It was bloody irritating.
“Just so, Miss Seymour.” He let out a breath. “Collecting local plants also served to recall who I was.”
Mrs Tait cocked her head. “How so?”
“To be a soldier, Mrs Tait, was not my original vocation.” Verity’s knife clattered to the floor but a footman soon set it to rights and he continued. “But once a soldier, it is far too easy to become defined as such – an automaton without thought or emotion, no purpose other than to destroy. Yet collecting plants reminded me of who I was beneath. Not just a soldier, but also a man with this interest and a life back home. I encouraged my men to also find a pursuit: one wrote a diary for his wife, another two played chess, one whittled wood for the pieces. It helped remind us what we fought for. It helped remind us that behind the grime and pistols, we were just men.”
“Not just men,” said Mrs Tait, “but exceptional ones.” Then she stood, the rest of the table quietening as she raised her glass. “A toast is in order, I believe. To our Captain Firth here, now the Earl of Stonewold. And to all the brave men who fought for our freedom – those who returned and those who fell.”
The gentlemen solemnly stood and the ladies bowed their heads, for all had lost someone to the war.
After wine was sipped and expressions re-composed, Miles twisted, his limited manners prodding him to at least say something. “You had the words that I did not, Miss Seymour. I can order a hundred men to battle but explaining myself at a dinner can often be beyond me.”
There, he could be distantly polite.
Her lips curved.
Ones he’d kissed a summer long ago till they were shining like raspberries in morning dew.
He shook his head at such winsome flim-flam.
“I must admit to you…” Her lashes fluttered up. “Those words were not mine but a philosopher’s. And I recall you once said you’d rather be trekking a wolf-infested gorge than attend a dinner.”
He recalled that also but was astonished she did. “All true but now I’m an earl, I will have to learn how to steer a course between my responsibilities and my interests.”
“Of course. But I hope you will soon be able to publish your botanical findings?”
“I hope so too. I was elected into the Horticultural Society a few months back and they are to aid me in my endeavours.”
“How wonderful.”
Her smile was bright and dazzling and he clenched his fists under the table, would never stand down his guard. Despite her siege.
“Indeed,” he replied curtly.
“I thought…” Her lips wilted a little. “I worried that maybe you had abandoned botany during the war.”
He frowned. “Not at all. And once my estates are settled and I have hired a few more land stewards, I hope to venture to Portugal again, and then further afield to the Americas on a plant-collecting expedition.”
“Oh, that’s…wonderful too.”
Miles studied her visage. Hemlock came to mind: beautiful white florets hiding a heart that could stop your breath – permanently. Or, at the very least, give you a nasty rash.
“I recall you wished to travel also, Miss Seymour,” he proffered as idle conversation. “Did you succeed?”
He watched her fingers – there was brown paint on the middle one – toy with a bread bun until it was demolished into crumbs.
“No,” she finally whispered. “Only…only once to the east coast. Since then, I haven’t been further afield than London.”
“But I thought after your father died that you were immediately travelling west to Devon…or Cornwall with the intention to wed Mr Locksley?”
She startled. “L-Locksley? Oh…er… No, I didn’t…as it turned out.”
Miles narrowed his eyes as hers shifted around like a married chap who’d been caught with his hand up the maid’s skirt.
Of course, seven years was a goodly time but surely a woman would remember the circumstances of a man she’d been betrothed to? Or was Miss Seymour so inconstant that she fell in and out of love at the drop of a handkerchief? Hardly recalling the trail of destruction?
“Miles?”
