Page 11 of Mr Winterbourne's Christmas

It felt odd to be talking about Adam, almost dangerous. As though Perry could possibly guess what they were to each other just from Lysander uttering his name aloud.

In an attempt to change the subject, he gave a subtle jerk of his head in the direction of a small group on the other side of the room, two gentleman and a lady. The older gentleman—who looked to be in his middle to late forties—was a slender, rather handsome man with black hair, threaded with silver. He was dressed head-to-toe in black, other than his very white neckcloth, in the midst of which gleamed a deep red ruby cravat pin. His lips were faintly curled in an expression of superior amusement. The lady, who appeared a few years younger, wore a similarly haughty expression, though without any trace of amusement in her case. Her hand rested possessively on the arm of the second gentleman, who was the youngest of the group and startlingly handsome. His olive-toned skin, blue-black hair and meltingly dark eyes spoke of a foreign heritage.

“Do you know who those people are?” he asked Perry.

“The older chap’s Sir Edmund Hunt. Woman’s his sister. I forget her name.” Perry made a face, then shook his head in defeat. “The other fellow’s her fiancé. Italian chap.”

“Hunt?” Lysander repeated softly. “Wasn’t there some scandal attached to him? I’m sure I remember mother warning Althea to stay away from him during her come-out.”

Perry nodded and leaned closer. “Rake,” he said with a significant look. “Whores and bastard children coming out his ears, they say.” He flushed then, a deep pink, and added almost inaudibly, “Worse besides.Sodomy, I heard.”

Lysander went rigid, a stupid frisson of guilt running down his spine.

“Really?” he managed, though his lips felt stiff. “What’s mother thinking of, inviting him?”

“He’s a friend of your brother-in-law,” Perry said. “One of his political chums. Rumour is he aiming to be more respectable. Probably wants some fancy job and needs a virtuous bride to make him look better. He’s swimming in money, so he can have what he wants.” When Lysander kept staring at him, Perry added, “Supposedly, he’s got his eye on your sister Gwen.”

“Gwen?”

Gwen was the second youngest of the Winterbourne brood. She’d married rather suddenly at the end of her first season and before Althea, her older sister, much to Althea’s chagrin at the time. But her husband, the Honourable Charles Rodney, an unremarkable if perfectly eligible young man, had tragically passed away a year later following a riding accident.

Having lived independently in Northumbria since her husband’s death, Gwen had recently been forced to return to live with their parents—Rodney’s estate had, it turned out, been deeply in debt. After trying—and failing—to get by on her tiny income, Gwen had finally swallowed her pride and returned to Winterbourne Abbey in the summer. She’d missed Althea’s wedding the year before, so Lysander hadn’t seen her since Charles’s funeral.

“WhereisGwen?” he asked now, gazing around.

“Hiding?” Perry suggested.

Lysander glanced at him. “From Hunt?”

Perry shrugged. “Maybe.”

Gwen had always been shy, generally preferring the company of horses and dogs to people. Of all the Winterbourne children, it had been himself and Gwen who had most loved being outdoors, and since they were closest in age, they’d spent endless hours exploring the estate together.

Just then, the door to the drawing room opened again, distracting Lysander from his thoughts. When he turned his head to see who had come in, he was rewarded with the sight he’d been longing for since he’d first come down to tea: Adam stood in the doorway.

He looked rather grim as his gaze raked the drawing room, until he caught sight of Lysander. Then, his expression softened, and he smiled.

And Lysander’s heart turned over.