Page 25 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

He looked at her then. She was watching him with an expression he could not entirely read, which was unusual. He could generally read his mother.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I had better.”

Roman stayed a little longer, until the light began to fade and the cold crept into the garden in earnest. When he rose to go inside, the decision which had been forming for days had settled into something solid and certain.

He would arrange the drive. He would speak to her properly, and soon, before the political season swallowed everything and the moment passed.

He was not afraid of what came after. He was simply finished with beginning things that other men completed.

He paused at the garden door and looked back at his mother, still sitting in her sleeping garden with both dogs, her face turned toward the last of the afternoon light.

He would give her a companion. He would do his duty as the baron. He would rescue a family.

That was reason enough.

Chapter Nine

September 23rd, 1822

The Knavesmire lay to his left, vast and open under a late September sky. The racecourse stood empty at this hour, the grass grown long with the end of racing season. Roman turned his attention back to the road.

He had sent the note two days ago. Mrs. Mayweather had replied within the day—prompt, gracious, plainly pleased, and giving permission for a private audience. He had not expected difficulty there.

He had spoken with Holly yesterday. A quiet conversation in the solicitor’s office, framed as a general inquiry, which fooled neither of them but preserved the necessary formality. Holly had given him what he needed to know. The shape of the Mayweather situation, the particulars that a man of business would know and a gentleman would not ask directly, had been outlined. Roman had listened, asked clarifying questions, and left with a realistic picture of what would be required if Miss Mayweather said yes.

If.

He adjusted his grip on the reins. The road was good here, straight and familiar, and the horse needed no true attention.

He had arranged the gig deliberately. Easier in the city's streets, yes—but the intimacy of a gig, the way it put two people beside each other rather than across, the way it made conversation natural rather than effortful, made it the best vehicle for the task at hand.

Roman had thought about this. He was not certain whether to be pleased with himself for thinking about it extensively, or something slightly less comfortable than pleased.

Perhaps he had given things too much thought, as Lyness sometimes accused him of doing. It hardly mattered now.

The preparations were complete. Roman had considered the finances, the household, the younger children's needs, and he had solutions ready. He had, in point of fact, been ready for some days.

There was nothing left to do but ask her the pivotal question.

Sycamore Lodge appeared ahead, set back from the road, the gate posts familiar from his previous visit. Roman noted his own steadiness with satisfaction. His hands were easy on the reins. His bearing composed. He was, by every external measure, entirely calm and prepared.

He turned through the gate and⁠—

She was waiting outside the front door.

Roman should not have been surprised—even if it was customary to knock and request the lady’s company from her family. But her standing alone, looking down the path, simplified matters. He was given to believe that households with many children rarely ran to schedule. He had prepared himself for a wait in a drawing room with Mrs. Mayweather’s conversation. Instead, Miss Mayweather stepped away from the door as he drew up, bonnet already tied, gloves already on.

He approved of this. “Good afternoon, Miss Mayweather. You appear ready for our drive.”

She touched the ribbons of her bonnet. “Yes, Lord Hartwell. I am prepared for the adventure.”

The bonnet was sensible. Not elaborate, not fashionable beyond what the occasion called for, not the battered thing she’d worn in the garden which he had thought rather charming. Simply…correct. He made a note of this alongside everything else he had noticed about her, which was already more than he’d intended.

At that moment Mrs. Mayweather came out the front door. Apparently, she had been keeping watch from inside. She was a handsome woman, well-dressed, with a strange air of satisfaction and spoke with it. “Good afternoon, Lord Hartwell. You have a most excellent day for a ride about town. I hope the weather holds fine for you.”

“Mrs. Mayweather, good afternoon.” He climbed down from the gig to make a proper bow. “I am certain our ride will be quite uneventful.” At least in regards to the weather. “Thank you for entrusting your daughter to my care. I will not keep her away overlong.”

He was well practiced at saying the appropriate things. This time he almost meant it.