Moira rather doubted it. If there was one thing Robert detested, it was being fussed over.
Moments later, the couple were escorted into the sitting room. “My dear!” Mary came to take Moira’s hands. “I came as soon as I could. How is he?”
“The doctor said the situation is grave. He’s with Robert now.”
“I shall go up and see—”
“His valet won’t allow anyone in his room. Robert snaps whenever anyone tries to bypass Buffon. The doctor said it was dangerous to let Robert be upset, so it is best to stay away.”
Mary turned. “Did you hear that?”
Her husband nodded. “Some people don’t wish to be disturbed when they feel ill, Mary.”
“But someone must make certain he is well. He could be dying, and—”
“No,” Rowena said firmly.
Mary pressed a hand to her chest. “Goodness, you startled me! I didn’t see you there.” Mary blinked. “Oh my. You look just like—”
“Her father,” Moira interjected.
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Mary cleared her throat. “I can see I’ve rushed in and made a muddle of this.”
“Excuse me,” came Buffon’s voice from the doorway.
All eyes turned to him, and he bowed. “Mr. Hurst would like to see his wife.”
“Wife?”
Moira suppressed a wince. “That would be me.”
Mary plopped her fists onto her hips. “Robert never tells me a thing!”
Her husband took her elbow. “Come, my love, let’s meet our new niece. Her mother will be busy for a while.” Though obviously reluctant, Mary allowed Angus to take her to sit down near Rowena, where they began to talk.
Moira followed Buffon to Robert’s door, where Doctor MacPherson met her.
“He’s better?”
The doctor beamed tiredly. “Yes. Last night I wouldn’t have given you a farthing for his chances. But he made a turn in the middle of the night when the fever broke. He’s not out of the woods yet, but he has a good chance now.”
Moira bit her lip to keep from weeping. “Thank you.”
“I’ll leave him in Buffon’s hands. The man is a capable nurse.”
Buffon bowed, then opened the door. “Madame?”
Moira expected to find the curtains drawn and the room dark. Instead, sunlight streamed through the room, casting a bar of warmth across the large bed.
Robert sat propped up by pillows in his red silk robe, his face cleanly shaved, his hair neat.
But he still had a deep pallor and faint circles under his eyes.
“Buffon wouldn’t allow me to have guests until I was presentable.” His faintly caustic voice filled her with joy.
“Bless Buffon, for I don’t know if I’d recognize you without a cravat.”
“He has been impossibly bossy since my illness—which is to say, he is exactly as he was before.” Robert patted the bed. “Come and sit with me. We have much to say to one another.”
She walked over, feeling oddly shy yet overwhelmed with the need to touch him. She perched on the edge of the bed. “This is certainly a large bed.”
“Yes, ten people could sleep in it and never touch. Unless two of them were us, of course.”
“Unfortunately, you tend to steal the covers,” she said primly, aching to throw her arms around him and hold him tightly.
“And you snore—very softly, but still.” His lips twitched. “I’d say we’re even.”
It was pure luxury to be able to banter with him, even this little bit.
“Where’s Rowena?”
“In the sitting room, talking to your sister Mary and her husband.”
“Oh no. If she’s here, my other two sisters cannot be far away.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if they all come before dinnertime.”
“You’ll have to inform the housekeeper to open some rooms and have something on hand for dinner.”
“Me? Robert, I’m just a guest and—”
“No.” His hand closed over hers. “And that’s what I wish to talk to you about. Moira, I don’t want to be left out of your and Rowena’s lives.”
Her heart twisted. “You love her. I saw that when I found you together in the nursery at Aniston’s.”
“Yes. When I saw her and knew she was mine, my heart—” He shook his head. “I never knew what it meant to be a parent. I will never look at my own the same again.”
“It’s an eye-opening moment, isn’t it?”
“One that you faced alone. That will never happen again. Moira, I love you. I think I always have. Even when I knew you were lying about who you were, I couldn’t stay away from you. And now that I’ve met our daughter, I can’t go back to being alone.”
He took her hand and pulled her closer. “I bought this house thinking I might find a place where I belonged. But it’s nothing but empty stone walls without you and Rowena inside it.”
Tears stung her eyes. “But . . . it’s not always fun and exciting being a parent. Sometimes it’s difficult.”
“Then we’ll face the difficulties together.”
“And if you get bored?”
His lips quirked. “I don’t see that being a problem. But if it happens, I suppose you’ll just have to entertain me here in my boudoir.” His eyes twinkling wickedly, he kissed her fingers one by one.
“And if Rowena gets ill or—”
“—we run out of funds, or our family demands to move in with us, or any of the million things that could happen, then you and I will face them together.”
He put his hand on her cheek. “I love you, Moira MacAllister Hurst. I refuse to live without you. If you say no, I will ask again. And if you leave Hurst House, I will follow you once I’m able.”
Moira’s heart melted. “You really mean it.”
“With every breath I take. And I could die at any moment, so you’d better say yes now, while you can.”
“Yes, Robert Hurst. Yes, yes, yes—”
The rest of her yeses were lost in a kiss. One of the million or so she planned on sharing with him over the happy, blissful years to come.
Turn the page for a sneak peek
at the next delightful
Hurst Amulet novel
from New York Times bestselling author
Karen Hawkins
Coming soon from Pocket Books
London, England
October 12, 1822
Michael Hurst ignored the stir of excitement that flowed through the ballroom at his entrance. “Damn fools,” he muttered, tugging on his neckcloth.
His sister Mary sent him an exasperated glance. “Leave that alone.”
“It’s choking me.”
“It’s fashionable and you must look presentable. This ballroom is full of potential investors for your expeditions.”
Potential headaches was what they were. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he asked irritably. “Where’s that damned refreshment table? If I’m going to face these monkeys, I’ll need a drink.”
“Lady Bellforth usually sets the refreshment table by the library doors.”
He nodded and stepped forward. As if in answer, fans and lashes fluttered as if hoping to trap him in a gossamer hold. “For the love of Ra,” he said through gritted teeth, “don’t they have anything better to do than stare?”
“You’re famous,” Mary said calmly. “Get used to it.”
“I don’t wish to be famous.”
“But you are, so you’ll just have to live with it. Just smile and nod, and we’ll navigate through this crowd in no time at all.”
He scowled instead, noticing with glee that several of the flowery fans stopped fluttering.
“Michael, you can’t—”
He placed his hand firmly under Mary’s elbow and led her into the crowd, scowling at first one hopeful-looking miss and then another. They blushed and then sagged as if he’d stabbed their empty little hearts.
Mary made an impatient noise. “We’ll never get another sponsor
if you keep this up. These women are the daughters and sisters of wealthy men who could benefit your endeavors greatly.”
“They are cotton-headed misses and I refuse to pander to them.” One of them boldly winked at him. “Good God, what happened to female modesty while I was in the wilds of Egypt?”
“More to the point, what happened to gentlemanly manners?”
“I left those worthless skills on the shores of the Nile,” he retorted. “Good riddance, too.”
“Your time away has turned you into a barbarian.”
“I won’t dignify that with an answer.” Just as they were within a few feet of their destination, a young woman stepped into his path, almost thrust into place by the girls who circled behind her.
Tall, with a large nose and auburn curls decorated with pearl pins and cascading over one shoulder, she appeared all of seventeen. “Mr. Hurst! How nice to see you again.” She dipped a grand curtsy, her smirk letting him know that she expected a greeting of welcome.
Michael lifted a brow, but said nothing.
Her cheeks bloomed red, her lips pressed in irritation, though she hid it almost immediately behind a forced smile. “I’m Miss Lydia Latham. We met at Lady MacLean’s soiree.”
Michael stared as Miss Latham held out her hand expectantly.
Mary jabbed her elbow into his side.
With a grimace, Michael took the girl’s hand, holding it the minimal time required by politeness.
Miss Latham beamed. “I knew you’d remember me! We spoke at length about the Rosetta stone.”
“Did we?” he asked in a bored tone.
“Oh, yes! I’ve read every word you’ve ever written.”
“I doubt that, unless, of course, you’ve managed to sneak into my bedchamber and procure my diaries. I’m fairly sure no one but me has read those.”
Miss Latham’s face turned several shades pinker and she tittered nervously. “Oh, no! I would never sneak into a man’s bedchamber.”
“More’s the pit—”
“What my brother means to say,” Mary said hurriedly, “is that The Morning Post serial is but a small portion of his writings. He’s the author of many scientific treatises on artifacts and ruins that he’s unearthed, and—”
“And my diaries,” he interjected smoothly.
One of the other girls clasped her hands together and said in a soulful tone, “I’ve never known a man to keep a diary.”
“And just how many men do you know?” Michael asked, irritated to be placed upon a pedestal for the most mundane of things.
Mary glared at him as if she were fighting the urge to smack his head, as she had when they were children. “No one will invite you anywhere if you continue like this,” she hissed.
“Nonsense. They are too silly to know any better.”
As if to prove his point, a girl with brown hair and a protruding chin said brazenly, as if every word were a challenge that he wouldn’t be able to resist, “Mr. Hurst, I daresay our petty little parties bore you to death.”
“Yes, they do.”
Not realizing he found the ball boring because of inane comments like hers, she sent her companions a triumphant glance over her shoulder. “Of course! This must seem so dull after your adventures on the Nile. Especially after wrestling crocodiles, and—”
“I beg your pardon,” Michael interrupted. “Did you say ‘wrestling’ and ‘crocodiles’?”
The girl blinked. “W-why, yes. You wrote that you were forced to do so last January, during mating season when they’re at their most fierce.”
Michael crossed his arms and glared at his sister. “Mary?”
She blushed, a bit of desperation in her tone as she said, “I daresay you’ll remember it quite clearly once you’ve had some refreshment.” Mary curtsied to the small group. “I hope you’ll excuse us, but my poor brother needs some nourishment. If you don’t mind, we’ll make our way to the refreshment table.” Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed his arm and burrowed through the crowd.
At the table she quickly took two glasses and a small plate with a tiny piece of stale cake on it. With an air of determination, she found an alcove safely hidden from prying eyes.
Mary let out a huge sigh as she sat upon the small settee provided for those fatigued from dancing.
“A crocodile?” Michael asked. “You’ve been wielding your pen far too artfully in my serial for The Morning Post.”
“You asked me to write the serial for you,” she pointed out.
“Yes, because I didn’t have the time to do it. Not because I wished someone to fabricate ridiculous stories. When I first arrived in town, I thought people were beginning to warm to true scientific discovery. Now I see that they were merely amazed at the preposterous tales you’ve told about my expeditions.”
“People are interested in your research. Just last week, Lord Harken-Styles said he wishes to invest even more in your adventures.”
“Lord Harken-Styles waylaid me in White’s last night and asked if he could see the arrowhead from the savage who shot me through the neck.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. His lordship seemed to be under the delusion that not only had I been shot through the neck with an arrow, but that I was such a sapskull as to wear the arrowhead around my neck as a good luck talisman.”
Her lips twitched. “I thought that was a very romantic touch.”
“And thoroughly untruthful,” he replied sternly. “Are there any other surprise adventures that I should know about? A duel over a foreign princess in the desert? A missing limb? An extra toe?”
She giggled. “It is all your fault, you know. You are such a horrid correspondent that I was forced to make up things.”
A commotion suddenly roiled across the ballroom.
“What is it?” Mary asked, who could see very little since she was sitting.
“I don’t know. Everyone has turned toward the door and—Ah! Jane has arrived.”
Jane Smythe-Haughton had been his assistant for almost four years now, and he almost couldn’t remember his life before she’d swept in and begun arranging his expeditions. Things were infinitely better with her around. His meals were more to his liking, his clothes where they should be, his pen nibs sharpened just so, and his scientific equipment always at the ready. She was extraordinarily efficient and, except for a very few times, he rarely had to think about her at all—exactly as he liked it.
Mary lifted her brows archly. “So you call her Jane, do you?”
“Of course I call her Jane,” he said impatiently, disliking the interested note in his sister’s voice. “My tongue would be weary if I had to say Miss Smythe-Haughton every time I needed a fresh pair of socks or couldn’t find one of my notebooks.”
He could see Jane standing on her tiptoes by the door now, looking about the room for him.
He lifted his arm and let out a shrill whistle.
Everyone looked startled except Jane, who began to make her way through the sea of people, her large hat making her look like a wide, yellow lily pad swimming across a pond of reeds.
Michael frowned as he saw that his sister was holding her hand over her eyes. “What’s wrong? Do you have a headache?”
Mary dropped her hand. “Michael, you cannot whistle for the poor girl as if she were a dog!”
“I didn’t. When I whistle for a dog, I do it like this—” He whistled two short whistles. “When I whistle for Jane, I do it like—”
“Don’t! Once was enough.” Mary shook her head. “I quite misjudged your relationship with Miss Smythe-Haughton. We all have.”
“You thought I was romantically involved with Jane?”
“You write about her in almost every letter you send,” Mary answered in a defensive tone.
“Probably to complain. She can be a bit demanding. When you meet her, you’ll understand.”
“Oh. Is she plain?”
“She’s—” He hesitated. Jane was plain—rather wren-like, all small and brown and qui
ck. But she always seemed bigger than her size, more visible than other women. “Jane is . . . just Jane.”
Mary put aside her glass and stood, peering at the crowds. “Ah, there she must be, for the crowd is parting and—Good God!”
Why did she sound so alarmed? “What?”
“She’s wearing a hat,” Mary said in a choked voice.
“Yes.”
“For a ball?”
Michael glanced at the hat, a wide yellow confection. It was large, though surely not any larger than those he’d seen paraded about Hyde Park this afternoon. It also seemed to have quite a few feathers. Very big feathers. So large that when Jane turned her head, the feathers slapped some silly bumpkin in a ridiculous orange waistcoat. “I like that hat.”
Mary muttered under her breath.
Michael looked about the room at the other women and noted that no one else was wearing a hat. He shrugged. “Jane should have left her hat with a footman in the vestibule.”
“I should have known that Miss Smythe-Haughton was so unconventional, seeing as she’s been shepherding you through the wilds of Africa for the last four years.”
“And doing it very well. She organizes our travel arrangements and makes certain the men and I are fed, and writes up our schedules and catalogues the finds, and all of that sort of thing.”
“Someone needs to take her to a good modiste. That gown and that hat—” Mary shuddered.
Michael could not have cared less. Jane was Jane, and he was perfectly comfortable with that staying as it was.
Jane paused by the silly bumpkin and was speaking to him, probably apologizing.
The man no longer appeared upset. In fact, he was regarding Jane with sudden interest.
Michael frowned. Women never paid Jane heed, but men frequently did, though she never seemed to notice. When he and Jane had been abroad, he’d decided it was because she was often the only white woman present.
Here there was no such excuse, yet—he looked about the room and scowled as he noted several sets of male eyes firmly locked upon her, many with pronounced interest.
What the hell?
For the first time since he’d hired her, Michael looked at Jane critically, trying to see her with fresh eyes. She wasn’t a beauty, though she wasn’t ugly, either. She was a small woman, with a slender figure. She had brown hair, brown eyes and, because of her years spent in hotter climes, brown skin. Her face could only be described as piquant with its high cheekbones, straight nose, and stubborn little chin. In fact, everything about her was small—except her thickly lashed brown eyes and her wide, mobile mouth.