carried on upstairs, meaning to go to the library and continue with the tasks she had set herself, leaving Christopher to deal privately with his family. Her presence, clearly, would only exacerbate matters.
But a moment later, Christopher caught up with her and placed her hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry about this. I won’t have you bullied in your own home.”
They had reached the landing, and he drew her toward the gallery and the drawing room. She made a quick, instinctive move to be free, but he held on.
“No, we do it now,” he said, “or it will just rumble on. You are my wife, the mistress of Gosmere Hall.”
“Are you sure?”
He blinked down at her, his frown deepening impossibly. “Of course, I am.”
Deborah had the deepest dislike of confrontations and angry voices. Together with her feeling that this was Christopher’s family business