Page 28 of Reforming Lord Neil

His pleasant mood sank away, and he bent to rest his elbows upon his knees. The posture would horrify his mother. He spoke with disinterest. “What do you want to know?”

Rather than being put off, she seemed amused. “Oh, do not grouse so. I have no wish to pry into anything. I only thought it would be nice to get to know you better.”

Neil bit the inside of his cheek and cocked his head to the side. “Nice?” he repeated, the trivial word somehow insulting in any context.

She raised her dark eyebrows at him. “Yes. Nice. Pleasant. Perhaps even enjoyable. I know nothing about you except your name, and that you were brought up to be a gentleman. How old are you?”

He chuckled and rubbed at his chin, wishing again for a razor. It would not be long until he had a full beard. “I am five and thirty.”

“Such an advanced age,” she said, eyes overly large. “I can claim five years less experience than you, sir.”

“I thought women did not reveal their ages, on principle.” He knew his own mother never admitted hers, and Olivia had taken to forgetting which birthday she celebrated after her twenty-fifth.

“I suppose some do not. I have never seen harm in it. We all age the same, do we not?” Teresa had her hands folded in her lap again. “Do you enjoy the theater?”

Neil answered her questions, benign as they were, for the remainder of the drive. She asked nothing more personal than his age, did not delve into his history at all, and merely asked for his opinions. They spoke of the arts, music, and she tested him on his French. The woman had an excellent grasp of the language, and apparently knew more Spanish than he did, but no Greek. They compared experiences in London, where she had only been once, but found they were both familiar with Ipswich.

And once, he made her laugh. A sound so light and joyous, as lovely as her singing, that he immediately held it close and committed it to his memory.

* * *

It had been ages since Teresa’s thoughts had bordered on optimistic. All her plans until Mr. Duncan arrived had centered on surviving through the winter. But with a wagon at her disposal, cherries to sell, and a box with packets of her herbs as another possible source of income, the day was bright with hope.

All because a man had appeared, however unlikely, needing shelter as much as she needed his help.

Her training as a gentlewoman had not let her down on their long ride to Southwold. With pleasantries, she passed the time, and somehow kept herself busy enough talking that she forgot how nervous she ought to be.

They arrived at market near eight o’clock. Southwold’s streets were lined with farmers and carts, and a kind farmer directed them to where most of the fruit sellers had set up their wares. The crowds of horses and people made for enough noise that Teresa knew she would have a headache before long.

Mr. Duncan helped her arrange the wagon and a stool. Then he bowed. “If you do not mind, Mrs. Clapham, I would excuse myself for a short time. I have a purchase or two to make, but I will return to assist you shortly.”

Shopping. What a lovely thought. Teresa nodded at once. “Of course, Mr. Duncan.”

“Have you need of anything I might find for you?” He took a step backward toward the crowded road.

“I cannot think of a single thing.” It was a bit of a stretch of the truth. Teresa could not think of only one thing, but knew of dozens of items that might help her family—things they needed and even more they might want. But she did not have the coin in her hand yet.

“‘Scuse me, missus, what’s yer price for the cherries?” The inquiry pulled her attention from Mr. Duncan, and she saw him slip away.

The next hour passed quickly, and with a great deal of success. Her first customer was an innkeeper, but after that came a cook’s assistant from one of the larger houses and she bought a whole basket of cherries, and then an apothecary proclaimed loudly that hers was the best fruit he had seen all day, which brought other customers closer. Some bought only a few for a treat, others enough to preserve. By the end of the second hour, her cherries were nearly gone, and Teresa had a tidy sum of money in the pouch concealed behind her apron.

Mr. Duncan returned, clean shaven and with a crooked smile on his face as though he had been up to some mischief. “Mrs. Clapham, it seems you are nearly out of product.”

“I know.” She bounced on her toes once, unable to hide her cheer. “It has been wonderful. But what happened to you?” she teased. “You have lost something.”

He raised his hand to his chin, turning to grant her a view of his rather dashing profile. “What do you think? I contemplated keeping the whiskers, but I find I am more fond of being without.”

The pleasant mood made her tongue looser than normal. Teresa did not stop herself from laughing and saying exactly what she thought. “You know well enough how handsome you are. You do not need me to confirm it.”

His eyes, more green than brown in the sunlight, widened and shifted to stare at her. “Do you think me vain, Mrs. Clapham?”

At that moment, a young woman sidled up to the cart, peering into it with interest. Mr. Duncan quirked an eyebrow at Teresa. Rather than answer his question, she turned to the prospective customer. “Would you like some cherries, madam?”

The woman peeked at Mr. Duncan from the corner of her eye. “I had in mind a tart recipe. These would be perfect. What’s your price?”

Teresa named the price, but the young woman smiled and shook her head.

“That is too dear for me just now, missus. But I thank you.” She started to back away, casting one last appraising glance at Mr. Duncan, who merely stood with arms folded and a disinterested expression.