But it did keep Harrison from growing sentimental over his wife, which he might have been at risk for with continued sweetness at her hand. His emotions remained exactly where he liked them to be: perfectly in check and not impacting any particular aspect of his life. He much preferred to use wisdom, knowledge, and instinct to guide him, along with a healthy dose of good manners and decent humor.

His wife had more than enough emotion for both of them.

And Emblyn…

Well, Emblyn was evidence that somewhere within Harrison, emotions did, in fact, live and breathe, and that it was possible for a Basset to feel more than selfishness.

Between Richard and his father, Harrison had begun to wonder.

He had spent his entire life forcing himself to be different from them, to separate himself from their habits and behaviors, to improve the family reputation. Perhaps in that, there was selfishness, but it could not be helped.

Emblyn had no selfishness, though she certainly bore enough stubbornness and pride.

That was almost certainly from her Basset line.

Shaking his head, Harrison pulled a sheet of paper from his desk and jotted a quick note to his sister, extending the invitation to dine and praying he would survive it.

Miss Moyle was stunning.

Adelaide had only known her for twenty minutes, and it was still the prevailing thought in her mind. Her eyes were captivating in their paleness, particularly with the luxurious depth of color in her dark tresses. It was the same shade as her brother’s, and while her complexion was not quite so tanned, it was a healthy, robust one, just as he had.

She had expected a plain, average, unassuming miss with freckles dressed in overworn cotton, bearing a passing resemblance to the description Basset had given her upon their first meeting. No manners, gaunt in appearance, roughly kept, and in possession of any number of poor habits and even poorer language. A beggar, perhaps, or a kitchen maid.

This was vastly different.

If one looked at Miss Moyle and had no idea of her birth, one would never suspect that her upbringing had been a poor one. She was clean in appearance, surprisingly composed, and perfectly formed in figure. Apart from her eyes, there was nothing shocking about Miss Moyle at all. She was the most ideal portrait of Basset’s sister imaginable.

Until she opened her mouth.

Such a picture of loveliness ought not to speak in so harsh an accent, nor with such a common nature. She seemed a very good sort, and certainly did not present as a scheming, manipulative woman, but the discrepancy between her appearance and her speech made Adelaide doubt everything else. And, to Adelaide’s surprise, Miss Moyle was indeed rather shy, just as her brother had said from the start.

But, if he was to be believed, she would grow rather bold and sharp upon better acquaintance, to the point of freely insulting her.