in the same carriage. The Old Duke had suggested Sabrina call him “Your Grace” rather than “Father,” as his legitimate sons did. Sabrina had known, even then, that she had no place for complaint. She had tried to make herself small and quiet and unnoticed. She’d missed her mother horribly.
Nathan, however, had been thrilled to have a sister from the start and sought her out even as everyone else pretended she was invisible. Over time, he became her advocate in the household and breathed esteem back into her feelings about herself. He insisted she get a new wardrobe when he did before each term, and he introduced her as his sister despite the way it infuriated his mother and raised the eyebrows of nearly everyone else. If he received an invitation to an event while Sabrina was at the estate, he asked to bring her along. If they refused, he did not attend. “We are together in this,” he would say when Sabrina objected or tried to beg off out of embarrassment. In time, the invitations included her name, she made friends of her own, and her confidence grew.
When Sabrina had turned nineteen, she was sponsored for a Season by the Old Duke’s cousin—Mrs. Ambrose—who had been as accepting of Sabrina as Nathan had been. A natural daughter could never be presented at court the way a legitimate daughter could, but having a powerful father and an accepting brother had attracted a few suitors who, in exchange for her dowry and family connection, could give her a legitimate place in the Polite World. Richard Carlisle had seemed to be the best choice of the men who came calling—older, wealthy, from a good family, in need of an heir, and eager to move up the social ladder. If only she had known . . .
“Sabrina?” Nathan asked.
She shook herself back to the present and repaired her smile. “Sorry, woolgathering.”
Nathan eyed her suspiciously. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course.” She avoided his eye by leaning forward and plucking a macaron from the plate of identical pink confections. Father employed a French chef here at the London house. Raspberry, she concluded as the chewy confection filled her mouth with sweetness. She adored all things raspberry.
“Would your distraction have anything to do with your missing yesterday’s breakfast?”
She laughed to cover her annoyance at his return to the topic and picked up another macaron. “I miss one breakfast, and you’re practically apoplectic. I have told you I had to reschedule our breakfast due to matters I needed to attend to in Wimbledon. I am—as I’ve said three times now—very sorry.”
There had been only one thing to attend to in Wimbledon, however: Harry Stillman.
Therese, as Sabrina’s housekeeper, had determined she could manage Mr. Stillman’s injuries without calling for a physician—she was all but one herself—and settled him in one of the east bedrooms. He’d been bathed and splinted and forced to drink broth every few hours before being dosed with laudanum to help him sleep. His shoulder was back in socket thanks to Joshua—the lone footman at Wimbledon House and Therese’s son. Mr. Stillman’s lower right leg was, in fact, broken, but the bone had been easily set—thank goodness—and he had cracked ribs on one side. The other injuries amounted to cuts and bruises that needed only cleaning and bandaging.
Sabrina had looked in on him before taking the carriage into Town. He’d been sleeping, his hair tousled and his face bruised but his color improved.
“Well, see, that’s just it,” Nathan said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at her. “In all the years I’ve known you, you have never—not once—forgotten anything.” He had not been in London much during her marriage to Richard or he would have had to withstand numerous notes of regrets and rescheduling when she was forced to stay home to hide the evidence of how her marriage had been failing.
“Then one would think I’ve earned the right to change my plans this one time. Goodness, you act as though I’ve turned my allegiance to France.”
Nathan kept his posture of interrogation, but Sabrina remained unruffled. His expression was serious, however, and that made it difficult for her to stay still in her seat. She did not want him to worry about her or wonder too much about the parts of her life he was not privy to. He was a soft, safe place she did not want to compromise.
“Are you sure you’re all right? You seem anxious.”