The Heiress of Winterwood - By Sarah Ladd Page 0,6

hard. “I will consider it.”

A cautious smile appeared on Miss Barrett’s face, and an awkward silence enveloped the spacious room. The fire’s warmth intensified, and Graham handed Lucy back to Miss Barrett before slipping a finger between his neck and cravat.

“What are your plans for Lucy while you are staying in Darbury?”

“I intend to take her to stay with me at Eastmore Hall. You’ve hired a nurse for her, correct? I was hoping to persuade the woman to stay on with us.”

Miss Barrett nodded and adjusted the child in her arms. “Mrs. Dunne is an excellent nurse indeed. But would you consider allowing Lucy to remain here until your decision is made? She is familiar with this house and the people in it.” Miss Barrett tucked a wayward lock behind her ear and balanced the child on her hip. “It might be difficult for her to be surrounded by new people, especially if her home might change again in a few weeks.”

The hope in Miss Barrett’s voice tugged at Graham, and he realized she was right. He might be Lucy’s father, but he was still a stranger to her. And how could he expect the child to be comfortable in a house where he himself found little comfort?

“If you are willing to allow her to stay a little longer, then—”

“Then you must visit her as often as you can.” A hint of lightness returned to her expression. “Every day, if you wish.”

Outside, a fresh gust of wind slammed against the windowpane, rattling the glass. Before retrieving his cloak and hat, Graham pressed his lips to Lucy’s curly head. He had hoped for another smile from his daughter before he left, but she snuggled up against her guardian and paid him no mind.

The unread letter in his breast pocket weighed heavily on his mind. If only there was another way.

“Good-bye, little one.” He bowed toward Miss Barrett, then donned his hat and flipped the collar of his cloak up around his neck.

There had to be another way. And he would find it.

Blast!

Graham kicked a rock, sending it tumbling through the carpet of wet leaves.

Amelia Barrett had him at a disadvantage. And he hated to be at a disadvantage.

Her outlandish offer had occupied his mind ever since he left Winterwood, and it continued to bother him now as he stomped across the grounds of Eastmore, spattering mud onto his polished boots.

What maddened him most was that the proposition almost made sense. Not only would it ensure a safe and loving home for Lucy; it would also free him to return to his duties with a clear conscience. But even so, how could he possibly agree to such an arrangement?

He shook his head. Miss Barrett’s price was far too steep. He could not accept her offer.

Not even for Lucy’s sake.

He snapped a twig from a branch and absently broke it in half as the image of his infant daughter took his mind captive. Haunting—her eyes were haunting. Pure and innocent, the child represented everything he had wanted to protect in her mother . . . but failed.

The insistent wind from the moors nipped and bit. The unread letter in his pocket smoldered. He had wanted to be alone when he read his wife’s final words, and he knew of a place where he would not be disturbed.

The cast-iron gate to the Sterling cemetery loomed just beyond the hedge of holly bushes. Even as a child, he had hated entering those gates. Ghosts seemed to linger behind every tree, and memories crept amongst the gravestones. He hesitated, put a gloved hand on the rusting metal, and pushed. It creaked in protest, but the heavy gate eventually gave way and swung on corroded hinges. Before him, graves of generations of Sterlings stretched out in uneven rows.

To the left, under the protective boughs of ancient English oaks, stood two unfamiliar markers. Gerard Sterling and Harriet Mayes Sterling. His parents.

The site whispered for him to draw closer. The graves were overgrown. Shameful. He would speak with his brother, William, about it when he returned to the main house. He knelt and pulled a faded, stubborn ivy vine away from his mother’s headstone and traced the carving of her name with his finger.

The span of eighteen years should have dulled his memory of the last time he saw her, but it had not. It had been late autumn then too. He could still feel the heated pressure of her grip on his arm as she clung to him