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Romy pressed a palm against her chest to still the ache. Wiping at the small tear which escaped one eye, she forced a smile to her face, remembering how she and Papa had often walked in the woods. On one occasion, he’d taught her to whistle. It had been sunny that day as well, the light bursting through the trees above their heads.
Pursing her lips together, Romy whistled a few notes, trying to remember a particular song he’d taught her. The tune was ribald and incredibly improper. Papa had instructed Romy she was never to whistle it in front of her mother, or he’d be punished.
Skipping and whistling, nine-year-old Romy had found it marvelous that she and her beloved Papa had a secret. It had made her feel special. Loved.
Whistling the tune, Romy stayed on the path for another quarter of an hour until the sound of water rushing over the rocks broke through the quiet of the forest. Moving farther down the path, Romy came to a footbridge spanning a bubbling stream. A slope, bare of trees and covered with wildflowers, merged with a pebble-strewn beach. A perfect spot for skipping rocks. Another skill her father had taught her.
Bees buzzed around her head as Romy made her way down the slope to find the perfect spot. There had been no way to procure a blanket without raising suspicion, but Romy did have her shawl, which she spread across the ground. Opening her portfolio, she placed the sheaf of papers containing her designs out in a semi-circle around her, so she could look at everything at once. Beatrice’s cream and gold gown sat alongside the sketch of the hair clips she’d created to complete the ensemble. Lucy Waterstone’s was next, as well as the gowns she’d created for Theo and herself. Lady Molsin’s ball was actually little more than a dance. There would be no more than fifty guests or so, those attending the house party and Granby’s neighbors. The ball would be held on the final night of their stay at The Barrow.
Romy wondered if she and Theo would still be here.
An assortment of day dresses followed. Two for Miss Hobarth which needed a bit more work. Perhaps a bit of piping along the sleeves. The half-finished sketch of a riding habit for Lady Benbridge had been put aside before leaving London. She’d start there.
Romy got down on her knees, re-sketching the outline of the shoulders on the riding habit. Uncaring about grass staining her dress, she flopped down on her stomach, her pencil moving across the page until the correct shape took form.
Whistling, she made notes next to her drawing. Lady Benbridge was fond of excessive embellishment, as many ladies were, but the newer styles were more about the fabric, though Romy thought gold braid would be lovely. Lady Benbridge might balk, but once she saw the finished product, Romy was confident she’d be pleased.
Romy propped her chin up with one elbow as a bird trilled somewhere to her left. Her spirits lighter than they’d been in days, she hummed and whistled as she worked on Lady Benbridge’s design. It was peaceful here by the stream, far from the house party.
A large shadow fell over her and her sketch, blocking the sunlight.
Her pencil halted in the outline of the riding habit. She glanced around her, searching for a rock or large stick should she have need of a weapon, although her position in the grass put her at a disadvantage. Romy was sprawled on her stomach, skirts hitched up, her feet in the air. Whoever stood behind had an excellent view of her legs and possibly her bottom.
“I almost mistook you for a blade of grass,” a voice growled softly, “except for the whistling.”
* * *
When Andromeda’sseat at the table had stayed vacant at dinner last night, and after hearing the ridiculous excuse that she’d had too much sun, David had known it was merely another one of her attempts to avoid him. Besides, anyone admiring her lovely, unfashionable peach-tinted glow could surmise Andromeda spent a great deal of time outside without a bloody parasol.
He spent the remainder of the meal desiring her presence and then chastising himself for it.
After breakfast this morning, David had gone to his study, pretending complete immersion in his account books. When his butler had come to the door to remind him of the excursion to the village, David had jotted out a short note to his aunt, apologizing for being unable to join the group. An urgent business matter required his attention, he informed her. One that he must see to personally. It was a terrible breach of conduct.
Foxwood and Waterstone, both attempting to curry David’s favor for different reasons, would have to keep each other company today. He didn’t spare a thought for Beatrice.
All hedidthink of was Andromeda and the way her skirts had fallen about her hips while she'd demanded David take care of an elderly man she didn’t even know.
And her mouth. He spent a great deal of time considering the plump curve of her lips.
Once the sound of the carriages departing met his ears, David finally stood, deciding a walk would help him regain some semblance of control over his thoughts. He needed to clear his head.
I’ve decided on Beatrice.
Andromeda was wrong for David on every level.
He found himself headed in the direction of the stream where he’d spent hours as a child. It was where he’d first happened upon Blythe, whose estate was less than an hour’s ride from The Barrow. They’d been on opposite sides of the water, skipping rocks, when Blythe had tossed a large stone at David, hitting him in the cheek.
Their relationship hadn’t changed much from those days.
Giggling floated in the air from a large pond as David rounded the bend followed by the low timbre of a man’s answer. After a cursory glance, David kept walking. He didn’t care to see whatever Lord and Lady Carstairs were doing, half-naked, with fishing poles between them.
Deeper into the woods he went, but the silence except for the birds and the breeze rustling through the trees didn’t fill him with the usual sense of peace. The walk had done nothing but agitate him further. Turning, he meant to head back the way he’d come when the strains of a ribald tune met his ears. David stopped.
The air around him remained silent, except for the nuthatches chirping above his head.
Thinking he was hearing things, David took a step forward, only to stop again when the tune floated into the air. It was a song sung mostly in taverns or brothels. The story of a baker’s wife who passed out her favors to every man she met along with hot cross buns.
A poacher, perhaps? Or a villager?
