“I suppose you wish me to ask what that one particular is.”
“Even if you do not, I shall tell you.”
“Men usually will have their way.”
“I see no reason to be coy with you, Miss King. We are both of an age where time is running faster. I assume your employer was as plain with you as my uncle was with me. I am in the market for a wife, and they are of the opinion you might do.”
His open-faced honesty felt a bit like getting hit by a speeding mail coach.
“I’ve startled you again.” He ducked just a bit to leave the shaded circle of the tree branches. “Now that you know my objective, we can slow down a bit. We do not have to talk about what might come at the end of this house party. Let us get to know one another better.” His tall, lanky form cast a shadow over her as he rested one hand on the back of her chair. “I believe we might suit perfectly.” He was moving so slowly, so gracefully, she didn’t realize he was moving at first, but then he was close enough to feel his breath on her cheek, and she knew his lips would soon meet hers. Panic, fierce and wild, shot through her.
Behind them, a chatter of voices billowed on the morning wind, accompanying the crunch of shoes on gravel. They were not alone. Or soon would not be.
She flinched away from him and whipped open her notebook, picked up the pencil and ducked her head so close to the paper she could smell it.
“Oh look!” Lady Chattaway’s voice. “They’ve found one another!”
Mr. Tilbury straightened, and in the growing space between them, she could finally breathe. What had he been thinking? They’d just met! Surely he’d not been about to kiss her!
“Good morning, Lady Chattaway, Lord Brawly,” he said as the footsteps stopped beside them.
Tessa pretended deep involvement in the point of a thorn.
“Glad to have found you so easily,” Brawly bellowed. “I had hoped to introduce you to a fellow man of God. Eddie, this is Mr. King, Mr. King, this is my nephew, Edmund Tilbury.”
Tessa looked up, dread making her tongue thick; her throat, too. Yes, there between Chattaway and Brawly—her father. Graying and slender with lines at the corner of his eyes and the mouth that was always so stern for her curved into a friendly smile for Mr. Tilbury.
“Good morning,” her father said. “I see you’ve met my daughter.”
“And what a delightful meeting it’s been.” Tilbury talked over her head.
But so did her father. “If you do not mind, I should like to steal her away for a moment.”
“I would not dare dream of keeping you from your most priceless possession.”
Tessa felt a little sick. She was of so little worth to her father he’d tossed her away with ease. But when her father touched her shoulder, she rose dutifully.
“Walk with me?” he asked.
She nodded and followed him onto a stray path nearby that led them deeper into a tangled summer frenzy of branches and blooms.
“Is Mother not with you?” she asked.
“No.”
“Ah. Well, erm, how is Verity?”
“She is well.”
“May I… Could I visit her?” Her nails dug into her palms, deeper, deeper.
“I do not think that wise.” Her father clasped his wrist behind his back and set a ponderous pace. “I’ve come to speak with you about Tilbury. Brawly wrote me weeks ago to consider a marriage proposal between you and his nephew. I think it a wise decision. I’ve not spoken yet with your mother, but I am confident she will approve.”
Her mother… Six years of silence. After the yelling. It was like every one of her mother’s frustrations with Tessa had exploded out of her at one time. The walls of the rectory had vibrated with her rage, and when she’d finally slipped into silence, she’d remained there. Not a single word had passed between them. Those words had built up inside Tessa like a flooded river held back by the flimsiest dam.
“How do you like Mr. Tilbury?” her father asked.
They’d reached the end of the path, and the tall hedge that separated the garden from the smooth, sloping lawn beyond.
