“Do you think so?” Charlotte regarded him skeptically. “She was considered a great beauty.”
He cast her a wry glance. “You’re not too bad yourself, lassie. There’s no need to hide your light under a bushel, just because you’ve got a couple of freckles.”
“Only seven.” Her hand rose to cover the freckles on her nose, until she realized he was provoking her again. Her lips flattened. “Oh, you’re an annoying man.”
“Aye.” The amusement drained from his eyes. “How old were you when you lost her?”
“Fifteen.” The memory of her mother’s death remained sharp, despite the ten years since it had happened. She usually avoided speaking of those sad days. To her surprise, she didn’t mind telling Lord Lyle. Perhaps because he was a temporary presence in her life. “A winter fever caught her, and she was gone in two days.”
“That’s hard.” He turned back to the picture. “She looks like a gallant lady.”
Charlotte studied the beautiful image, and for the first time saw past her grief to a lovely woman who had just married the man she adored and who thought a long life of happiness lay ahead. It was something of a shock to realize that when the picture was painted, her mother had been three years younger than she was now.
“She was.” Her voice lowered. “You would have liked her. Everybody did. She had the gift of happiness, and she bore her sorrows bravely. My father hasn’t recovered from her loss.”
“Sir John spoke of her in London. It’s clear he’s never stopped missing her.”
“They fell in love at first sight and never looked at anyone else. He met her at her first ball in London and proposed the next day.” Charlotte smiled fondly, for a second forgetting that she was angry with her father. And that tonight, perhaps love and marriage weren’t the wisest choices of topic.
“My parents died last year in a carriage accident outside Edinburgh. I still miss them.”
Meeting Lyle’s gaze was like sinking into cobalt velvet. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“No reason you should,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “My sisters and I are just out of mourning.”
“Sisters?”
“Aye.” He grimaced and resumed the familiar teasing tone. Except now she knew him well enough to see that this time, at least, he had to work to achieve that lightness. “Margaret and Kirsty. Both married. Both sure that they know just what a younger brother needs. I told you I was used to managing women.”
She heard the fondness in his voice. “You’re lucky. My parents would have loved a brood of children, but there was only me.”
He caught her hand and squeezed it. “There’s nothing ‘only’ about you,
Miss Warren.”
“Th-thank you,” she said uncertainly. Telling him about her mother had changed things in a way she couldn’t quite identify. Upstairs he’d described their interactions as a game. But sharing their experiences of loss and family ventured into unexpected territory—and left her uneasy.
“I—” she began, unsure what she wanted to say, but frantic to shatter the bond between them.
He raised her hand to his lips for a brief kiss. How she wished he’d stop doing that. He released her and stepped closer to the table to pull out her chair.
“Quite the feast. My compliments, Miss Warren.”
Disoriented and worried that long-held resolutions tottered on their foundations, Charlotte straightened and told herself the world couldn’t change in an instant. She remained quiet as Lyle opened the claret and filled their glasses.
He sat opposite and took a sip. “My God.” He sighed in appreciation. “If your father has more of this claret, I’ll marry you just to get into his cellars.”
Her knife scratched against her plate and she set down her cutlery. “My lord, that subject is closed.”
“Really? What a pity.” He began to cut into his omelet. “What about kisses?”
She choked on her wine. “I’m not going to kiss you.”
“Not right now, perhaps,” he said in an airy tone. “Although should the impulse strike, feel free.”
She stiffened in her chair and struggled to revive her defiance. “I’d hate our meal to get cold.”
“Och, so would I. Excellent omelet, by the way.”