Page 37 of Yielding to Love

Chapter Thirteen

The leaves on the trees had turned brilliant orange and yellow, compensating somewhat for the faded blooms in the garden. It was still a calm and lovely place for Neville to doze. However, Camellia mused, pulling together the dangling threads of her thoughts as she strolled down the rows, deadheading the flowers, nothing made up for Major Taverston’s absence. His short visit had cast a long shadow. Even Neville had remarked that their subsequent guests were dull, and he wished the major had not gone.

“Why the devil does Manfred think I care about the yield of his apple orchard,” he’d groused after supper and cards last night.

Camellia had agreed that she didn’t know, but in truth, she suspected Manfred was trying to be helpful. It was harvest time, yet they had nothing to harvest. Moreover, they hadn’t seen tuppence yet from Neville’s pension. When spring came, she would have to swallow her pride and ask Manfred for help in hiring men to till and plant. In the meantime, if need be, perhaps she could sell the pianoforte.

Manfred might be dull, but tonight’s guests would be worse. Mr. and Mrs. Castor. It was customary for the local rector to dine occasionally with gentlemen farmers, yet Camellia had put off issuing an invitation as long as she could. Mr. Castor had once tried wooing her. His response to her rejection had been worse than Manfred’s. He’d been certain she would be grateful for his attentions, and was stunned to anger when she was not.

But she wouldn’t waste the day fretting over things she could not control. It was one of those perfect, sunny, October afternoons, a last gasp return of summer, and she was out in the garden enjoying it. And she was wearing a jonquil dress from her trunk that had needed no alteration. Neville had been right about color. She felt far more optimistic in yellow than in black.

While Neville napped, she reread her most recent letter from Marianne. It was full of titillating gossip. Wellington was having a torrid affair with an opera singer in Paris. La Grassini. The same woman had once been a paramour of Napoleon. Camellia felt wickedly awed.

She heard a crunching of leaves, signaling someone’s approach. It could not be the Castors. It was too early. It was not Mr. Diakos’s plodding gait. And whoever it was walked more briskly than Mrs. Clay. Camellia tore her eyes from the letter to look up.

“Major!” she cried. Her heart started to race. He was here. Why was he here?

He grinned. “Pardon me. I shouldn’t have disturbed you.” Did he mean to remind her of their meeting at the Temple of the Muses? She played along.

“That’s all right. I was reading.”

His grin widened. “But not a novel, I don’t think.” He came right up beside her bench. Her stomach flipped over. He was handsomer than ever. He was not in uniform, but wore a dark-blue jacket and fawn trousers. His hair was no longer unfashionably shoulder-length, but styled in close-cropped loose curls that peeked out along the edges of his hat. He lowered his voice and gestured to Neville. “Is the colonel well?”

“He is.” She had to crane her neck to look up while they talked. “As well as can be. Bringing him home was the right thing to do. We are indebted to you—”

“Oh, bosh, as my sister would say. Friends don’t tally debts.”

He was standing in the sun, making her squint, so she shifted sideways on the bench and patted it, inviting him to sit. She folded her letter and tucked it into her reticule.

“What brings you back to Tonbridge?” she asked, trying to sound calm. He swooped off his hat and laid it over his knees. His cologne was unusual. Earthy. It blended well with the scent of an autumn afternoon.

“I had business in London.” He rubbed his hand in his hair, mussing it more than he straightened it. “I have to furnish my house in the lake district.”

“And you got very lost along the way?”

“I have my own unique sense of direction. How are the colonel and Adam getting along?”

“Is it true that Neville would have shot Mr. Diakos for a spy if you hadn’t spoken for him?”

His eyes widened with surprise. “Adam told you that?”

“No, Neville did. He sounded chastened. So Mr. Diakos must please him well enough.”

“Good.” Major Taverston averted his gaze to peer about their surroundings, drumming his fingers on his knees. Then he shot a sideways glance at her. “You look very cheerful. Your dress, I mean.”

A little warmth stole into her cheeks. “Neville asked me to stop wearing black.”

“Ah. Well, cheerful suits you.” She thought a little red crept into his cheeks as well.

“Is Mercury with you?”

He nodded. “Yes. No. I left him at the Fitzhenrys’ inn. Do you like to ride? I can hire a mount for you if—”

“I don’t ride. We had carriage horses. I never learned.”

His jaw sank. “Never learned? Miss Harrington, that is criminal.”

She laughed, though she thought he might be serious. In his world, all ladies must ride.