“Of course, Miss Trewent, my apologies.” And he watched her walk away, her red cloak billowing behind her.
He let out a breath that he didn’t even know he was holding. Damn, it was just like before. Something about her…
God, he hated the feeling; nothing good could come of it: he was a disfigured wreck, a mess of a man, barely holding himself together some days – he had to travel with a fourteen-year-old boy, for Christ’s sake, just to keep his sanity.
And she…she was dainty, like the furniture in this place. If he lay with her, he’d crush her. Cursing that thought, he banished it instantly. It was her fault for mentioning beds.
Lust, like opium, was a thing he would live without.
“I do believe that modern sensibilities should never be an excuse to overstep the rules of etiquette or good taste, do you not agree, my lord?”
Lucas didn’t know if the pointed comments to Stonebridge were in fact aimed at Miss Trewent. If they were, they were ignored, as she didn’t even politely agree, just stared those forest-green eyes right through the woman whilst sipping soup.
“I’m sure you are right, Mrs Mereworth,” Stonebridge replied. “Although I’m also sure that calling me Benedict after five years living beneath this roof would not be inappropriate.”
The woman looked shocked and flapped a sky-blue shawl nervously.
Glancing down at his mud-brown coat, Lucas felt positively dowdy tonight: Stonebridge was wearing a bottle-green jacket and matching waistcoat, Miss Trewent was in an eye-watering…capucine, he supposed it was, and even Mrs Mereworth was wrapped in a jewel-like sapphire gown.
He thought to enquire if there was some kind of floral dress code for dinner at this house but decided against it: he didn’t want to end up in the pink.
“And you, Lord Helmdon?”
He looked up, realising he’d been wool-gathering.
“Please, I prefer Major. A title I hope I deserve rather than inherited.” He hoped he hadn’t caused offence but a burst of laughter from the Earl of Stonebridge reassured him. Mrs Mereworth looked disapproving but nodded her assent.
“How do you see the war continuing?” Stonebridge asked and Lucas was glad to be back on firm ground. It had been a while since he’d done the pretty.
The food, as promised, was spectacular. The other diners seemed disappointed with the roast venison, but it had been an age since he had tasted such succulent fare.
“Rosalind, will you be seeing the vicar this week about the church greenery?” Stonebridge asked, and as she turned to answer, wafts of rose fragrance perfumed the room.
Why couldn’t she smell of lavender or orange blossom? Or even better, jasmine? Which he’d always thought smelled of rancid cheese. No, she smelled of goddamn roses. Those same roses he’d dreamed of on the Peninsula during the war. They’d grown there as well – great massive blooms – but they never smelled the same as an English rose. The gentle fragrance that never grew cloying, only sweeter, especially after a rainy morning. An urgent desire to grab hold of her and sink into her neck filled his limbs.
“Yes, I might. Plenty of ivy and evergreens. I suspect it’s going to be a hard winter as the holly is covered in berries.”
“How is that?” Lucas was intrigued.
“Oh, ’tis just that lots of berries mean a harsh winter.” She twirled her fingers in the air. “For the birds, you see. The tree knows and produces more to tide them over.”
It was silly folklore, but Lucas felt drawn to it. She could almost be some woodland nymph proclaiming the legends of the forest, with her auburn hair and wild-green eyes.
Murder.
He was here to investigate murder. No time for thoughts of delectable women.
Everyone was a suspect, including the people at this table, conviviality notwithstanding, and he closely watched them. They were not lovers, he decided – Stonebridge, or Stone as he’d asked to be called, and Miss Trewent. They were incredibly close, more so than siblings, and he envied their intimacy, but not once had they looked at each other with lustful eyes. The earl only seemed to get passionate when he talked of his horses.
Stone didn’t seem bothered by polite protocol, and Lucas was enjoying his host’s relaxed company. The conversation lulled, but the atmosphere remained informal and there seemed no compulsion to chatter.
Miss Trewent, who was seated opposite, had her eyes closed whilst she savoured her wine. Her hair had been caught up in an elegant chignon, but tendrils framed her face. The auburn locks shimmered in the candlelight and appeared to be very straight. There had been no effort to curl it in the current mode, as Mrs Mereworth had. Lucas preferred this natural style and in fact, her whole manner was without artifice. Pretty, but at the same time slightly untamed.
Presently, she seemed to be listening for something. He listened as well but couldn’t hear a damn thing.
Mrs Mereworth was a strange kettle of fish. In her mid-thirties or thereabouts, she had pale-blond hair and slightly cold, blue eyes – an elegant face – but there seemed nothing substantial about her, and next to Miss Trewent’s earlier bold laughter and twinkling eyes, she’d paled in comparison. Mrs Mereworth seemed…bitter, and he wondered what had happened to her husband; she had obviously abandoned her widow’s weeds some while ago.
His eyes gravitated back to Miss Trewent. He frowned: the woman had left half her pudding and he couldn’t bear waste.
