Page 97 of The Secret Daughter
“I was his only legitimate child, and when I found Izzy—we were eight, and Papa was about to throw her into an orphanage, horrid man—I made sure I kept her. And when we found Zoë, also in an orphanage, we kept her, too.” She ate another piece of cake. “But darling Zoë was sure she would bring shame and scandal to us if anyone found out.”
She glanced at him. “Our husbands knew, of course, and if they didn’t care, why would we? But Zoë cared. It was her idea, not ours, that she pose as our cousin from France, you know. Her French is exquisite, thanks to her mother. But her English”—she grimaced—“straight out of the London back streets.”
She sipped her tea. “So she hatched a plan with Lucy, the goddaughter of our friend who lives over there.” She gestured across the garden. “She was going to France with her husband, Gerald, who is a diplomat.”
“I know Paton—Lord Thornton as he is now—and Tarrant, too, from the war.”
“Oh good. Then you’ll understand. So Gerald and Lucy took Zoë with them to Paris, where for the last three years Lucy has been teaching Zoë how to be a lady.”
“She needs no teaching. She’s a lady to her fingertips, back-streets accent or no.”
Lady Randall beamed at him. “Exactly, you dear man. But Zoë had to believe it, too, otherwise she did not feel worthy to be our sister. Or even our cousin. Foolish child. We loved her from the start.” She polished off the last of her cake and dusted her fingers. “So now, Lord Foxton, you want to marry our darling girl, but she is being foolishly stubborn, right?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what she’s thinking. She seems to think she will bring shame on me or something. Which is ridiculous.”
“It certainly is, though it would matter to some people very much. Not you, apparently.” She gave him another brilliant smile. “And not at all to my brother-in-law, Lord Salcott, who, despite his reputation as a high stickler, married my sister Izzy with all the pomp and ceremony any bride could want, in full knowledge of her irregular birth.”
Julian sat back, slightly dazed. This lady, so sweet and apparently shy. He’d even thought her a little simple at first—her sister had done most of the talking before—but she’d stunned him with her warm acceptance and matter-of-fact approach to the problems Zoë thought so overwhelming.
“So, what should I do?”
She gave him that sweet smile again. “If you know herobjections—and I assume you do—and you love her enough—and I suspect you do—”
“I do.”
“Good. Then deal with the objections and convince her you love her.”
He laughed. “As easy as that?”
She smiled serenely. “The path to love is rarely easy. Moretea?”
Chapter Seventeen
Zoë hardly slept that night. She tossed and turned, hearing his words over and over again.
I remember everything you’ve ever said to me, Vita.
That which we call a rose, by any other name smells as sweet.
Vita my love.
I love you, Vita.
You’re a lady to your fingertips.
I was even planning to marry you when I thought you were an illiterate French maidservant, unjustly dismissed from her post.
Will you marry me?
Will you marry me?
Will you marry me?
The doorbell rang quite early in the morning, and she sat up in bed. It couldn’t be him. Not at such a time. Surely?
She’d heard the birds singing in the trees outside for quite a while. In France she and Reynard were usually up by this hour. He’d have the fire going, and the water would be almost boiling, ready to make the tea.
Nobody in London would call at this hour.
