by Mary Balogh
He possessed himself of her hand—white, long-fingered, perfectly manicured—and bowed gracefully over it as he raised it to his lips. “You may safely leave the matter in my hands,” he said—or in the hands of his secretary, anyway.
“Thank you,” she said. “But you will inform me when it is accomplished?”
“I will,” he promised before sauntering from the room and taking his hat and cane from the butler’s hands.
The revelation that the countess had a conscience had surprised him. How many ladies in similar circumstances would voluntarily seek out their husbands’ bastards in order to shower riches upon them, even if they did convince themselves that they did so in the interests of their own, very legitimate children?
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