Page 17 of The Rum and The Fox

Chapter 8

He was rocked in a stone kitchen - a fool

- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

After a morning of watching Load Ashwicke hit almost every tree in Smallcombe Woods except the one he was aiming at, Keziah’s temper was wearing thin. She knew that this was mostly out of guilt; after all, it was her father’s machinations putting the poor duke in this untenable position. But there was another part of her which was more than a little frustrated that the duke’s words were only too accurate.

He was not the hero she needed, or indeed had hoped for.

Far from it.

Whilst in a ballroom or at a party, she had little doubt that he was in his element. He was clearly the height of fashion, and she didn’t doubt that he danced admirably and was a most entertaining and attentive partner. Indeed, she suspected he was very much in demand, and would be even if he wasn’t in possession of an enviable title. That, however, did not answer the current predicament. No amount of exquisite cravats or shiny boots were going to extricate him from this affair. So she could perhaps be forgiven for wishing the young man sitting beside her and looking every bit as dejected as she was had been a rather more muscular and fearless warrior type who would save her and himself at one and the same time.

But if wishes were guineas, she’d not have a care in the world.

Keziah sighed and took a bite out of a slice of cold chicken pie that went some way to raising her dwindling spirits.

“I am sorry.”

Keziah rolled her eyes and wished the duke would stop apologising. She knew it wasn’t his fault as such, even though she couldn’t help but blame him a little, but apologising every five minutes didn’t help and quickly became tedious, to say the least. She couldn’t help but think that it would do the man rather a lot of good to get angry.

“It’s fine,” she muttered, though she was aware that her tone suggested it was anything but.

She looked up as he handed her a plate of fruit cake and noticed that he had carefully removed all of the cherries with a small pocket knife that he was now tucking away. It was a silly thing, really, but she suddenly felt her eyes prickle. She knew full well she was being ridiculous but … no one but Molly had ever noticed such a frivolous thing about her, but Lord Ashwicke had.

After lunch was over, they returned to the job at hand, and Keziah endured the next hour with growing impatience until she noticed that Lord Ashwicke was squinting.

“Can you actually see the tree?” she demanded, stalking up to him and staring at his face as though the answer might be written there.

He coloured a little, and she refused to notice that it was really rather endearing.

“Well,” he said, and stared down at the pistol rather than meet her eye. “I can see the tree but … it is a trifle blurry.”

“Oh, good Lord,” she said, throwing up her hands. “And you didn’t think to mention it?”

For a moment, a flicker of indignation was seen on his face, but it was replaced by a rather sheepish expression. “Well, dash it, a fellow doesn’t like to illustrate all of his weaknesses before a lady.”

“No,” she replied, folding her arms. “He’d prefer to make an utter cake of himself by missing the blasted tree nine times out of ten.”

She saw a rather pertinent retort leap to his lips, but apparently the duke remembered he was a gentleman and swallowed it down. It struck her, then, how very different a man the duke was from her father. If she’d spoken to him like that, she’d likely have felt the back of his hand at the very least. Yet Lord Ashwicke would not so much as raise his voice to her. The chasm of difference between them was so vast that she couldn’t quite comprehend it. She did realise she was being rather hard on him, however, and if he could hold his tongue then … well, she should at least make the effort.

“Perhaps you could consider having your eyes tested?” she said, keeping her tone mild and trying not to find any amusement in the abject horror in his expression at the idea. She bit back a smile and added, “You need not wear them in public, only for hitting a target. You know … if perhaps your life depended on it?” He glowered a little at that and now she couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, come, your grace, surely you’re not prepared to die for fashion’s sake?”

He made a noise of disgust and stalked away to replace the pistol in its box. “Of course not,” he said, sounding a touch impatient. “I’m not an utter fool you know.”

“I never suggested you were,” she retorted, moving to gather up the picnic things and smiling to see the little parcel of sugared almonds he’d made for her.

“Oh, no,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. “Not out loud, at any rate.”

She realised, then, that she had hurt his feelings and felt a twinge of guilt for it. Stowing the biscuits in her reticule and putting the last of the picnic things back in the hamper, she got to her feet and walked over to him. He was putting on his coat, with some difficulty, and she reached up to adjust his collar, smoothing out the fine material until it lay quite flat.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice quiet. “I know I’ve been impatient and … oh, quite hateful, I don’t doubt.”

“Oh, no …” he began, his natural politeness obviously making it impossible to agree with her.

“Oh, what a rapper,” she said, laughing despite herself. “You know as well as I do that I’ve been a positive tyrant.”

He grinned at that, and Keziah had to admit that he really did have a very charming smile.