Page 11 of The Cornish Bride

Oliver seemed unfazed by it though. “All above board, I hasten to say. You can see we have her maid in attendance. I’m not about to run off with her just yet.”

Just yet? A delicious coil of excitement tightened in Ysella’s stomach. Did he mean that? Might he want to run off with her to marry her? At only nineteen, she needed her brother Kit’s permission to marry, and a tiny nagging doubt persisted suggesting that Kit might not approve of the dashing captain. No. Not at all. Which only served to make him all the more attractive.

“I should hope not or I might have to call you out,” Fitz laughed. Behind him the young lieutenant’s face blushed crimson—perhaps at the thought of running off with any young lady. Ysella had a fair idea of what marriage entailed and it was certainly blush inducing. Morvoren had explained it to her some time ago, expressing shock that her young sister-in-law should be that ignorant. She’d also told her how babies were made in some biological detail.

Ysella in her turn had been quite shocked that Morvoren knew all this, especially the details of how babies were made. The thought that it might not have been true persisted. One of her friends, during her short sojourn at school, had told her a man gave you a baby by kissing you with his tongue. Another thing that had shocked her.

Fitz’s eyes wandered back to Ysella again, something in his expression unreadable. A wariness? What might that be for? Ysella tightened her fingers on Oliver’s arm and let her own face slip into a frown of admonition, willing him to go away and leave her with Oliver.

It must have worked. Fitz grinned. “I see we are but spare parts here, Chatham. We’d best be off.” He tipped his hat to Ysella. “I expect I’ll see you at the next ball, Coz. M’sister insists I should take her and Charlotte about town because that bore of a husband of hers is too busy.” He laughed. “Not that poor Harry wants to be primped and paraded on the marriage mart. By God, she’d have been better born a boy then she could have got away with her academic fancies. Squiring her about is a total waste of her time and mine—she frightens off the gentlemen with her ferocious nature.”

Ysella giggled. A good summing up of Cousin Charlotte. Then she remembered her promise not to be mean to her and regretted the giggle.

Fitz and Lieutenant Chatham departed, still gossiping together and nodding and bowing at their acquaintances as they passed. A large part of whom seemed to be ladies.

Martha coughed, not at all discretely.

Time was getting on. If Ysella wasn’t careful, Mama would send out a footman to find her. “Perhaps we should walk back towards the gates,” Ysella said, her tone tinged with regret.

Oliver steered her around and they headed back in the required direction, Ysella searching for something to say. There was so much she’d like to be able to say, but most of it was quite unsuitable for a chaperoned stroll in the park. At last, she had an idea, faint though it might be. “Might you like to pay us a visit at Ormonde Abbey? As I have to be down there for the next few weeks?” Inspiration seized her. “The hunting is very good, and there must still be a few weeks left in the season. I’m sure my brother Kit would horse you.” She dimpled. “I do so love to ride to hounds.”

Oliver’s face, that had still been hosting a frown, broke into a wide smile. “Why, that’s a capital idea, Ysella. I should love to take a country break from the rigors of city life, and to see you at the same time would be perfection.” He drew her closer, eliciting another cough from Martha. “I’ll give you a day or two then follow you down and take a room at The Castle in Marlborough. I hear it’s a tolerable good place to stay. I can ride out to call on you from there with ease.”

Ysella beamed back up at him in delight. Her first ever invite to Ormonde now issued, and to the man of her dreams, she could sleep contented tonight and endure the long carriage journey down to Wiltshire in the morning. Wonderful. It didn’t occur to her to wonder how he was so familiar with where Ormonde was, nor the name and reputation of the local hostelry.