“My fear is that you will hate them.” His sisters knew no restraint with their emotions. Now that he understood how carefully Lady Gwen held herself back, how fearful she was about appearing odd, he worried that she wouldn’t know what to do when they dragged her into musical duets or hat-making afternoons or, God forbid, scandalous readings of some obscure poet.
“My lord,” she said softly, “I am hardly one to judge another soul’s oddities.”
And right there was the problem. She thought so little of herself that she constantly tripped herself up trying to be what she thought was needed. If only he could find a way to tell her how amazing she was, how absolutely unique and enchanting he found her just as she was.
But in this he failed. He didn’t have the right words and they were pulling up to the manor house. She leaned forward to open the door, but he touched her arm and spoke quickly.
“My sisters are Abigail, Beatrix, and Camile. Just think of them as A, B, and C. And my father—”
“Is the Earl of Allbury with a new wife, Jennifer.” She smiled at him. “Don’t worry. Mama tested me on their names and heritage. I’ll get it right.”
He gaped at her. “You studied my family history?”
“Mama insisted I learn it before the masquerade. She believes it rude to be ignorant of your host.”
“I agree,” he said.
“She was quite thorough. I believe she has a mind for pedigrees like I do for plants.”
On that he had no doubt. Then there was no more time for talk as his sisters all came tumbling out of the house. Abigail bounced down the steps because she had so much energy, she had never been able to sit still. Beatrix had covered herself in paper flowers for some odd reason. She had them stuck every which way about her person and hair. Camile came last, her hands around their father’s arm as he wobbled his way forward on his cane. Gout was destroying his health, and the man’s expression appeared pained. Jennifer stood on his father’s other side, a sturdy woman with a good smile, who was poised to catch the man if he stumbled.
His family. He grinned despite his worry. He adored them to the ends of the earth. Leaning across Lady Gwen, he threw open the carriage door and jumped out. Then he turned to assist her. He felt the tension in her body and winked to reassure her, but that was all the time he had as Abigail threw herself into his arms.
“We just got your letter today, but it didn’t say anything about you coming. Have you gotten soft?” she asked as she poked his back. “Not enough work in London?”
“Soft?” he challenged, then he squeezed her until she squealed. Even though she was the eldest of his sisters, she was the smallest. A great deal of energy in a small package. She laughed and kicked him until he set her down.
He turned his attention to Lady Gwen to make the introduction only to see her drop into a deep curtsey before his father.
“Oh goodness,” his father blustered. “I’m not the king. Don’t do that.” Then he reached down and pulled her up, though he had to put weight on his bad foot to do it. “Jackson, tell us who this lovely woman is.”
“Father, this is Lady Gwen. She’s come for a short visit to help me prepare the daffodils for sale.”
His stepmother frowned. “They’re pretty now, but how will you get them to London?”
“We’ll find a way,” he said, praying it was true. “And we’ll sell the bulbs too.” He introduced everyone to everyone, including Lady Gwen’s maid, who had finally roused herself from her sleep to step out of the carriage.
Five minutes later, the ladies were ushering Lady Gwen inside while his father joined him to care for the horses. He worried about leaving Gwen alone with his sisters—they were bound to pester her about something—but his father shot him a significant look. He wanted to talk privately, and so together they escorted the horses to the barn.
Their stable boy bounded forward. He was the child of one of their tenants who loved horses beyond anything else in the world, and he took the lead of one horse while Jackson began to rub down the other. His father leaned against a support beam, extended his bad leg in front, and then spoke casually.
“Lovely gel there,” his father began, “though she didn’t say much.”
Jackson laughed. “No one can get a word in edgewise with our lot.” He cast a worried look back at the house. “I probably should have stayed with her.”
“Now, now, don’t be over-protective. The girls are harmless.”
“The girls are a lot.”
His father chuckled. “Can’t argue that.”
Then the man grew silent a moment, and when Jackson looked up, his father appeared troubled.
“What has happened?” Jackson asked.
“What? Oh nothing. Camile fancies herself in love, is all.”
“Camile?” he asked. He’d expected such from Abigail who was always falling in love with someone or something, be it a puppy, a novel, or a man. But Camile? “She’s always kept to herself.”