“Not scandalous,” he said. “But also not practical. I will not risk getting you with child.” He almost added, “Because then you’d have to marry me,” just to see what her reaction would be.
But he didn’t. Because he already knew. She’d told him half a dozen times in no uncertain terms that she was opposed to marrying—she’d likened it to captivity. And she’d told him men never listened to her.
He did. It was the one thing he knew how to give her. “Not that I didn’t enjoy whatdidjust occur,” Clem said. “I rather think thatwasscandalous.”
“Depends whom you ask, I suppose.”
“Let me see your shoulder,” she said suddenly, reaching for the loosened neck of his shirt. He was in his shirtsleeves, not having bothered donning a waistcoat or coat for their ramble. His exertions beneath her skirts had discomposed him, and the edge of the wound from her shot at the inn nearly a fortnight ago—a lifetime ago—was visible in a way it probably had not been in the dim candlelight of his bedchamber.
He pulled his shirt back into place. “No.”
“Let me see it.”
“No.” He wasn’t sure why he was being so obstinate. Part of it, he supposed, was that although he had teased her for being the cause of the injury, he didn’t want her to truly feel bad. He was fine. “You merely grazed me. It is well on its way to healing. There very likely won’t even be a scar.”
Absurdly, he wished therewouldbe. It could serve as a memento of sorts of Earls Trip 1821, which he was quite confident would stand the test of time as the most extraordinary Earls Trip ever.
If he was lucky enough to scar, he would run his fingers over the mark in the months and years to come and think of Clementine Morgan.
The notion was disconcerting. He shoved the image down, took a step—a large one—away from Clementine, and put his attire to rights. He had a turtle race to attend.
17
Lord Help the Mister
Even though Clementine preferred the wide-open country to civilization, she had to admit there was something exceedingly satisfying about walking in the sunshine with a group of cherished friends, taking in the sights and sounds and smells of a village fete. Perhaps her dislike of London was at least in part that she lacked true, bosom friends with whom to sample its enjoyments.
And she did feel that these peoplewereher true, bosom friends. How remarkable. She’d only known Lords Featherfinch and Marsden for a fortnight, yet they felt like brothers. And in that same span, Olive had gone from being mere sister to treasured companion.
And Archie. Oh, Archie. He was the only one of the lot Clementine could say had been her friend before. He had been a lifelong friend, even if their paths hadn’t crossed in recent years.
“Miss Morgan,” Lord Marsden said as they sat at an outdoor table enjoying a light repast, “I hope you won’t think me beastly when I say that this pâté is divine.”
“Of course I won’t think you beastly!”
“But you do have me wondering—”
“Ibegyou all,” Lord Featherfinch said dramatically, “pleasemay we not revisit this topic?” He turned to Clementine. “Let us instead exhort you to make sure Hermes wins this afternoon.”
“I’m not sure there is much I can do but point him in the right direction.” Clementine had attempted to train Hermes, but she had to admit that Olive had been correct earlier: there wasn’t anything for a turtle wrangler to do beyond cross her fingers.
“Need I remind you that I have placed a not-insignificant wager on young Hermes?” Lord Featherfinch said with a wink.
“I shall be quite alarmed if you viewed that wager as a sound investment, my lord!” Clementine protested, though she knew he was jesting. “I was under the impression you made that hazard as a gesture of friendship.”
“And so I did.” He lifted his teacup, and the rest of them followed. “Here’s to you, Miss Morgan, whether you emerge victorious or no.”
Something twisted in Clementine’s chest. She had never been the subject of a toast before. She hadn’t thought to want such a thing.
“I, however, never confuse investments with gestures of friendship.” Lord Marsden set down his teacup and turned to Clementine with a serious expression. “And since I’ve put three quid on Hermes, I believe you ought to take this race more seriously.”
Oh, dear. Clementine, taken aback, did not know what to say. It was only when Olive started giggling, which in turn caused Lord Marsden to crack a smile, that Clementine realized he was in jest, too. “You lot are terrible,” she said, though she meant the opposite. How wonderful to have a group of friends like this, friends to tease one and to . . . wager on one’s turtle.
Archie pulled out a pocket watch. “Well, investments and gestures of friendship aside, we ought to go. It’s nearly two o’clock.”
“I declare,” Olive said as they stood, “part of me doesn’t want the race to start, because it means our time here has almost come to a close. I don’t want to go home! I wish we could stay forever in our falling-down castle in the wilds of Cumbria!”
At the starting line, Clementine made polite conversation with the other turtle wranglers. As far as she could tell, her stiffest competition was going to be a girl of about twelve named Miss Franklin. Last year’s winner, a Mr. Hurt, was, in Clementine’s opinion, overconfident.
