Page 49 of Yielding to Love

They were quiet for a moment, as she was probably concocting a menu in her head. Then she said, “No wine. Or only occasional wine. But what about ale or small beer? You’re not likely to get bosky on small beer.”

He shook his head. “I prefer it, but I cannot drink it.”

She grinned at him. “Gin? Rum? Snuff?”

“No.”

Then she laughed. “Have you no vices, Major?”

“My crimes are unspeakable ones.” She would think it a joke, but it was true.

Rattling noises came from the direction of the kitchen.

“Mrs. Clay must be back. I’ll go tell her we’ll be dining upstairs.”

*

They had tea and sliced pears in the parlor, a spacious room, but sparsely furnished. The paint and paper on the walls had a very new, untouched appearance and the air smelled stale. They discussed Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, which he had bought for her on a whim. Crispin thought it was overwrought, but that was the very reason Miss Harrington loved it. When she learned that he knew Lord Byron—not well, they’d played commerce at the same table at Prinny’s ball—she said, “My word! Did you save any of the cards he played?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” She put a fingertip to his wrist. “I’ve touched the hand that touched the cards that Lord Byron touched!” She pretended to swoon.

“If you’d been there, you could have joined the dozen other young ladies sprawled on the ground.”

“Were there really?” she asked greedily. “I’ve heard women faint when he walks into a room.”

“Yes, it is a true liability for the London hostesses. They’ve taken to strewing cushions on the floor. Of course, it makes dancing a challenge—”

Her eyes lit. “I know you’re lying, but I do so want that to be true.”

After they parted, he went to the guest bedchamber to read his letters that Mrs. Clay had brought back with her from Sir Bodwell’s—Bodwell had retrieved their mail from the post in Tonbridge, thinking to bring it himself. Which was either thoughtful or overstepping. And didn’t that sum up poor Bodwell?

There was a letter from Jasper and one from Hazard. Both were concerned with Wellington’s increasing unpopularity in France. There were even threats against his person. Liverpool and his cabinet were searching for a dignified way to withdraw him. He might be sent to America to conclude the war there. Jasper’s letter included an aside stating that Crispin’s decision not to go to Paris was wise and he should congratulate himself on his foresight. But, of course, the news had the opposite effect. Threats, subterfuge, ferreting out assassination plots—he should be in Paris, not…cultivating his own garden as per Voltaire. Conscience was a luxury a soldier could not afford.

With a groan, he went down to share some of the news with the colonel. But since the colonel was sleeping, he went to the barn to curry Mercury. Then he fetched two buckets of well water and bothered Mrs. Clay to let him heat them on the stove. He carried the hot water up to his chamber. There was no washtub to sit in, but he made do. While he was at it, he took out his shaving kit and scraped the stubble from his cheeks and chin. He daubed himself with Spanish Leather, then put on clean clothes. Linen shirt, fawn trousers, Carmelite-Brown jacket, cravat. As he tied his garters around his stockings, it occurred to him he was taking an inordinate amount of care for a country supper.

However, when he walked into the dining room and saw Miss Harrington, he was glad he had done so, because she had also taken great care. He would have felt he was insulting her had he come in shabbily dressed, smelling of the barn. Her hair was pulled back into a twist, revealing an elegant neck. She wore a ruby-red satin dress. It was modestly styled with sleeves from shoulder to wrist and a hint of decolletage.

“Another dress of my mother’s,” she said, obviously aware of his regard. “It is out of date—”

“It’s stunning. You are stunning.” She would invade his dreams again.

She blushed. “It is bold of me to wear red when you said I should. It rather forces you to flatter me.”

“Compliment, not flatter. And no force is required.” He watched her gaze drop and her blush deepen. He hadn’t meant to make her uncomfortable. Or himself uncomfortable. In his brain, he had always kept women neatly separated behind sturdy fences. In one pen, there were ladies—whom he might like and admire, but who did not stir him. And in the other, there were women for hire—who did. Miss Harrington belonged to the first category. But it seemed she had slipped out the gate.

“So this is the mysterious dining room?” he said quickly. “Explain your renovations if you would. What you’ve done and why. My lake cottage has been sorely neglected and needs work, and I am quite at a loss where to start.”

She gave a nervous laugh, not a titter, but close. “All right. My main goal was to put everything Neville would need on the ground floor. And then shift everything else up here. The reason this room is oddly L-shaped is that they knocked down the wrong walls. I meant to combine two bedchambers, and then make the dressing room into a parlor. But they combined the bedchamber, antechamber, and dressing room, and made the parlor out of another bedchamber.”

He smirked. “Were these the same laborers who built the ramp over the front steps?”

She nodded, looking chagrined. “I suppose I didn’t make my wishes clear enough.”

“I think the moral is to keep an eye on one’s laborers. But it came out well, nevertheless.” Compared to Chaumbers, that was not a lie.

At that moment, Mrs. Clay and Adam entered, carrying trays. The table, which would have seated twelve comfortably, had been formally set for two. Both settings were at one end so they wouldn’t be shouting to one another. But that also emphasized that they would be dining alone, tête-à-tête. Which was not done. A chill coursed through his blood. He knew better. And so must she. What were they playing at?