Horatia flushed, but answered roundly: “I d-don’t care what people believe! You’ve said yourself you kn-know there’s n-nothing in it, so if you don’t mind I am sure no one else n-need!”
He raised his brows slightly. “My dear Horry, I thought I had made it abundantly clear to you at the outset that I do mind.”
Horatia sniffed, and looked more mutinous than ever. He watched her for a moment, then bent, and taking her hands drew her to her feet. “Don’t frown at me, Horry,” he said whimsically. “Will you, to oblige me, give up this friendship with Lethbridge?”
She stared up at him, hovering between two feelings. His hands slid up her arms to her shoulders. He was smiling, half in amusement, half in tenderness. “My sweet, I know that I am quite old, and only your husband, but you and I could deal better together than this.”
The image of Caroline Massey rose up clear before her. She whisked herself away, and said, a sob in her throat: “My l-lord, it was agreed we should not interfere with each other. You’ll allow I d-don’t interfere with you. Indeed, I’ve n-no desire to, I assure you. I won’t cast R-Robert off just b-because you are afraid of what vulgar people may say.”
The smile had left his eyes. “I see. Ah—Horry, has a husband any right to command, since he may not request?”
“If p-people talk it is all your fault!” Horatia said, disregarding this. “If only you would be civil to R-Robert too, and—and f-friendly, no one would say a word!”
“That, I am afraid, is quite impossible,” replied the Earl dryly.
“Why?” demanded Horatia.
He seemed to deliberate. “For a reason that has become—er—ancient history, my dear.”