Page 121 of The Runaway Duchess

Neal felt a jab in his side.

“I knew it,” Jenni said, and jabbed him again for emphasis. “I knew it from the way you didn’t speak of her. Quiet as a clam.” She winked at Nessa. “Neal has a sweetheart. I thought he’d given up after that Elizabeth.”

Nessa swatted at her. “Why don’t you stay quiet as a clam for once?”

“Because I don’t want to deny you all the benefit of my insights and observations.” Jenni swatted back. “She does look rather like Elizabeth, though, doesn’t she?” From her muffled squeal, Neal could tell that Nessa had stamped her toe.

Emmeline and Lavinia were walking toward them. Kelyn came around the table as Tomas struggled to his feet, a twin under each arm.

“Do you remember this pretty lady?” He gave a few bounces and the boys shrieked and kicked.

“Dear Muriel,” said Kelyn, a crease between her brows. “But you’re in mourning. I’m so terribly sorry. Neal didn’t tell us.”

“Oh, that. It’s nothing.” Lavinia placed the hatbox on a chair and smoothed her skirts. The black silk set off her pallor. Her eyes flitted and she licked her lips, ill at ease.

“My husband,” she added, unnecessarily.

Everyone had to have noticed the widow’s cap. It perched on her shining hair. Neal saw Kelyn glance sharply at Tomas, who tilted from side to side in a modified shrug.

They’d met Muriel Pendrake as a widow. One didn’t expect that a widow could be widowed. Did one?

He opened his mouth and shut it again. If Lavinia had given him a lick of warning, he would have prepared the way. Confided in Jenni, perhaps. Come up with a plan for approaching his mother. For explaining to his cousins.

She never made anything easy.

He wanted to shake her. Since he’d left her in the Sambourns’ garden, he hadn’t known what to think, about her, about them, their future.

He wanted to fold her in his arms. Carry her to that sheltered stretch of beach where he could look back and forth between her eyes and the waves, gauging their relative blues, until his air gave out and he had to sip the breath from her lungs.

“Mrs. Pendrake.” Jenni spoke warmly. “You are an inspiration. I hope to go to China one day, to the Peking Observatory.”

Neal started. Bad beginning. Quite bad, in fact. Lavinia’s skin was taking on a sickly cast. He should intervene. Say something before Jenni started asking about the egret density on the Yangtze River.

“We’ve heard all about you.” Jory chimed in. “And owe you a debt of gratitude. You saved our little brother’s life in the harbor.”

Now Neal felt his jaw drop. He hadn’t realized his cousins and siblings had conferred in such detail about his and Lavinia’s visit to Kyncastle.

“Which makes you an honorary Traymayne,” continued Jory. “We’ve each of us saved Neal’s life. If you haven’t noticed, he likes to get into scrapes. There was the time—he was five, I think, or six—he tried to ride Mr. Knight’s sheep, right there, in the field just up the hill.” He waved an arm, warming to his story. “He climbed a fir tree and jumped onto a ram’s back, an evil-tempered old ram. Boreas, his name was. Well, Boreas bucked like the devil, tossed Neal ten feet in the air. He landed plumb on his head. Knocked him totally senseless. He was about to get trampled by the flock, but I jumped the fence and—”

“I’m all for embarrassing, Neal,” interrupted Nessa. “But we should let Mrs. Pendrake get settled first, and we should introduce ourselves. I’m Nessa, Neal’s sister, and this is my husband, Cyril.”

“Perran,” said Perran. “There’s about two dozen of us, all told. Good luck with the names.”

“Mrs. Pendrake is here?” Neal’s mother had emerged from the house, where she must have been reading in the sitting room window seat. Her spectacles still perched on her nose.

This had to end, this confusion.

“Not precisely.” Neal blurted it out. Lavinia shot him a strange look. A mixture of apprehension and something sweet and hopeful. He saw that she was twisting her gloved hands. What was wrong with him, leaving her to stand there while his family studied her like an interesting exhibit with an indecipherable label?

He shook himself and jogged to her, reaching out. Her fingers twined around his, the grip fierce, slightly desperate.

“Mother,” he said, facing her, then sweeping the entire group with his gaze. “Everyone. I am delighted to introduce you to . . .”

He swallowed. “My fiancée.” Almost there. “The Duchess of Cranbrook.”

Shock. Even the insects stopped buzzing. Not an entomologically accurate statement, surely. But Neal heard nothing in that moment. Silence reigned.

Lavinia curtseyed. “Please call me Lavinia.”