The Taste of Innocence by Stephanie Laurens

was comfortable; Alathea rarely was. Yet he would never cease to be grateful for all she’d done for him in the past, an emotion she exploited with feminine ruthlessness whenever he proved difficult. “What is it?”
    “As it appears you’ve finally decided to choose a wife, I thought a simple stating of the obvious wouldn’t go amiss, you being male and, of them all, peculiarly inclined to think you rule your world.”
    Charlie suppressed his frown. Arguing would only prolong the lecture.
    “Indeed,” Alathea murmured, her gaze on his face.
    From the corner of his eye, he saw her brows had risen haughtily, as if she’d read his thoughts. She probably had. She was married to Gabriel, and he and Gabriel rarely differed—except on the subject she wished to discuss.
    Girding his mental loins, he said nothing.
    Eyes narrowing, Alathea again faced the crowd, and went on, “Regard less of the fashionable norm, there have never in living memory been anything but love matches in our family—and no, I don’t mean the Cynsters, although the same is true for them.”
    Charlie noticed that her gaze had fixed on her husband, Gabriel Cynster, who had moved to join Sarah and the unknown gentleman. It was patently clear Gabriel knew him.
    “All the Morwellan males”—Alathea’s voice continued from beside him—“have for centuries married for love, and you would be well advised to think very carefully about the whys and wherefores of that before you plunge ahead and without due consideration break that tradition.”
    A moment passed. Charlie, his attention fixed across the room, eventually realized Alathea expected some response. “Yes, all right.”
    Even though his gaze was elsewhere, he felt her glare.
    Ignoring it, he demanded, “Who’s that speaking with Gabriel?”
    Alathea glared anew, then looked across the room, then back at Charlie. “Some gentleman investor Rupert invited—a Mr. Sinclair. Apparently he’s thinking of settling in the area.” Charlie didn’t take his eyes from the group—Gabriel, Sinclair, and Sarah. Especially Sarah as her smile brightened; ever since Gabriel had joined them, she’d relaxed. Charlie narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?”
    Alathea looked across the room, then back at him. He didn’t meet her gaze; lifting her hand from his sleeve, he squeezed her fingers, then released them. “Excuse me.”
    He cut a determined path through the crowd.
    Alathea watched him go. Watched as he circled to come up beside Sarah, between her and Sinclair, effectively cutting Sarah off from the man. Alathea continued observing as Gabriel introduced Charlie, and he and Sinclair shook hands, as Charlie glanced at Sarah and offered his arm—she saw Sarah’s expression as she took it, saw Charlie’s expression ease as, Sarah’s hand on his arm, he turned to Sinclair.
    Across the room, Alathea smiled. “Well, well, little brother. Perhaps you don’t need that warning after all.”
    Satisfied, she returned to her duties as cohostess.
    Charlie, meanwhile, was as intrigued as he sensed Gabriel was with their new neighbor. Gabriel’s introduction—“Mr. Malcolm Sinclair, a major investor heavily involved in the new railways”—had been enough to grab Charlie’s attention. It transpired that Sinclair had rented Finley House just outside Crowcombe and was considering relocating permanently to the district.
    “I find it a particularly restful area,” Sinclair said. “Gently rolling hills, green valleys, and the sea not far away.”
    “It’s very pretty in spring, when all the hedges and trees are covered in blossom,” Sarah said.
    “I noticed the orphanage above Crowcombe—Quilley Farm, I believe it’s called.” Sinclair’s hazel eyes rested on Sarah’s face. “I understand you own the farm, Miss Conningham.”
    “Yes,” Sarah replied. “It was left me by my late godmother. She had a great interest in such works.”
    Sinclair smiled briefly, polite and distant, and let the subject