Page 8 of The Gentleman Was Right
He turned and looked over his shoulder. His eyes widened as the door to his bedchamber slowly swung open. Almost silently, a tall woman slipped into the room followed by a slightly shorter woman. Their tightly coiled red hair marked them sisters, as did the brush of freckles across their noses and the tense expressions on their faces.
The shorter one shut the door soundlessly.
His heart skipped a beat when his gaze collided with the taller one. She was more composed than he expected and not at all threatening. He willed himself to wait for her to speak rather than demanding answers to the many questions floating around in his head.
She kept staring at him as the silence settled. She did not appear frightened. Neither did she appear confident. It was an odd juxtaposition and only increased his curiosity.
Edward kept waiting for her to speak, but she kept staring at him without speaking. He darted a glance at the other woman, but she, too, was simply watching him. It should have been unnerving. Itwasunnerving, but he wasn’t uncomfortable. Just intrigued.
The taller one frowned suddenly.
She was thin, her cheekbones prominent, her eyes somewhere between brown and green, and her skin altogether too pale. The shorter one leaned to the side and gently nudged the taller one. She had a rounder face, darker eyes, and skin that flushed under his scrutiny.
Neither of their gowns fit particularly well, and both were a bit frayed. With three well-dressed sisters and an extravagant mother, he could tell the fabric was fine and the artistry excellent. He felt certain that their dresses had been sewn by a professional seamstress, and he couldn’t help wondering if they were simply down on their luck. Although that didn’t really explain how they’d ended up in the cottage.
Unable to wait any longer for an explanation, he kept his gaze on the taller of the two as he smiled congenially and moved forward. She shifted on her feet so she was slightly shielding the shorter one, as if she were trying to protect her from him. He made an effort to appear non-threatening when he halted a few steps away.
“Mr. Edward Grey,” she finally said in a soft voice. “Forgive us for intruding on you in your bedchamber. We felt it prudent to speak to you in private and could not determine another way to do so.”
“Miss Shaw?” he asked.
She nodded once. “That is correct. I’m Violet, and this is Isabelle.” She gestured to her sister and kept talking. “We are delighted that you are here. I understand that you’ve already met Mrs. Eggington. If I may be so bold, what did she tell you about us?”
Her audacity surprised him.
She dared to ask him what he knew about them?
He was used to strong-willed women and their blunt questions. His sisters and mother rarely tempered themselves. His mother, in particular, preferred outrageousness to discretion, and while his mother generally seemed to relish her shocking behavior, Violet did not appear to be trying to provoke him. “Mrs. Eggington informed me that mycousinswould be delighted to see me.”
“Your cousins.” Her flinch was barely discernible, but he was watching her closely enough to spot it. “I suppose it is too much to hope that you remember us?”
There was nothing to remember.
“You are not my cousins.”
Her composure did not waver. “You seem quite sure of that.”
“I do not have many cousins. It would be impossible for me to forget two of them.” He paused and then explained, “I have an aunt and uncle on my father’s side. They have daughters who are married with children. There is no one else.”
Her gaze briefly flitted to the ground. “Perhaps we are more distant cousins. Or related to you through your mother.”
He knew they were not related, but her casual suggestion almost made him doubt himself. “I do not believe so. Even if there was a branch of the family that I was unaware of, my brother is not the sort of man to allow two unmarried women to stay in one of his residences without a chaperone—whether they are cousins or not.”
“Lord Greydon may not be aware we are here.”
“May not?” He raised his brow.
Violet’s expression remained impassive. “And if we werenotrelated to you?”
“Then maybe you ought to tell me why you’re here.”
“Does the why make a difference?”
“I imagine it does.”
“Our reasons are…,” she pursed her lips, “unimportant.”
He couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped. He could think of nothing that was more important than why they were there, and for some reason he was strangely delighted that she didn’t want to tell him. It made her more compelling and kept him on his toes. Talking with Violet was a bit like talking to Belinda, especially after she’d returned from London and her failed season.
