She stared at him, her brown eyes sharp and measuring. “You don’t behave as though it’s wonderful.”

“They want me to come home.”

She studied him for a moment. “Of course they do. You should go. They’re your family.”

His fingers played with the spoon beside his plate. “It’s not easy. Being around them.” During his last visit he had felt like an outsider looking in, doubtlessly making them as uncomfortable as he was.

She nodded as though she understood. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Her gaze resumed its study of her cup of chocolate, a finger lightly tracing the rim. “This is your nephew. Your first, I presume?” At his single nod, she continued, “You should go.”

His jaw locked. Resentment stirred inside him. Mostly because she was right. He should go. But that did not change the fact that he did not wish to return home and suffer the happy company of his brother and Paget. Would there be that air of guilt swirling around them simply because he was there? The birth of their son was likely the happiest moment of their lives. He did not want to cast his shadow over it.

He rose, dropping his napkin on the table. “I have no place there anymore.” His voice rang with clear finality—almost as though he expected an argument from her.

She tilted her head back to look up at him as he hovered over the table. “Then stay here.” She uttered the words so simply. As though she harbored no judgment.

He nodded briskly. “Indeed. I’ll meet you in the foyer in an hour. Do you ride?”

She nodded, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Passably.”

“Then we shall improve on that. No individual can be truly independent with mere passable skills in the saddle.”

Her eyebrows arched over those expressive eyes of hers. “I should become a more than passable rider, then.” A smile brushed her mouth.

His gaze skimmed her ill-fitting blue morning gown. “See Mrs. Kirkpatrick about a riding habit.”

“I will. Thank you.”

With a slight bow, he departed the dining room, his strides stiff. He could feel her gaze on his back. Even though there had been no hint of judgment in her gaze at his refusal to return to Winninghamshire, he felt her disappointment just the same. For some reason, it mattered to him. It rankled. For some insane reason, her good opinion signified.

He wasn’t even to the doors of his study yet when a sharp expletive burst from his lips. He stopped and stared unseeingly ahead of him. The truth stared back.

There would be no ride this morning. How could he ride at his leisure knowing he had a nephew? A new life with whom he was inexorably connected. Jamie and Paget had a son. And despite the distance he felt yawning between them, both literally and metaphorically, they wanted him there.

And she thought he should be there, too.

Like it or not, that mattered to him.

Turning on his heel, he marched back toward the dining room, his movements stiff and mechanical. He arrived at the narrow double doors just as Anna emerged. He pulled up short of colliding into her.

“Oh.” Her hand fluttered to her throat. “Did you forget something, my lord?”

“I changed my mind.”

Her brow knitted. “You changed your mind?”

“We won’t be going for a ride this morning.”

Her expression fell. “Oh. I see.”

No. She didn’t.

She lowered her gaze, avoiding looking at him. She was disappointed. He needn’t see her eyes to know this. He felt her disappointment radiating off her in waves. It dawned on him that he hated to disappoint her again even if he was following her advice. And although the reason would be understandable, he had no wish to do so again. How could he even be assured she would be here when he returned? A jolt of discomfort coursed through him at that possibility. Had she not already suggested it was time for her to take her leave?

Before he could consider his next words, he heard himself saying, “Pack your things.”

Her head shot up, her brown eyes suddenly bright. “Are we going somewhere?”

“Home. To Winninghamshire.”

She blinked, her expression mirroring the shock he felt at his announcement. “You wish to take me home with you?”

He winced. When she uttered it like that, he regretted ever saying such a thing. It made them seem close . . . intimate. Something they were not. Something they could never be.

He nodded brusquely, quelling his doubts. “I can work with you there just as well as here. Perhaps better.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I can instruct you in firearms. Such knowledge is useful. And that instruction is better suited for the country.”

She looked elated. Like a child awarded a toy. “I shall pack. It won’t take long.”

He surveyed her ill-fitting gown. Indeed. Her wardrobe was limited—a matter he still needed to correct, but there was no time for that now. According to the letter, if they hurried they might make it to his nephew’s christening.

She sped past him, her gait somewhat lopsided in her haste.

“Easy,” he called after her. “Injuring yourself all over again will only slow us down.”

She shot him a glance over her shoulder, but slowed her steps.

He watched her take the stairs. As she disappeared from sight, he noticed that a smile shaped his mouth.

He had not even realized he’d been smiling.

They did not arrive in time for the christening. He had mentioned to Annalise that he hoped to make it in time for the event, but when they arrived at the manor, the stodgy old butler informed them that Lord and Lady Winningham were in the village for their son’s christening and should be home shortly.

There was the slightest flicker of regret in Owen’s eyes before he masked it. “Very well, Jarvis. Will you see that our belongings are settled into rooms for the night?”

The butler inclined his head. “Very good, my lord.”

Annalise rotated in a small circle in the grand foyer. It was a most impressive house. Not quite as awe-inspiring as Bloodsworth’s ducal seat, but this manor house was warm and comfortable. It felt like a home. Not just some grand mausoleum. Children could be reared in this house. Children had. Children like Owen.

She surveyed him beneath her lashes, wondering about that boy. What manner of child had he been? Was he always the aloof, silent sort? Or had he run shouting beneath the vast domed ceiling? She grinned, imagining a harried tutor in pursuit of him.

“Would you and your companion care for refreshments in the drawing room until Lord and Lady Winningham arrive?”

Annalise could detect nothing in his voice as he uttered the word “companion.” The rail-thin butler was the very image of decorum, his aged, wrinkled face revealing nothing, but the word jarred her nonetheless as they were led to the drawing room. She felt its weight, the implication.

For the first time, she contemplated her presence here. How would Owen explain her?

She did not have long to contemplate. Voices erupted from beyond the doors. Happy and overlapping, it sounded as though a festive party had returned from the christening.

Owen rose from the chair he had only just occupied as the raucous chatter drew closer. Footsteps sounded outside the drawing room. Annalise folded and refolded her hands in her lap, unsure what to do with them—or herself, for that matter. Should she rise or remain sitting?

The door pushed open before she could decide. A handsome man cleared the threshold, pausing only for a fraction of a moment when he spotted Owen. His gaze swept over him as he continued forward in halting steps.

“You came,” he exclaimed, reaching Owen and pulling him into a hug. Clearly he was the brother, although the similarity was minimal. Lord Winningham possessed hair darker than her own. His olive complexion hinted at Mediterranean ancestry, a direct contrast to Owen, who looked like he descended from Vikings. Both possessed like height and build, however.

The brothers’ embrace seemed awkward—like they were unknown to each other and not kinsmen at all.

“I departed as soon as I received your letter,” Owen said, stepping free. “My apologizes for missing the christening.”

Lord Winningham scanned him from head to foot as if he could still not reconcile the sight of him in his drawing room. “Of course, I am simply happy you came to meet your nephew. Paget will be overcome. Best brace yourself.”

More people arrived then. Two men: one older and one young; and two young women chattering happily.

Annalise’s gaze fell unerringly on the woman with pale blond hair. She was small and lovely. With her fair hair and dark brown eyes, she possessed a haunting beauty. Her eyebrows and lashes were the same shade of brown as her eyes, and it was a striking contrast to her hair. She looked almost otherworldly.

Annalise knew at once that this was Paget. She would have known this even if she did not hold the small, swaddled infant in her arms. Lord Winningham arrived at her side in several long strides, taking the baby from her arms so that she might greet Owen.

There was no hesitation in her. None of the awkwardness that belonged to her husband as she tugged Owen down to her so that she could wrap her arms around his neck. She squeezed her eyes shut in a long blink as she embraced him, either indifferent to or unaware of his reticence.

“You came.” She breathed the words over his shoulder as though she were expelling a long-held breath. And Annalise knew. She understood. She was more than the girl who had married his half brother. They shared a past. A history. Perhaps Owen had loved her. Perhaps he still did.

A knot formed in her stomach at the notion, and she had the wild urge to rise and flee from the room. Jaw clenched, she forced herself to sit still, remembering she had suffered far worse than this discomfort in her life.

Unfortunately, at this moment, this reality was the only thing that signified—and nothing quite stung as the sight of Owen in close proximity to a woman he very well might still love. No matter that the lady was married to another and a new mother. If Owen loved her, he loved her. The heart possessed a will of its own.

Owen patted the countess’s back. “Of course. How could I miss meeting the future Earl of Winningham?”

She pulled back and beamed up at him. “He is beautiful, is he not? Hopefully, he’ll have many years tromping around the countryside first. As we once did.” She smoothed a hand over his chest with a familiarity that gave Annalise a pang in her stomach. Which was absurd. The lady was his brother’s wife. And even if she were not, she had no reason to feel possessive of Owen. His affections were not hers to keep. They were not hers at all.

“Do you not recall?” the countess continued. “We would leave home at dawn some days and not return until sundown.”

“Yes. Unless your father managed to find you first and haul you home.”

Chuckles followed this remark. “Oh. I never worried when she was with you,” the older gentleman murmured.

“Of course you didn’t, Papa. I was with Owen.”

Owen’s smile grew pained. There was a stillness, a quietness to him that reminded Annalise of when they first met. She realized she had grown accustomed to a certain degree of ease from him. But here, among his own family, he behaved almost as a stranger in their midst.

Paget reclaimed her baby, her voice softening into a croon. “I can only hope little Brand here is just as responsible and trustworthy. The girls in the village shall be lucky indeed to have such a champion in their midst.”

“You named him Brand?” Owen asked in a quieter voice, stepping forward to peer down at the tiny bundle of new life.

“There was no finer namesake,” Jamie spoke up.

“Your brother is watching down now with pride,” the countess’s father inserted.

Owen nodded, looking rather humbled as he stared down at his nephew.

“Here. Take him.” Lady Winningham thrust him into Owen’s arms even as he shook his head in protest, his expression suddenly alarmed.