Douglas: Lord of Heartache Read Online Free Page B

weather.”
    Not that different from the challenges of parenting.
    Amery went silent, though Gwen was getting used to this aspect of his companionship. His silences were mentally industrious. He sorted, tagged, cataloged, and prioritized all incoming information in those silences, and Gwen was happy to leave him to it. Wherever they went—the dairy, the home farm, the kitchen gardens, the home wood, the fields and cottages—he had questions, and she answered until he fell silent again.
    “You are attached to this place,” he observed as they rode into the stable yard at midday.
    Such was the caliber of the viscount’s conversational gambits. “Lord Amery, this is my home .”
    He’d dismounted while Gwen remained on her gelding, answering the groom’s question about a lame plow horse. When she unhooked her knee from the horn of her sidesaddle, Amery stood beside her horse, as if they’d just ridden in for the hunt breakfast.
    She could shoo him off, though she sensed she’d offend him if she refused his assistance, or worse, hurt his feelings.
    Assuming he had any, beyond dignity and pride.
    Gwen put her hands on his shoulders and found herself effortlessly lifted from the horse and standing in the narrow space between Lord Amery and her mount. She paused there awkwardly, unable to step back and unable to meet his gaze. In close proximity he had a beguilingly pleasant, woodsy scent, and he was appreciably taller than she.
    “I believe, Miss Hollister, the customary response is ‘thank you, sir.’” He kept his hands on her waist, and she, foolishly, found her hands were still on his rather broad shoulders. He stepped back and dropped his hands just as Gwen murmured, “Thank you, my lord.”
    “You are welcome,” he replied, offering her his arm. His gesture was a reflex born of bone-deep manners and habit, but still she hesitated long enough that he could not have failed to notice. He solved the issue by reaching for her hand and placing it in the crook of his elbow.
    “Miss Hollister,” he began in patient tones as he matched his steps to hers, “it would save us both much confusion were you to recall I am a gentleman. I might growl, but I do not bite; I do not press my attentions on reluctant young ladies; and being titled, I do not suffer a lack of females who welcome my interest.”
    He was strolling them up to the house while Gwen was torn between outrage at his lecturing and a real desire simply to run from him.
    Except she had given this man her word that she would assist him, and it couldn’t be any harder for her to leave her hand on his arm than it had been for him to climb into a tree full of angry hornets.
    “I beg your lordship’s pardon. I am out of the habit of enduring a man’s polite company. I do not mean to give offense.” She was also out of the habit of justifying her reactions, must less apologizing for them—rather like an old dowager, set in her ways and hard of hearing.
    When had that happened?
    “Do you think I mean to give offense?” Amery asked, though his question was rhetorical. “When I commit the unpardonable affronts of assisting you from your horse? Offering escort? Holding a door for you?”
    “I will ring for luncheon,” Gwen said, dropping his arm as they reached the house, lest answering his questions try her manners beyond tolerance. “If you would like to freshen up, you may use the first bedroom on the right at the top of the stairs. I will join you in the breakfast room shortly, my lord.”
    She gave a nominal curtsy, which he returned with a nominal bow, and then they went their separate ways, like pugilists retiring to neutral corners at the end of a hard fought round.
    ***
    The breakfast parlor was along the southern side of the house, and when Amery arrived, Gwen was standing near a window, her back toward him. She knew the instant he’d crossed the threshold to the room, but didn’t turn until he scraped his boot on the floor—deliberately?
    He