The Lady Risks All by Stephanie Laurens

and why she felt that an appropriate subject to mention—wasn’t one she wished to invite.
    Leading the way under the trees of the park, feeling the cooler shadows engulf her, she looked down the long, sloping expanse to the low stone wall that edged the lane along the river. Forcing her mind from the distracting memory of a starkly, darkly elegant face made suddenly more potent by the proximity of his house, she steered her errant thoughts to the many questions she had concerning Wraxby. He was strolling beside her, his pace slowed to match hers, his head up, his gaze fixed ahead. She glanced at him. “You said you drove along the river—was it a pleasant journey?”
    Did he have any appreciation of the finer things in life? Given the paintings on his walls, Roscoe certainly did. Watching Wraxby, she saw a slight frown cloud his features.
    “I took that route to avoid the congestion on the other roads. It was faster, certainly.”
    She kept her reaction from her face; one couldn’t have everything. “You’ve said little about your house. Is it situated pleasantly?”
    “Well enough.” After a moment, as if realizing that was an unsatisfactory answer, he added, “Others have told me that it’s an attractive property. Certainly Maude, my first wife, thought it comfortable.”
    Comfortable. Well, that was better than the opposite. Further questions on the house’s surroundings and the neighborhood in general elicited little more. It wasn’t, she judged, that Wraxby was being deliberately unhelpful but that he was naturally reticent. And perhaps unobservant.
    And possessed very little conversational flair.
    Against that, he seemed as honest as he was stultifyingly correct.
    She could understand that, with his first wooing long behind him, he was rusty and perhaps diffident over putting himself forward in the customary ways, yet that left her with no notion of why his interest, however lukewarm, had fixed on her. Casting her mind over all she’d thus far learned of him . . . “You mentioned your sons. How old are they?”
    “Eleven, twelve, and thirteen years old.”
    “That young?” She’d been under the impression they were older. “I see.” She might just be starting to.
    They strolled on in silence, a light breeze strengthening as they neared the river.
    They reached the tea gardens on the riverbank. Wraxby conducted her to a round table affording a generous view over the wide gray ribbon of the river. Once their orders were delivered and the serving girl withdrew, he cleared his throat. “Miss Clifford, let me be plain. I am, as I believe is apparent, looking about me for a second wife. One of my reasons for doing so is that I find myself unsuited to the gentler side of rearing my sons.”
    Once started, he continued to elucidate and explain his view of their potential association. She sipped the excellent tea and paid attention. She listened as he described . . . the position he had vacant, and why he thought she might be a suitable candidate to fill it.
    Her qualifications included her age, her pleasant, conventional, and unexceptional appearance, and her apparent lack of interest in what he termed the more reckless side of social life. Her portion was mentioned in the sense that its size, apparently divulged by Gladys, reassured him that they were social and capital equals, which she took to mean that the funds would ensure that in marrying her he could not be said to be marrying beneath him. He belonged to the same social stratum as the Cuthberts; as was the case with her aunt, social appearances were paramount.
    As for his vacant position, it became clear that it could be adequately and comprehensively described as that of a glorified nursemaid. That said, given his position and hers, there was nothing to take exception to in his suggestion. His vision of a potential union wasn’t one society would consider unworthy of a lady like her.
    To her great relief, having communicated his thoughts, he