Page 19 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville

“True, but we never lived in a palace.”

“Neither do I, most of the time.” He gazed pensively out the window. “I rarely come here. It’s been closed up until recently.”

“Why?”

Silence followed, and she wasn’t sure he’d heard her, until he said, “Some places are better left to rot.”

The words shocked her. “What do you mean, my lord?”

He stiffened. “Nothing. And don’t call me ‘my lord.’ That’s what servants do. You’re my fiancée, remember?” He sounded irritated. “I’ll call you Maria, and you should probably call me by my Christian name—Oliver.”

An unusual name for an English lord. “Were you named after the playwright, Oliver Goldsmith?”

“Alas, no. I was named after the Puritan, Oliver Cromwell.”

“You’re joking.”

“Afraid not. My father thought it amusing, considering his own . . . er . . . tendency toward debauchery.”

Lord help her, the man’s very name was a jab at respectability. Meanwhile, his estate could probably hold the entire town of Dartmouth!

A sudden panic seized her. How could she pretend to be the fiancée of a man who owned a house likethat?

“Iwas named after King Frederick,” Freddy put in.

“Which one?” asked Lord Stoneville. Oliver.

“There’s more than one?” Freddy asked.

“There’s at least ten,” the marquess said dryly.

Freddy knit his brow. “I’m not sure which one.”

When humor glinted in Oliver’s eyes, Maria said, “I think Aunt Rose was aiming for a generally royal-sounding name.”

“That’s it,” Freddy put in. “Just a King Frederick in general.”

“I see,” Oliver said solemnly, though his lips had a decided twitch. His gaze flicked to her. “What about you? Which Maria are you named after?”

“The Virgin Mary, of course,” Freddy said.

“Of course,” Oliver said, eyes gleaming. “I should have known.”

“We’re Catholic,” Freddy added.

“My mother was Catholic,” Maria corrected him. “Papa wasn’t, but since Freddy’s mother is, too, we were bothraised Catholic.” Not that she’d ever taken any of it very seriously. Papa had always railed against the foolishness of religion.

A devious smile broke over Oliver’s face. “A Catholic, too? Oh, this just gets better and better. Gran will have an apoplectic fit when she meets you.”

Tired of his insulting comments about her background, she said, “Really, sir—”

“We’re here,” he announced as the coach pulled to a halt.

Maria glanced out, her stomach clenching. Halstead Hall seemed to go on forever on either side, glistening like a multifaceted jewel in the wintry moonlight. The front might be considered plain—no grand steps, no towering columns—if not for the crenellated stone façade and battlements at the corners. Not to mention the massive oak door, now opening for their arrival. It was as if she’d stumbled into King Arthur’s court.

But the footmen and grooms in elaborate livery who came running were decidedly fromthiscentury.

Oliver tensed. “Apparently Gran brought her own servants, as well.” A footman put down the step and Oliver climbed out, then helped her out, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm.