“I should think I would recognize my own husband.” Lady Briston’s gaze met her husband’s. “Good afternoon, Nigel.”

“Bernadette.” He nodded. “You look as lovely as I remember.”

“You look considerably older.” She studied him for a moment. “I don’t recall inviting you here. In fact, I distinctly remember telling you never to step foot in this house again.”

“And yet here I am.”

“Yes, indeed.” She released a long breath. “And it’s about bloody time too, isn’t it?”

He stared in obvious shock. “What?”

“Mother.” Beryl stepped toward the older woman. “Are you all right?”

“Quite. Indeed, I have never been better.” She directed her words to her daughter, but her gaze stayed on her husband. “Camille has been looking for you both. The children have been collected by their parents and have gone. Oh, and boy number two?” She glanced at Gray.

Gray nodded. “Simon.”

“He left you a message. A Christmas gift, he said. What was it?” Her brow furrowed. “Ah yes. He said you could have his wish.”

Gray smiled. “Thank you.”

“Might I suggest you use it wisely.”

Gray nodded. “I intend to.”

Her gaze narrowed and shifted back to her husband. The man may not think he had courage, but he stared back without flinching and even seemed to stand a bit straighter. “Now, then, children, do run along. And I quite agree that neither Camille nor Delilah should know anything about this newest development, except that Basil has returned. There is no need to create further chaos. We shall sort it all out after Christmas.”

“Of course, Mother,” Beryl said, but made no effort to move.

Gray grabbed her arm and fairly pushed her out of the library; then turned to close the doors behind him. His gaze met Lady Briston’s.

“Thank you, Grayson.” She nodded. “You may well do, after all.”

He smiled and pulled the doors closed. Beryl rested her back against the wall, with her eyes closed, looking as though she were about to melt into a puddle on the floor.

“Are you all right?”

“Do try not to be so blasted nice, Grayson.” She opened her eyes and glared at him. “It makes it exceedingly difficult to dislike you. And I much prefer to dislike you.”

“Why?”

“Because, if I don’t dislike you, I might possibly feel compelled to forgive you and even encourage my sister to forgive you as well.” She sighed. “Although I think I have lost that battle.”

“She’s forgiven me?” Hope sounded in his voice.

“It’s not for me to say, and I really don’t know.” She sniffed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with the women in this family. You’re gone for eleven years, and he’s gone for twenty, and now that you’re both back . . .”

“Perhaps . . .” He chose his words with care. “It all comes down to love.”

“Dear Lord, I hope not.”

He laughed. “Why not?”