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inn, as he had requested when the maid went to deliver food and drink to Amanda. her eyes sparkled a deep and fiery green-blue as she swept into the room, with a deep flush to her cheeks and her whole demeanour, in yet another of those dratted black gowns, one of bristly disapproval and resentment—the former no doubt still on Amanda’s behalf, the resentment possibly due to the peremptory instruction to join him for dinner.
    ‘Would you care for a glass of Madeira, Mrs Leighton…?’ Adam attempted civility. Bathed and dressed in clean clothes and a fresh pair of boots, he felt far more human; he tried not to think about the fact that his man Reynolds was probably upstairs even now, crying as he attempted to salvage the first pair!
    ‘No, thank you.’
    ‘Then perhaps you would prefer sherry or wine?’
    She looked at him coolly. ‘I do not care for strong liquor at all.’
    Adam frowned. ‘I do not believe any of the refreshments I offered can be referred to as “strong liquor”.’
    ‘Nevertheless…’
    ‘Then perhaps we should just sit down and eat?’ He could barely restrain his frustration with her frostiness as he moved forwards to politely pull back a chair for her.
    ‘I had expected to dine in my bedchamber with Amanda,’ she stated.
    ‘And I would prefer that you dine here with me,’ he countered, looking pointedly towards the chair.
    She frowned as she stepped forwards. ‘Thank you.’ She sat rigidly in the chair, her body stiff and unyielding, ensuring that her spine did not come into contact with the back of the chair.
    Adam gave a rueful grimace as he moved around the table and took his own seat opposite her, waiting until the innkeeper himself had served their food—a thick steaming stew accompanied by fresh crusty bread—beforespeaking again. ‘Should I expect to be subjected to this wall of ice throughout the whole of dinner, or would you perhaps prefer to castigate me now and get it over with?’ He quirked one dark brow enquiringly.
    ‘Castigate you, my lord?’ She kept her head bowed as she studiously arranged her napkin across her knees.
    Adam gave a weary sigh. ‘Mrs Leighton, I am a widower in my late twenties, with no previous experience of children, let alone six-year-old females. As such, I admit I know naught of how to deal with the day-to-day upsets of my young daughter.’
    Elena slowly looked up to consider him across the table, ignoring his obvious handsomeness for the moment—difficult as that might be when he looked so very smart in a deep-blue superfine over a beige waistcoat—and instead trying to see the man he described. There was no disputing the fact that he was a widower in his late twenties. But Lord Adam Hawthorne was also a man whom senior politicians were reputed to hold in great regard, a man who ran his estates and a London household without so much as blinking an eye; it was impossible to thinkthat such a man could find himself defeated by the needs of a six-year-old girl.
    Or was it…?
    He was a man who preferred to hold himself aloof from society. From all emotions. Why was it so impossible to believe he found it difficult to relate to his young daughter?
    Some of the stiffness left Elena’s spine. ‘I think you will find that six-year-old young ladies have the same need to be loved as the older ones, my lord.’
    He frowned. ‘“Older ones”, Mrs Leighton…?’
    She became slightly flustered under that icy gaze. ‘I believe most ladies are desirous of that, yes, my lord.’
    ‘I see.’ His frown deepened. ‘And are you questioning my ability to feel that emotion, Mrs Leighton?’
    ‘Of course not.’ Elena gasped softly.
    ‘Then perhaps It is only my affection for my daughter you question…?’
    Her cheeks felt warm. ‘It is only the manner in which you choose to show that affection which—well, which—’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Could you not have hugged Amanda earlierrather than—’ She broke off, suddenly not sure how far to continue