0764213504 by Roseanna M. White Page A

treacherous. “Of course, cousin. I know how you enjoy solitude on your morning walks. Good day.” His gaze moved to Brook. It was too dark to be termed respect, but at least it was not so predatory. “And I look forward to meeting you again . . . my lady.”
    She made no reply, other than to shift closer to Lord Whitby. Swinging back into the saddle with a grace that normally would have earned her appreciation, Pratt nodded, gave her another too-warm smile, and turned his mount around.
    Not until the horse’s hoofbeats had faded away did her father let out a low sigh that sounded half like a growl. “Watch that one—he brings trouble wherever he goes. And I don’t like the way he was looking at you.”
    Yet, now that he was gone, the morning mist seemed to glow silver. Or perhaps that was thanks to Lord Whitby. She slipped her hand through his arm. When she looked up at him, there was no stirring of supposed memory, no thought of This is my father. Only the recognition of a man she could like well—kind, handsome, and of the sort of disposition she had always been drawn toward.
    And a lingering question that made her wonder why, in her dying moments, her mother hadn’t asked Maman to see Brook safely into his arms.
    Whitby looked down at her, loosing a snort of laughter. “Listen to me. Twelve hours a father again, and already I’m threatening the young men to stay away from you.”
    Brook smiled and let him lead her a few steps closer to the shore. “That is one man from whom I’m happy to steer clear—I didn’t like the way he looked at me either. He is a cousin?”
    Her father sighed. “Unfortunately, though too distant forhis tastes. I try to be patient with him, as it was through his father that I met your mother. But I have little use for those so blatantly trying to claim what is mine. He has been after your cousin Regan this past year. No doubt he’ll now give his attention to you.”
    Brook couldn’t suppress a shiver, though she tried to tell herself it was from the frigid breeze off the water and not the thought of Pratt lingering too near, too often. She also couldn’t quite get used to all those your s. Her mother, her aunt, her cousins . . . her father.
    Her gaze locked on the tossing waves, it took her a long moment to realize Whitby was studying her. She tilted her head and nodded toward the North Sea. “I have always been drawn to the ocean. Was . . . was my mother that way?”
    “No.” His voice went soft, filled with yearning. “The house and gardens were her domain. This—” he swept a hand out toward the sea—“you apparently inherited from me.”
    “Did I?” That helped—the thought that she was not just “the very image” of her mother, that she had some of him in her too. And yet. “Are you quite certain, beyond all doubt, that I am your daughter? Because if not, I do not want to prolong this, it will only make it harder. And with everyone so suspicious of my motives already . . .”
    He looked into her eyes long enough that she had to wonder what he saw. “I always believed . . .” He drew in a deep breath. “From the moment you were born, I adored you. Your mother and I, we doted on you ourselves when our friends entrusted their babes to nurses. I knew you—knew how to soothe your tears, knew what would make you smile. Knew, after the accident, that you were still alive, somewhere. And I always believed that when I found you, there would be no mistake.”
    Something quivered inside. Not with unease. Non , more likea sprout unfurling its first leaf. “But there have been so many claiming they were your daughter.”
    “Yes.” He looked out over the sea as though it were a part of him. “Beginning as soon as your mother was buried. But I knew what my babe looked like, how she acted, though no one thought I would. And as the years passed, as I realized I would likely not know my daughter by sight . . . that was when my prayers grew more fervent.