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And Blake’s face when he drew back. It was as though someone had told him they were at war with France again or, actually, up was down and he’d been wrong all his life.
Head down, she marched on. Though she enjoyed a healthy walk around the park when in London, she didn’t usually push herself until her legs burned. While Chastity sat and spoke with some of the other ladies and her husband fussed over her, Demeter had already done two loops of the entire park.
Cassie hadn’t been able to come as she was planning a ball and Eleanor had opted to stay home with their father. She did not mind the lack of company, though. Her sisters might be used to her being quiet but they knew her well and would surely pick up on her strange mood.
She headed down the short slope toward a grove of oak trees, toward the shade, folded up her parasol and rested her back to the tree trunk. Tilting her head upward, she squinted to eye the leaves swaying gently above her. It was bad enough to be in love with Blake from a distance but to have experienced a real life kiss...how was her life ever going to be the same again?
An abrasive laugh drew her attention toward the path sweeping past the trees and Demeter shrank back against the trees.
Lady Fenwick and Mrs. Crisp. She shuddered. They were amongst the worst gossips in thetonand had most certainly partaken in the rumors about Eleanor last year, if not started some of them. They were never openly rude to any of the Fallon sisters—they dare not given their father’s rank—but they were snide and often talked deliberately slowly to Demeter as though she were slow indeed. She loathed dealing with them on the best of days and considering how addled her wits were from that kiss, this was most decidedlynota best day.
She shifted around the tree trunk, tucked herself behind it, and watched the two ladies walk past, their arms looped and their laughter breaking through the rustle of leaves and gentle trickle of water from the river like a horn splitting the air. She waited a few moments longer, ensuring they would not notice her dart out then paused.
Michael Foster strode up the path not far behind them. She should talk to him really—ascertain if Blake’s instincts about him were correct—maybe even subtly question him about his mother.
Whether it was the kiss or the swirling sensations in her stomach or simply the fatigue from too little sleep, she could not say, but she couldn’t face playing investigator today. She waited for him to pass too, watching him as she had the other ladies from the protection of the tree.
He moved with a modest confidence and his cheeks were rosy from his walk. Everything about him indicated a man unused to wealth and trying to adjust to a new life from the shiny new buttons on his jacket to the over styled look of his hair. It wasn’t that she did not believe Blake as such, but it was so hard to picture this boyish-looking man doing anything wrong.
Foster stopped and Demeter held her breath. Had he spotted her snooping? Would he think her awfully strange? But his gaze looked past her and when she twisted her head, she spotted a hoop bouncing down the gentle slope of the grass and heading straight for Mr. Foster.
He didn’t move out the way and let it hit his leg. The hoop bounced off his calf and landed harmlessly on its side. A boy followed swiftly after, stick in hand, and snatched up the hoop with a look of concern. Demeter couldn’t hear anything but she imagined the boy was offering bashful apologies from his expression.
Mr. Foster picked up the hoop and handed it back, his expression sour. Then he snatched the stick from the boy. Demeter frowned.
The boy made to grab for it but Mr. Foster snapped it clean in half, the sound reverberating all the way to her. She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth as he handed the two halves of the stick back to the child then bent low to say something in the child’s ear.
Whatever it was, it made the boy turn ghostly white and he ran away as speedily as he could. Mouth ajar, Demeter watched Mr. Foster as he straightened, tugged his waistcoat, and let a gentle smile flicker on his lips as he continued his walk.
Demeter flattered herself against the tree, a hand still to her mouth. Her heart thudded so hard she felt it pound against her ribs. Blake was right. There was something nefarious about the man.
And he needed to know that.
Now.
***
“Do make yourself at home, Mother,” Blake drawled, leaning against the doorframe of the drawing room, and taking in the scene before him. The last time a woman had been draped across the chaise, it had been in entirely different circumstances and recalling that image whilst his mother did the same made his stomach turn.
Embroidery in hand, a cup of tea on the table to her left, and an empty, crumb-scattered plate set upon the plant stand to her right, it seemed she had settled in for the day.
He rubbed his forehead and sighed. His bachelor residence had not been designed with embroidery and tea and mothers in mind. Even the decor in the room had been chosen to create an intimate environment, ideal for entertaining ladies and enjoying sordid parties with dark wood, red draperies, and plush, luxurious fabrics.
But instead of lovers or friends, he had his mother.
They’d already spent more time together this Season than the past ten years. What was going on?
“Are you ill?” he asked abruptly.
Why had it not occurred to him previously? She was dying. It was the only reason. His gut twisted. They might not be close and he could not claim to know his mother that well, but he didn’t wish death on her. Lord knew, being married to his father was enough punishment for her neglect of him as a child as it was.
“Of course not. I have an excellent constitution.”
“Then why—” he moved into the room “—are you here?”
She lifted her embroidery as though he was stupid.
“I do not claim to know much about needlework but I am fairly certain you can do that anywhere, Mother.”
