"And I can continue my seething," Ashford proclaimed, stepping into the hall and walking toward them. "A few more sittings and I just might grow to detest Monsieur Sardo as much as I do his employer."
Noelle spun about, her entire face lighting up. "Ashford." Before she could think to censor her actions, she ran to him, launched herself into his arms. "You're early. I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."
Catching her about the waist, Ashford had to fight the urge to crush her against him, declare her as his, and never let her go. The only thing stopping him was the steely glint in Eric Bromleigh's eyes.
"My business in London was at a standstill." He set her down at a respectable distance, brought her palm to his lips and kissed it. "And I missed you."
"Didn't things go well with Lord Mannering? Didn't he agree to—?" Abruptly, Noelle perceived Ashford's restrained tone, his understated actions—and, with a jolt of reality, she recognized what she'd done and in front of whom. She tensed, becoming suddenly and painfully aware of her father's disapproving stare as it burned into her back. She looked bewildered, uncertain, her gaze automatically shifting to the doorway of the study, seeking out her mother's less denouncing, more compassionate presence.
Brigitte cleared her throat, preparing to say something—something that woul
d, presumably, offer Noelle the buffer she sought.
Before she could speak, a thirteen-year-old diversion burst onto the scene.
"Hello, Lord Tremlett," Chloe piped up, darting out of nowhere and, once again, saving the day. "I thought I heard your voice." She walked right up to him, her angelic face alight with pleasure. "Will you be staying for dinner?"
A conspiratorial grin curved Ashford's lips. "Are you inviting me?"
"Yes." She turned to Brigitte. "Mama, Lord Tremlett can dine with us, can't he?"
Brigitte looked as if she were about to burst out laughing. "Of course, darling. I'm sure the earl has a great deal to discuss with Noelle. That discussion will undoubtedly deplete whatever's left of the afternoon—which should give Cook more than enough time to prepare for a dinner guest. In fact, since Lord Tremlett needs to be here by ten o'clock tomorrow morning, perhaps he ought to spend the night." An innocent glance at Ashford. "Unless, of course, he has other plans?"
"Not a one," Ashford assured her, thinking that Brigitte and his mother would get along famously. They both had the same gentle, gracious way of accomplishing precisely what they made up their minds to accomplish—almost without anyone else being aware of it. "I'd be delighted to have dinner with you and grateful not to have to make the trip from Southampton at dawn."
"Good. Then it's settled." Brigitte turned back to Chloe and waved in the direction of the kitchens "Let's go advise Cook. After that, we'll help Mrs. Pearson make up one of the guest rooms."
"Splendid." Chloe took a step, then paused, gesturing for Eric to join them. "Come with us, Papa. The pie I helped Cook fill earlier this afternoon will be about ready. You can sample it while it's still hot."
Eric hadn't moved a muscle, nor thawed a bit. To the contrary, his tension had heightened at Brigitte's invitation that Ashford spend the night. "Where's Grace?" he demanded, glaring about in search of his reliable sentry.
Chloe's grin was impish. "Probably on her way to the kitchen, trying to beat you to the pie. She adores you, Papa, but not enough to share her food."
Rushing to her father's side, Chloe grasped his hand. "Nonetheless, you needn't worry. Grace might be otherwise occupied, but Tempest is still in the blue salon. Why not let Noelle and Lord Tremlett have their talk in there? That way, Tempest can claw Lord Tremlett mercilessly if he attempts any of the things you're envisioning. She's the best chaperon—and the best judge of character—in the house. What's more, she sleeps on Noelle's bed. So she can oversee their chat now and guard Noelle's room later. You see? Your worries are over."
Ashford bit back his shout of laughter, watching as Eric pivoted slowly, lowering his chin to regard Chloe with stupefied amazement. "I was certain no one could be as precocious as Noelle, not even you. Well, I was wrong." He shook his head, muttering half to himself. "What are the odds of raising two such daughters?"
"Quite poor, I would imagine," Chloe supplied. A bright smile lit her face. "I guess you just got lucky."
With that, she dragged him towards the kitchen.
Brigitte's amused gaze found Noelle's. "Talk quickly," she advised. Then she gathered up her skirts and followed her husband.
Laughter rumbled from Ashford's chest. "That sister of yours is a wonder."
Noelle let out the breath she'd been holding. "Thank God for her—and for Mama. Had they not interfered, I shudder to think what would have happened." She gave Ashford a hopeful look. "Unless of course—I don't suppose Papa missed seeing—"
"No, he didn't miss seeing a thing," Ashford replied, still chuckling over Chloe's antics. "Then again, he might have been angry, but I doubt he was astounded. Watching Chloe, pondering you…" His lips quirked. "I think your father is all too accustomed to unorthodox behavior."
"I suppose you're right." The spark rekindled in Noelle's eyes. "Still, I doubt even Papa is prepared for just how unorthodox my behavior seems destined to be—in certain areas." A pause. Then, with her customary frankness, she blurted, "Or rather, in one area. You."
All traces of amusement vanished at her declaration, and a surge of emotion coursed through Ashford's blood. He was besieged by a bottomless hunger, a relentless need to hold the woman he loved in his arms. Restlessly, he glanced down the hallway. "Where's the blue salon?"
"Down that corridor." Noelle pointed, not even pretending to misunderstand. "I'll show you." She led the way, ushering him into the tastefully appointed room whose soft blue accents gave it its name and whose mahogany Chippendale settee held one vigilant occupant: Tempest.
The cat sat erect, sphinxlike, narrowing her eyes speculatively when she spied the man who entered the room with her mistress.
"Tempest, it's Ashford," Noelle informed her. "So you needn't look so fierce."