Married to the Rogue (Season of Scandal #3) - Mary Lancaster Page 0,29

of it, merely looked up from her fish, and smiled faintly. “Oh, I believe the finances of the project are already calculated. Besides, I am quite in favor of the school. It seems an excellent idea to me.”

The old man’s lip curled. “You will be advocating for them to take in girls, too, next.”

“Actually, I believe that would be an excellent idea. Although, practically speaking, it would require more change in society’s attitudes. And those of the universities.”

The old man stared at her, and Christopher tensed, ready to step in before the outburst. Then his grandfather broke into laughter. “It would,” he agreed between gusts of mirth. “I don’t know whether you’re unworldly or just being humorous, but either way, I thank you for the joke. What do you say to that, Chris? Educating girls, sending them to university?”

“There’s no real reason why not,” he said mildly. “Though I don’t see it happening in my lifetime. Pity, but there it is. However, I’ve never really seen reason in condemning clever women like Deborah to learning little more than accomplishments to attract husbands.”

“Is that what you learned?” his grandfather shot immediately at Deborah, and Christopher almost bit his tongue at his own stupidity.

Deborah said calmly, “No, not really. I was educated by a governess to be a governess.”

“Then what happened? How did you end up with the Princess of Wales?”

“My father’s friend, who became a bishop, put my name forward when there was a vacancy. We were surprised when I was accepted.”

“And how did you then meet my grandson?”

“He nearly rode me down on the path from the village to Coggleton House.”

Lord Hawfield’s eyes gleamed as he turned to Christopher. “Immediately after quarreling with me over your inheritance?”

“Exactly,” Christopher said. “I was in an ungovernable rage and had to apologize for my recklessness the following day. When we decided we should suit very well.”

The old man’s smile did not reach his eyes as he glanced at Deborah. “I won’t wish you joy, my dear, but I do wish you luck. You’ll need it.”

“Thank you, Grandfather,” Christopher murmured, laying down his knife and fork.

It was not in Deborah’s nature to draw attention to herself and become the life and soul of a party, but her calmness and her agreeable conversation eased the family tensions. He noticed a puzzled expression on his grandfather’s face more than once, for she did not fit any of his “categories” of women. She was not an empty-headed girl or a grasping woman. She did not flirt or demand adulation. She made intelligent contributions to any topic of conversation, often with quiet wit, and yet never interrupted or disparaged her guests’ opinions.

In short, without even realizing it, she was the perfect hostess. He told her so in a quiet murmur as she left them to their wine, and she sent him a quick smile of relieved gratitude.

Thanks to Gates’s presence, even his grandfather didn’t feel able to make comments about the new Mrs. Halland over the brandy, and so Christopher was almost relaxed as they joined Deborah in the drawing room.

She was reading a book, so lost in it, that she actually jumped when Christopher opened the door. Immediately, she cast the book aside and rang for tea.

Christopher strolled over and, from curiosity, picked up the book. It was Marcus Dain’s description of his travels in the east. It gave him a moment’s thought, as a memory slipped into his mind—Lucy Shelby asking about wedding trips. He had never even thought of such a thing and had asked Deborah if she cared for it in the full assumption that she would not. And she had shaken her head.

It had been enough for him, then. Now, he knew a twinge of shame, for he had seen and heard only what he wanted to.

His grandfather had paused by the pianoforte and now looked toward Deborah. “Do you play, my dear?”

Christopher noted that he never called her by name, not even the formal “Mrs. Halland”. Either would have acknowledged her as family, whereas my dear allowed him an air of amiable condescension and distance.

“A little,” she replied. “But the tuner will not come until Monday.”

“Oh, come, no excuses! It cannot be so very badly out of tune. Indulge me.”

“If you wish,” Deborah replied.

Without fuss, she sat down at the instrument and began to play.

A few of the notes were very slightly out of tune, but somehow it did not detract from her performance, which was both sensitive and charming. He found