Page 58 of The Lady Knows Best

The brim of her bonnet shielded her expression from him; he felt certain she’d chosen it for just that reason. But it could not hide her soft laugh. “Well, I think it’s lovely. And quite an indulgence not to have to share with Bell and her cat. Please thank your housekeeper for me.”

I chose it, he wanted to correct her.

But that would only make matters worse.

In the entry hall, a footman swung open the front door and bowed them from the house. Even with the broad gravel drive separating them from the roses, the flowers’ scent was heavy on the air, and he would have been willing to swear he could hear the low murmur of bees at work among the blossoms.

“What a lovely afternoon,” she said, pausing to tip her face to the fair sky.

“Isn’t it?”

He was jealous—jealous of the sunshine caressing her cheek, being rewarded with her lovely smile.

Could a fellow be more pathetic?

He was willing to admit, even to himself, that he liked her—but such thoughts hinted at more than mere liking.

“The garden was my grandmother’s plan,” he explained, bending to unlatch the wrought iron gate in the low stone wall that divided the garden from the drive. “Her pride and joy.”

“She has not always been—?”

She bit off the rest of her question, but he could guess what she had been about to say. “Blind? No, that affliction has befallen her gradually over the last few years. She manages remarkably well, however, with the assistance of her companion, Miss Palmer.”

The brim of the bonnet dipped, not quite a nod. “She seems happy to have you here. Do you visit often?”

“I fear the only proper answer that can be given, even by a dutiful grandson, is ‘not often enough,’” he answered, waving her into the garden with a sweep of his arm. “I spend every autumn and part of every winter here, and during the rest of the year, I visit on occasion.”

“Occasions such as her birthday.”

Had she worked it out already, his ridiculous plan? Not trusting his voice, he made no answer.

They strolled along one of several winding gravel paths, which, despite meticulous raking by a veritable army of gardeners, was still uneven in places. He longed to offer his arm again, but she gave no sign of wanting it.

“Your journey was not unpleasant, I hope?” he ventured after a stretch of silence, filled only by the buzzing of insects and Daphne’s occasional deeply drawn breath. “If I may, how did it happen that the Stalbridges—?”

“My sister is indisposed—nothing too serious,” she hastily added. “Lord and Lady Stalbridge were on their way to Ferncliffe, and as Cami and Lady Stalbridge are friends, the Stalbridges were kind enough to bring me and Bell, and to offer their chaperonage until Cami and Gabriel are able to travel.”

“Lord and Lady Ashborough will come, then?”

“Yes, in a day or two.”

“You might have waited,” he pointed out, though he was glad she hadn’t. His four precious days might have been cut down to two, or only one.

At last she turned and looked him full in the face, her eyes a true blue in the sunlight, her expression wary. “Might I? You would not have objected? Threa—?”

“No!” He spoke more sharply than he had intended, desperate to cut across that terrible word. “No,” he repeated in a softer voice. “I assure you I have had ample practice in mastering my disappointment.”

She made a small noise—skeptical, dismissive—and turned back to the flowers.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I am hard-pressed to imagine you have even experienced disappointment,” she said, with a wave of her arm intended to encompass the glorious garden, the manor house, and the park beyond, “to say nothing of having suffered through enough of it to call yourself its master. Though perhaps it is simply your nature, to lord your power over everything, and everyone, around you.”

An instinctive protest rose to his lips. He loved her wit, her ready retorts, the spark of defiance in her eyes. But now was not the time to encourage such a display. His devilishness was hardly up for debate.

He had caroused when he should have been sober, rattled when he should have listened, shouted when a quiet word would have better served the purpose. He had often been selfish—was being selfish now, he supposed, though that hadn’t been his intent.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he conceded.