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she expected, with more cards or news of a visitor. He fixed her with his disconcerting stare then cleared his throat. “It’s her ladyship, miss. She’s given three different orders about the black crepe and all.”
    Phyllida nodded. “Do as you think best. I’m sure I can leave it in your hands, Fenton. She’ll never remember exactly what she said.”
    He permitted himself a prim smile. “You may rely on me completely, miss. Thank you, miss.” He bowed himself out the door.
    He was back only minutes later. Phyllida clenched her teeth and turned to hear the latest domestic crisis.
    “Captain Lord Ingram, miss.”
    Fenton stood aside as the tall, broad-shouldered gentleman strode into the room. The neat military precision of his dress enhanced the suggestion of command in his every movement. Phyllida stared at the striking figure, caught up in the aura of determination that emanated from him.
    A frown clouded the depths of his penetrating green eyes as they rested on her. She rose, almost as if he commanded her from her chair, and took a step forward. She held out her hand to him but he barely touched her fingers before releasing them. The unsettling realization of his disapproval startled her, puzzling in its unexpectedness.
    “I have come to see how you go on this morning.” His deep voice held a vibrant ring.
    She tried to ignore the effect it had on her and instead concentrated on his manner. Nothing in his bearing indicated pleasure in his occupation. She should be offended—yet she found herself intrigued. She wanted to get to the bottom of his dislike, then see his manner toward her alter, becoming friendly, or something more… Lord, the man cast a powerful spell over her.
    She looked away. “I am glad you have come. It gives me the opportunity to thank you for your kindness of last night.”
    “There was little I could do under the circumstances. Nor was it exactly kindness.”
    “I found it so.” Could he not even accept her gratitude without bristling? What, in heaven’s name, caused this aversion—or was it distrust—of her?
    He strolled to the empty hearth then turned to face her. “You showed signs of awakening, which the others did not. I desired to learn what had occurred as quickly as possible.”
    Heaven forbid she should mistake his attentions for friendliness. Amusement vied with her irritation and she inclined her head. “I am sorry if I proved a waste of your time.”
    His dark brows snapped down and he glared at her for a long moment. Abruptly, he strode to the window. “I fear my manner finds no favor with you. You must forgive me. I have been a soldier most of my life. I have had little time to waste on social pleasantries or frivolity.”
    “This is hardly a frivolous occasion,” she pointed out. It was a tragic one—at least for her. To her dismay, tears stung her eyes and she turned away. She would not break down, not in the presence of this man who already disapproved of her. She bit her lip and furiously ordered into retreat the tears that stung her eyes. In a flagrant act of rebellion, they slipped down her cheeks.
    “Miss Dearne.” His voice held an altered note.
    She shook her head at his alarm. “Pay me no heed. I doubt you care for females who behave like watering pots.”
    “In the normal course of things, I do not,” he agreed with feeling. “But under these circumstances it is understandable.”
    A shaky laugh escaped her. “But not forgivable? I suppose my behavior of last night is what has given you a distaste of me.”
    “It is no such thing,” he denied, his manner tense.
    “Oh.” Her disappointment sounded in her voice. That had seemed such a likely reason for his aversion to her company.
    His frown deepened. “I could hardly have reason to dislike you, Miss Dearne.”
    “That is what I thought,” she agreed promptly.
    “If I have offended you—”
    “Indeed, I had thought it the other way around.”
    He stiffened. “I do not—” He stopped