Page 48 of Yielding to Love

There. He laid the shovel against his shoulder like a blunderbuss to return it to storage.

The barn was damp and smelled of rotten grass and neglect. The disquieting thought sneaked up on him—the Harringtons could use Bodwell’s intervention. The man knew farms.

He entered the house through the kitchen. Mrs. Clay was not there. He pinched a radish and strode, crunching, into the receiving room, where he found Miss Harrington on one of the worn blue brocade couches. She had a pile of pink cloth in her lap.

“Your garden is tilled.” He gestured to her project. “What are you working on?”

“Thank you.” She raised the edge of the cloth. “An old dress of my mother’s. I thought…” She grabbed it all up in a bundle and laid it beside her. “The style is ridiculous. Panniers. I thought I could alter it, but I haven’t the skill for such an undertaking.”

He recalled a letter Olivia had sent him when she was preparing for her London Season. She’d been infuriated by the hours she’d had to spend with dressmakers, the ungodly number of gowns she’d been obliged to have made. He’d been amused by her dilemma. He was not amused by Miss Harrington’s.

“Neville is still feeling poorly.” She sounded out of sorts. “Mr. Diakos says his muscles are not as stiff. The baths helped, but all the excitement did not. He’s overtired.”

Crispin did not know how to respond, seeing as he’d organized the excitement.

She said, “I thought we should postpone our supper with Manfred. Mrs. Clay has gone to give him word.”

Thank God. “That sounds wise.”

She tilted her head and looked at him strangely. Her eyes were tight. Hesitant. “Should we have supper in the dining room? Neville has asked for a tray in his chamber.”

“If you like.” Something must be bothering her. Beyond her brother’s weariness.

She sighed. “I put a great deal of effort into renovations. I didn’t ‘mutilate the house.’ I think the dining room looks nice. Though it is shaped a bit oddly where they took down walls. And there is a parlor upstairs, too. But we only ever sit down here.” She added hurriedly, “Which is fine. It’s where Neville can join us.”

Mutilate? Surely she couldn’t be brooding over Castor’s idiotic comment. The man hadn’t even seen the refurbishments beyond the all-purpose receiving room. “I would love to eat in the dining room. We could also have tea in the parlor if the colonel is indisposed.”

She smiled wryly. “I suppose I seem silly to you. Worrying about a few unused rooms.”

“No. Not silly.” But yes. Entire wings at Chaumbers went unused, and no one was concerned.

“Well,” she said, drawing herself up. “Then let me pose a question.”

“Go on.”

“What shall I have Mrs. Clay serve for tea? And supper?”

A soft groan escaped his lips. She’d lured him into a trap. He sat heavily on a short-backed chair facing her. “Generally, for tea, I have only tea. People tend to serve cakes or biscuits, which I do not eat.”

“If you were to eat something?”

“Fruit. Nuts.”

“And for supper?”

“Plain things. No gravy. No bread. Nothing from a cow.”

“No flesh?”

“Sometimes flesh.” He grimaced. “When I am hungry enough.”

“Eggs?”

“Yes.”

“Rice? Potatoes? Peas?”

“Yes. Any garden greens or roots, but cooked plain.”