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thoughtfully, his eyes troubled. “I must admit, I had not considered that you might find me intimidating,” he said with a frown. “I do not mean to brag, but I have a rather easy rapport with most of the people I encounter. And though, yes, I am an earl, I hardly think myself to be so fearsome that I would cause a spirited lady like yourself to cower before me.” The twinkle in his eyes let her know that this last was meant to be a jest.
    “I would hardly call it cowering,” said Georgie with a roll of her eyes. “It’s more that I do not know how to be comfortable in your company.”
    He was clearly nonplussed by the whole situation, Georgie could see that by the shadow that lurked behind his affable smile. Still, he did not give up or decide to wash his hands of her. “I hope that over this week, Mrs. Mowbray, you will give me the chance to prove to you that I am not the brute you think me.”
    Before she could protest his characterization of himself as a brute, Coniston continued, “In fact, I insist upon it.”
    “Oh, but surely there’s no need,” she began, feeling a bit sheepish at his declaration. Even if she didn’t find him the most comfortable companion, he was under no obligation to ease her mind.
    “I believe there is every need,” he said firmly. “And I warn you I won’t take no for an answer.”
    Georgie sighed. She supposed she had no choice. And at least this might allow her to gain enough familiarity with him that Lady Russell would not be made uncomfortable by her own unease.
    “All right,” she said with a rueful smile. “But you must agree that if by the end of the week I still feel this way, then you will leave me in peace with my shyness.”
    He held out his gloved hand. “Agreed.”
    This might not be a particularly comfortable week, Georgie thought as she shook his proffered hand, but it would certainly be interesting.

 
    Two
    Dinner that evening was a spirited affair, with Lady Russell’s nieces and nephews recounting stories from their childhoods and their time on the Coniston estates in Essex. Though he’d not particularly looked forward to a week in the company of his relatives—who could be a trial if one were in the wrong sort of mood—Con enjoyed himself far more than he would have expected.
    He was displeased to notice, however, that Mrs. Mowbray was ignored by virtually everyone. Her dinner companions were his uncle Bertie, who was deaf as a post, and his cousin Lydia, who was, as far as he could tell, as shallow a young lady as he’d ever met. Since Mrs. Mowbray could contribute nothing to her popularity in the ton, Lydia saw no reason to pay her any mind. There were far more important people to converse with, such as their cousin Roderick who drove a high-perch phaeton and had once dined with Byron.
    His aunt’s invitation for the week’s festivities had come as something of a shock to Con on two fronts. First, that his aunt was celebrating her seventieth birthday. It was impossible to imagine that the vital woman who had cared for him when his own parents had been too self-involved to do so was at an age when it became reasonable to speak about bequests and inheritances. That in itself had been enough to ingest, but along with her announcement of the birthday celebration, his aunt had included a request that he attempt to learn just what it was that bothered her companion so much. Of course, Con hadn’t known at the time that her companion was Mrs. Mowbray. But her identity did not change the fact that he would do whatever his aunt asked of him, which in this case included assisting the woman who wished he would go to the devil.
    When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room after the obligatory port and cigars, Con noted that Mrs. Mowbray had retired to a seat in the corner with some sewing while the rest of the ladies chatted animatedly on the other side of the room.
    “Con!” Lydia greeted him as he entered the room with the rest of the