Page 55 of Barbarous

You would do better to draft your confession than to consider the morality of the situation, her rigid, relentless conscience nagged.

I will tell him when I tell him. Why should I make haste to ruin my sons’ lives when he seems to care only for gallivanting around the country with his lover?

Two wrongs do not make a right.

Daphne snorted. How profound.

But her conscience refused to be drawn into a petty argument, so Daphne stared down at the sheaf of foolscap before her without seeing it. She still had no idea what she would say to him about the woman. The best thing she could do—for her pride—was pretend she didn’t care. Which she shouldn’t. After all, what business was it of hers where he went or whom he went with?

Even the social stigma associated with lusting after her nephew had lost its ability to shock her. Daphne knew she should be ashamed, but instead she found it intriguing that her morality could be so flexible on such a social taboo.

She brushed the quill’s feathered edge against her jaw as she considered the fascinating topic of morality and society, her mind racing with possibilities for her next paper.

A knock on the library door interrupted her musings and Daphne looked up to find Ponsby standing in the doorway.

“Lady Letitia and Lady Anne are here, my lady.”

Daphne glanced at the clock and saw it was not quite eleven. Only one thing could have brought her sister-in-law to Davenport House so unfashionably early.

“Did Lord Ramsay arrive last night?”

“Yes, my lady—quite late.”

Daphne’s mouth curved into a grim smile. Hugh’s eldest aunt was a society matron who greatly resembled the late earl with her bone-thin height and piercing gray eyes. Unlike Thomas, however, she seemed to lack a softer side.

“I’m sure Lord Ramsay is eager to greet his aunt and cousin. Would you please let him know they have arrived and are waiting?”

Daphne didn’t care how late he’d arrived or how tired he was. He could entertain his family—a family he should have approached weeks ago rather than hiding at Lessing Hall. Or cavorting with his mistress.

Lady Anne rose when Daphne entered the Blue Drawing Room.

“It has been too long, Daphne.” The pretty brunette held out both hands, her green eyes sparkling. Anne was only a few years younger than Daphne and, although they’d only met twice before, she had enjoyed the brief time they’d spent conversing.

Daphne smiled. “It is very good of you both to call. I am glad to see you again.”

Lady Letitia—who’d remained seated in a cobalt-blue velvet wingback chair—harrumphed and pounded her silver-handled cane on the wood floor.

“Yes, yes, this is all well and good, but where is my nephew?”

Daphne kissed the old lady on her heavily powdered cheek. “He should be down shortly, ma’am.”

“Don’t tell me he is a worthless slugabed?”

Before Daphne could answer, the door opened and Hugh entered.

He grinned, looking from face to face, his gaze lingering on Daphne. “What a lovely sight for my poor old eye first thing in the morning!” In spite of a very late night, he looked fresh and unfairly elegant in a dark green coat and fashionable buff pantaloons. His hair was still damp so he must have made haste with his toilet to greet his guests.

Daphne ignored him and rearranged the skirts of her lavender gown.

Anne’s jaw sagged. “Hugh?” Her voice was breathy with wonder.

Hugh caught her up in a crushing embrace. “You must be Cousin Melinda’s girl—little Anne. You were hardly more than a baby when I last saw you.”

“I remember you,” the girl said, blushing furiously. Daphne was pleased to see he had the same effect on his blood relations as on her. “How wonderful that you are alive, Hugh.”

He laughed. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Lady Letitia’s cane thumped the floor. “Leave the poor gel alone, you rascal!”