Hugh frowned. “You are clever with your tongue. You pretend to forgive me but berate me instead. I do not like this talk of ‘such as you’ and ‘such as I’. The world is changing. Those you would call ‘such as you’—I mean, myself and other members of the aristocracy who are wealthy in both name and land—must work as hard as any labourer to maintain our way of life.”

He paused. “Will you not sit and talk a while?” he asked on impulse, settling into the armchair. Philomena perched on one of the stools, hands folded on her lap. Such an attitude reminded Hugh of a robin, hopping bravely near a gardener, poised to take flight at any moment. He sighed. “Now, I am become ungentlemanly for allowing you to sit on a stool while I, true to my custom of taking what I desire, sit in comfort. I will move.” He put out a foot, pulled over a stool and sat on it, a few inches from Philomena. “Now we are equal and comfortable,” he said, watching her relax. “Now you may say whatever you wish to me.”

Despite the nonsensical talk of ‘you’ and ‘I’ and the child’s insistence on their social differences, Hugh wanted to stay with her. She was neither a grand lady of the kind who moved in his familiar circles, nor a simple village girl looking for work in service in a great house. She differed, even, from the scores of well-to-do wives and daughters of merchants, doctors or lawyers. Her dignity intrigued him. He must understand her better.

Her beauty alone did not account for her charm. Who, watching those dimples play about her cheeks or seeing her white teeth peep between the rose of her lips as she smiled, could fail to feel a lift of the heart and a rush of sudden, naked desire?

Hugh felt that hunger for her now. His head swam. She spoke, but he hardly heard what she said. After a moment, she stopped talking and smiled at him, blinking a little as though shy. He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, softly. “I was distracted. What did you say?”

She hesitated. “I pray you, my lord, do not be angry if I ask you this, but I have been placed in charge of your son and so I must know. Do you dislike him?”

Hugh gaped. Startled, he rose and paced the floor, his highly polished boots jangling and clanking. “Dislike him?” he barked. “My own son? What can you mean?”

“Oh.” Philomena sighed. “I knew you would become angry again.”

Hugh clenched his fists. “I am not angry.” He struggled to keep control of himself, though he longing to throw a book at the woman’s head. “No, I am surprised…shocked, in fact. How dare you speak to me like that?” He glared.