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house appeared unchanged.
    But there were small changes. Subtle differences. It seemed cleaner, the air fresher, and the rooms brimmed with light. He suspected these were Lady Brookshire's efforts. No doubt such an ice princess would demand order and cleanliness. Not like his mother, who had been content to while away her time in leisurely pursuits and neglect the running of the household.
    As a boy, he had enjoyed his life here, not suspecting that it could be snatched away. His memories were fond… until that long ago day. Another lifetime. Another boy. That pampered child had died a thousand deaths since he last stood in this house. His father had been a distant figure, but in no way had he viewed him as an enemy. Yet what else would one call a man who tossed away both wife and child? Nick did not know if his mother had been the adulterer his father accused. He would never know that particular truth. More than likely his father had grown tired of his foreign wife, embarrassed at the public life she had led as an opera singer, and wanted to break all ties once his desire for her had been slaked. His father was a gentleman, rich and titled. A divorce would hardly ruin him. But his mother? A female? A common performer? Not only was she incapable of showing her face in Society, but she had been unable to make her living on the stage as before. No, only one profession had been left to her.
    Nick left his room and walked slowly down the dimly lit corridor, the muffled fall of his feet on the carpet merging with the whispers of yesterday. He stopped before the nursery. The door stood ajar. The darkened room suddenly became alive with the past. He could still hear his nurse, Connie, pleading with his father, begging him to keep Nick. He could see his father's face so clearly, could feel that wintry blue gaze looking right through him as he pronounced those fateful words.
He goes too
.
    Edmund had been there, leaning nonchalantly on the doorjamb, unaffected, indifferent to the impending exile of his stepmother and half brother.
    Stepping back from the threshold of his old nursery, Nick detached himself from the memories, hating to consider what others might surface during his stay.
    "My lord?" a voice queried softly, conveniently shattering his troubling reveries.
    Nick turned to face Lady Brookshire, prim in a heavy cotton robe that doubtlessly hid an equally prim nightgown. Hugging a book to her chest like a makeshift shield, she bore no resemblance to the pale-faced, black-clad widow from earlier. Gone was the severity of hairstyle and dress. A long plait of auburn hair hung loosely over her shoulder. She looked young, like a virgin schoolgirl, yet he knew her to be a widow, past the first blush of youth,
    "Are you lost?" Her wide, intelligent brow furrowed in concern.
    Lost? No, unfortunately he knew exactly where he stood. Nodding toward the room, he stepped away from the door. "My old nursery."
    "Oh," she replied, her expression uncertain. She ceased hugging the book so tightly and lowered it in her hands.
    "I had a nurse. Connie. Does she by chance still work here?"
    "I have never heard of her. Perhaps you could ask in the village. She may still be in the area."
    "Perhaps," he replied, shaking off his strange mood. "I suppose it's time the room sees some use again."
    She gave a slight nod, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Your father would be pleased. He did not live very long after I came here, but he desperately wished to have this nursery full of children again."
    How ironic that his father had craved a nursery full of children when he banished his own son from its confines. "Yes, a shame he did not live to see this," Nick said dryly. "I am certain his view does not extend this far from hell."
    He waited for her shock, her denunciation, perhaps even a fainting spell—the hallmark of all women of breeding, especially from such a starchy little package like herself.
    Instead, she angled her head and studied him