The Honorable Heir by Laurie Alice Eakes Page A

the English papers.
    “Dinner’s about to be announced,” Mr. VanDorn said, “so I’ll leave you with my eldest daughter.”
    The circuit of the room had ended in front of Catherine and more windows offering a spectacular view of the lake beneath a full moon. She stood close enough to the window that her breath fogged the glass, blurring her reflection. His was perfectly clear beside hers.
    “Good evening, Lord Tristram.” She raised one hand, on which sparkled an amethyst ring the size of a quail egg. The scent of spring swirled around her, violets and lily of the valley.
    Tristram found he could think of nothing to say. He watched her reach toward the glass, half expecting her to write in the steam. Instead, she started to use the lace frill at the bottom of her sleeve.
    “Allow me.” He reached past her and wiped the glass with his handkerchief.
    She faced him. “Why did you come?”
    “I can’t ferret out your secrets if I don’t ever see you.”
    “All you will learn is that I have no secrets.” Indeed, her brown eyes were wide and as guileless as a child’s.
    Too guileless.
    He gave her his own limpid gaze. “We shall see. I—”
    The dinner bell rang, and couples began to form.
    Tristram offered her his arm. For a moment, she remained motionless, as though she were about to refuse his offer. Then, as the last of the other couples left the drawing room, she laid her fingertips on his forearm. Just her fingertips.
    She may as well have pressed hard upon the nerves in his forearm. He needed all his self-control not to jerk away a reaction that must be wholly wrong. He was pursuing her, not courting her.
    He reached the dining room on feet that felt as though he wore large Wellington boots rather than light evening shoes. To his relief, she released his arm the instant they reached their places.
    A footman drew out her chair. She settled into it with fluid grace. As soon as Mr. VanDorn asked the blessing over the meal, Catherine turned to the gentleman on her right, leaving Tristram to his hostess through the soup course. Mrs. VanDorn was practiced at polite dialogue, asking him questions about his family, then his work.
    “Though I suppose you don’t work, do you? So different between England and America. Here, even the men in our best families work.”
    “Besides some charity work, I’ve been helping my father manage his land holdings since my brother’s passing. That, ma’am, is a great deal of work.”
    “Oh, and how much land is that?” Her tone suggested it was no bigger than a farm.
    “Twenty thousand acres.”
    She choked on her sip of soup.
    “It’s a respectable size.” For no good reason, he wanted her to know his branch of the family had enough money that he didn’t need an heiress. “Nothing like what you have out in the west.”
    “But more civilized.”
    Their rapport after that was quite good. Mrs. VanDorn, Tristram couldn’t help but notice, was a fine image of what Catherine would look like in twenty years—poised and still beautiful with those fine bones.
    Catherine would remain beautiful if she didn’t let her anger over her husband etch lines of bitterness into her face. Her mother was a happy woman who glowed whenever she mentioned the name of one of her children.
    Pure motherly pride...that he could shatter.
    He felt like a hypocrite eating at her table.
    When the salad course arrived and Mrs. VanDorn turned to the man on her left, Tristram switched his attention to Catherine. She stabbed a strip of lettuce and moved it from one side to the other, set her fork down, sipped water, then resumed the lettuce relocation process. Not once did she so much as take a bite or glance at him.
    “Isn’t not speaking to me unforgivably rude?” Her actions finally pressed him to ask.
    “Isn’t coming to the home of people whose daughter you’ve accused of theft unforgivably rude?”
    He winced. “I could end up proving your innocence, too, you know.”
    “You could choose