Page 11 of Lady Diana's Lost Lord
“Please, sit,” Ben said, with a gesture toward the chair he had abandoned. “I’ll fetch you a plate. And, I believe, my daughter has something she wishes to say to you. Don’t you, Hannah?”
To all appearances, Hannah had a great deal she wished to say, and not one word of it could even remotely be considered an apology. But Ben leveled a firm stare at the child, a wordless command. A battle of wills waged silently between them for a moment, two—and Diana pressed her lips into a flat line to repress the satisfied smile that wanted to break over her face. Hannah might be a holy terror to everyone else, but she knew better than to defy her father. There were, it seemed, limits to his indulgence, and they did not extend so far as this.
Hannah puffed out her cheeks, but at last her eyes dropped to the table. “Papa says I must apologize,” she said finally, a grumble trembling through her voice.
Diana waited patiently, though it was clear that Hannah felt she had said as much as was necessary.
“Hannah,” Ben prodded, as he turned his back to collect a plate from a cupboard, and began scooping something out of a pan. Eggs, Diana thought. “Do it properly.”
“I did!”
“Saying you have been asked to apologize is not, in point of fact, apologizing.” He waved a serving spoon in her direction; a small, chastening gesture. “Do itproperly.”
Hannah kicked out with her foot, thumping the leg of the table in her fury. Her face flushed a furious red, but at last she turned her head toward Diana and spat out, “I’msorry.”
She most certainly was not. Diana rested her hand upon the back of the chair and sank into it. “For what are you sorry?” she asked.
Those large blue eyes narrowed. “All of it,” she said spitefully, and tooka crunchy bite of toast, gnawing through it as if she could impart into it all of her denied aggression.
Diana splayed out her fingers. “A proper apology,” she said, “should be specific.”
Hannah blinked, nonplussed. “What’sspecific?”
“It means that you must clearly explain what, precisely, you are sorry for. And it should be followed by an assurance that you will not resort to such behaviors again in the future.” Ben laid a plate before her. Eggs and toast—not the most substantial of breakfasts. Diana accepted the fork he offered to her, and out of the corner of her eye, saw him fold his arms over his chest and give an encouraging nod.
Hannah pulled a mutinous expression, her chin firming. But she muttered at last, “I’m sorry I threw flour at you.”
Diana took a bite of egg, chewing slowly. “And?”
“And at Miss Wright.”
“Hm. You should tell her as much, as well, when you’ve got the opportunity.” The toast was perfectly crisped. She took a small bite. “What else?”
“I’m sorry I was rude.” Hannah peeked out from beneath the tousled bangs that fell over her forehead.
“And you won’t do it again,” Diana said. “Will you?”
“I suppose not,” the girl groused, slanting a glance up at her father. “Am I done?”
“You’re done,” Ben said. “Go feed Snowball his breakfast while I have a chat with Diana.”
Diana waited until the child had scurried away to inquire, “Snowball?”
“My horse. Hannah named him.” Ben dropped into the chair Hannah had vacated, raking his fingers through his dark hair with a sigh. “I’m sorry for the trouble she’s caused you. But thank you, nonetheless, for staying with her when Miss Wright deserted her post.”
Diana gave a nod of acknowledgement. “She’s just a child. I couldn’t leave her alone to fend for herself.”
“Miss Wright would have done.” He braced his elbows upon the table and dropped his head into his hands. “I went into the village this morning, before either of you had woken. I thought I might be able to smooth things over, make it right again.” A sigh rent the air. “The truth is, Hannah’s burned through our very last option. There’s no one left willing to mind her while I work. She’s earned a reputation for being…difficult.”
“I can’t imagine why.” The bland, dry tone had not amused him.
“She’s not abadchild,” Ben said. “Truly, she isn’t. She’s clever, and loving, and kind—most of the time.” He managed a wry smile. “Probably there’s a fair few women that would disagree with that last bit. But sheiskind. She’s only…spirited.”
Diana sniffed. “Spirited is only meant to be a compliment when applied to horses.”
Ben scrubbed his hand over his eyes, sinking back in his chair. “I would never want to crush that spirit out of her,” he said. “But you were right—she does need a governess.” His voice dropped to a regretful murmur. “My daughter can’t even write her own name.” With one hand, he slid a scrap of paper across the table, and Diana canted her head to read the blocky, malformed letters scrawled across it:HANA.
She winced. Probably that had been a bitter pill to swallow; that his daughter’s education had been so sorely lacking. “Then you should hire a governess.”
