removed it from her finger after
Gregory's death at the Battle of Talavera—oh, a long time ago when she was young and full of dreams of endless love and happily-ever-after.
She hoped the brooch was not too elaborate for the occasion, though the thought amused her. Even if she had rings and bracelets and earrings to match, she
would still look the prim, middle-aged spinster schoolteacher she was. The invitation to dine was merely the courtesy of a gentleman who wished to repay
her for entertaining his daughter this afternoon. Or perhaps he felt that dining with her really was preferable to dining alone or eating early with his
children. Whatever the reason, she was thankful to him. The inn was indeed full and the dining room would be crowded. She would be self-conscious sitting
alone at a table there. She had never before stayed on her own at an inn.
She sent Alma off to her own dinner in the kitchen and went downstairs, smiling inwardly at the flutter of nervousness she was feeling, as though she were
on her way to keep a romantic tryst. Thank heaven no one could read her thoughts. The innkeeper was hovering at the bottom of the stairs, and it was
obvious he had been waiting for her. He bowed, led the way to the private parlor, tapped on the door, and opened it.
"Miss Thompson, your lordship," he announced.
Your lordship?
The gentleman was not simply Mr. Benning, then? He was not alone, either. The children were with him, Georgette all flushed and eager as she jumped to her
feet, the little boy clearly alarmed as he scrambled up from his chair to press against her side and clutch one of her puffed sleeves, one eye hidden
behind it. He did indeed look younger than his five years. He was a thin-faced, mop-haired, big-eyed child—the hair very blond, the eyes dark
brown—and purely adorable. The remains of a meal were spread on the table.
"Oh," Eleanor said, "am I early?"
"You are not," the gentleman assured her, getting to his feet and making her an elegant bow. "We are late. Bedtime is never actually bedtime in our house
or wherever we happen to be. It is always half an hour or so later. My children are experts at delaying the inevitable. True, Georgette?"
"But it was not me this time, Papa," she protested. "Robbie wanted to have a look at Miss Thompson. He had only the merest peep when we arrived here."
The little boy's second eye disappeared behind her sleeve as though to give the lie to her words, but it reappeared almost instantly and gazed unblinkingly
upon Eleanor.
"My son and heir, Robert Benning," his father said. "Miss Thompson, Robert. Now would be a good time to make your bow."
The eye disappeared again and his father sighed.
"He is shy," Georgette explained. "There is nothing wrong with shyness, is there, Miss Thompson? If there were no quiet people in the world, there would be
no one to listen to those who have not a shy bone in their bodies. Like me. It takes all sorts to make a world, do you not think?"
"I do indeed," Eleanor said. "I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Robert, and I shall assume that in your mind you have bowed to me. Are we not
fortunate that the storm is over and seems to have no intention of returning? We must hope for sunshine tomorrow morning to dry the roads."
The child peeped again.
"Nurse will be very cross with me if I do not send you up immediately or sooner," Mr. Benning said, addressing his children. "Say good night to Miss
Thompson."
Georgette said it at some length, and the little boy spoke for the first time.
"Will you come up to kiss us, Papa?" he whispered.
"Wild horses would not stop me," his father said. "But it will be after I have dined with Miss Thompson, and by then you will both be fast asleep. In the
meanwhile, I will kiss you now."
The little boy scurried over to him, clutched the outsides of his breeches, and raised his face, his lips puckered. Mr. Benning bent to cup his face and
kiss him and then tousle his hair, which