“He is a general, sir.”
Vidal’s brows drew together. “What county?”
“He lives in Buckinghamshire, my lord.”
“Good God, never tell me you are Sir Giles Challoner’s grandchild?”
“I am,” said Miss Challoner calmly.
“Then I am undone, and we must be married at once,” said Vidal. “That stiff-necked old martinet is a friend of my father’s.”
Miss Challoner smiled. “You need not be alarmed, sir. My grandfather has been very kind to me in the past, but he disowned my father upon his marriage, and has washed his hands of me since I choose to live with my mother and sister. He will not concern himself with my fate.”
“He’ll concern himself fast enough if he gets wind of his granddaughter in a milliner’s shop,” said Vidal.
“Of course I shall not become a milliner under my own name,” Miss Challoner explained.
“You won’t become one under any name, my girl. Make the best of it: marriage with me is the only thing for you now. I am sorry for it, but as a husband I believe you won’t find me exacting. You may go your own road — I shan’t interfere with you so long as you remain discreet — I’ll go mine. You need see very little of me.”