As for his attire…
Beneath a Weston jacket of leaden-grey, he wore a waistcoat of indigo, the shade of blueberries crushed between warm fingers, black stems and leaves embroidered onto it like pressed botanicals.
But why had Miles escorted them?
When departing London this morning, his eyes had been all that was stern but as they’d reached the quieter lanes and put pace to their steeds, she’d caught sight of white teeth gleaming and heard laughter with his cousin.
Such laughter had doubtless been over some male banter but it had still filled her with joy, and all her reasons as to why he really should be escorting the Taits had been lost to her.
They’d arrived at the inn well ahead of the others and whilst herself and Sephi had arranged refreshment – over two cups of tea and a plate of crumpets obviously – the men had disappeared with the grooms and innkeeper to talk of available space in the stables.
Then clatter and chatter had announced the arrival of everyone else and after availing themselves of more tea, their party had ventured forth over the old Kingston bridge with its twenty wooden struts. It would have been a pleasant stroll if not for Miles’ aunt who had loudly feared for her life, having read that the bridge had partially collapsed only three years past.
Which was true. Though unlikely to reoccur today.
Entering the throng of the fair, they’d all agreed to meet at the menagerie two hours hence, although most were ambling together in any case. Verity had thought Miles and his cousin would abandon them for the Taits but they’d instead clung totheir sides like ivies to an old oak and she could not help but wonder why… Again.
Miles returned with their roasted goose, a tradition for Michaelmas Day, its crispy skin and moist meat held within a bread bun and paper wrapper.
“So where to now?” asked Mr Firth. He was a handsome man, but Verity, on occasion, felt herself recoil from those piercing ice-blue eyes that showed not a hint of warmth. “Mime show? Astrologist? Seven-legged horse in yonder corral?”
“Astrologist!” And Sephi beamed.
Verity rolled her eyes. “They ask for your birth date, bamboozle you with Latin star charts, make up some Banbury Tale and then fleece you for sixpence.”
Sephi pouted before Miles’ cousin bowed with elegance.
“Miss Nash, we should leave the sceptical Miss Seymour to other delights that I’m sure my cousin can show her, and we alone shall enter the realm ofMr Madrigal’s Astrology Astonishment.”
“Oh, yes!” Sephi gasped. “Oh, but no,” she amended. “No. Er…”
Sephi was clearly excited to have an astrologist chart her future but knew that Verity could not accompany her. And Sephi also knew only too well the risks posed by debonair gentlemen and secluded corners. That loathsome libertine had much to answer for.
So Verity lightly reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’ve visited an astrologist before so you must go. I’ve also just seen Mrs Tait join that queue so if you are quick, you can go in altogether.”
Sephi’s eyes brightened, though the crease between her brows persisted as she silently mouthed…Are you sure?
No, she was not sure at all but Sephi needed to regain some confidence and fun in her life so…Yes, she mouthed back.
And thus an excited Sephi was led away towards the brightly coloured striped tent.
“So…” Miles proffered an arm. “What delights would you like me to show you, Miss Seymour?”
“I…” Oh, drat. He was staring at her in that Captain Firth manner, that perfect brow hitched, broad shoulders…so broad. Her eyes darted from such ruggedness to the surrounding fair. Miss Juliet Tait was awaiting her mother with the elder of the Firth brothers, who was being sold a tonic for miraculous health. “The seven-legged horse?” Verity proposed before tentatively placing her hand upon his jacket.
It was just wool. And a layer of cotton.
Yet somehow, it felt as though it were bare skin.
“Very well. Although if you are sceptical of astrologists…”
They stepped into the multitudes that wove through the fair, most of the entertainments raised upon stages so that one could view them from afar.
A jostle from a cider hawker and she clutched Miles’ arm, his corded strength rippling beneath her touch.
“I have you, Miss Seymour,” he murmured, and she was very much afraid that at this moment, he did.
The seven-legged horse turned out to be somewhat of a disappointment.
