Page 19 of An Enchanting Dare

“No!” she said, twisting her hands together, her dark eyes soft with concern. “I was curious, that’s all, and there is no shame in your situation. My father was poor as a church mouse before he inherited the title.”

Sylvester laughed, for her pity was even worse than her contempt. “Just to drum the point home,” he said, curling his lip. He must get away from her before he allowed his pride to goad him into saying something unforgiveable.

“No, I… I did not mean it that way.”

“Don’t worry, my lady. I am well aware you are above my touch, and I assure you, you’ll never have to endure anything as outrageous as a proposal of marriage. I’m no damned fortune hunter to go dangling after an heiress, no matter what low opinion you have of me. You interest me, that’s all. I’ve offered to be your friend because I think you need one, but there’s no more to it than that, so don’t go thinking I’m pining away for the love of you or some ridiculous romantic nonsense for I’m not. We would not suit.”

She stiffened and Sylvester realised his words had been too harsh, almost contemptuous. Suddenly he wanted to take it back, to beg her forgiveness, but his pride balked, and her expression suggested she would murder him no matter what the next words out of his mouth were.

“I am glad we have clarified the situation, Mr Cootes,” she said, her voice cool. “For you ought to know that I should never accept you, even if you were as rich as Croesus. Good night, sir.”

She turned and stalked away, head held high, and Sylvester cursed under his breath. Bloody buggering bollocks. Well, he’d made a right mess of that.

“Well done, Sylvester, excellent work. Now she really does hate you,” he muttered, and let himself into his room.

27th June 1841, Trevick Castle, Warwickshire.

It was barely dawn as Aisling hurried away from the castle, heading towards the woods. She clutched her shawl around her to cover her bare arms. The day was already warm and would be hot soon enough, but there was a chill breeze if you were out of the sun. The grass was damp with dew, soaking her shoes, and the sun glittered upon cobwebs and sent dazzling colours across the sky, setting it aflame. She admired it for a moment, trying to find the peace that being back here usually gave her, but it eluded her today.

“Damn him,” she said aloud, relishing the ability to swear out loud. She took a deep breath and let it out again. “I will not think of him. Not today,” she promised herself.

Holding her skirts free of the damp ground, she hurried on, shivering as the cooler air of the woodland shut out the sun. She followed the familiar path, concentrating only on the ground beneath her feet, of the scent of decay and of life, of the rustle of the breeze stirring the leaves overhead.

The little cottage was well hidden if you did not know where to look, and as this was private land Aisling was assured of peace here. She knocked once and let herself in.

“Biddy, it’s me.”

“And who else would it be, child?” came the amused reply, the softly lilting Irish accent soothing the jagged edges of Aisling’s temper. “And cross as a wet cat by the look of you.”

Aisling hurried to embrace the woman who had been her nanny as a child and whom she loved as dearly as if she was her grandmother. “Not cross, only in need of some peace. London is a hellish place, and I am so happy to be home.”

“Hmmm,” Biddy said, her sharp gaze taking Aisling in and seeing her with far too much clarity. “And who is the handsome fellow staying at the castle, then? ’Tis nothing to do with him, this temper you’re in, eh?”

“Well, he doesn’t help matters,” Aisling admitted, for what was the point of denying it? “You remember the annoying fellow I met at Christmas? Well, it’s him, and he’s worse than ever. I swear he is the most provoking man. He’d goad a saint into a temper tantrum.”

“And you’re no saint, a leanbh,” Biddy replied with a smile.

“No,” Aisling replied, flopping down in a chair by the fire, which was lit despite the mildness of the day. “That I am not.”

Biddy swung a large kettle over the fire and moved to take the chair opposite Aisling. She was a sturdy woman well into her sixties, her thick hair greying now, but she still exuded the restless energy of a far younger woman. “Why does the man aggravate you so, then? What is it about him that sets your hackles all on end?”

Aisling shrugged. “He has a knack for pricking at my tender places, and he seems to do it on purpose.”

Biddy said nothing, but her expression was knowing and full of amusement.

“No!” Aisling huffed, defensive now.

“No?”

“No, he’s not… he doesn’t… He’s just nosy! He’s not interested in me. I assure you he made that very clear. He just thinks I have something to hide and is determined to know what it is. He says I can trust him,” she added in disgust, folding her arms.

“And can you?”

“He’s a man,” Aisling said, drawing the words out slowly, as if that ought to be answer enough.

“Your pa is a man. Your brother, too. Ashton Anson is a man, and—”

Aisling rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, I know! I know there are some good men out there, but they are few, and I’m not about to make another mistake.”