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Sorrow, that he must turn her away, and do so decisively.
And beneath that bleak sentiment, a stirring of resentment. He did notwantto turn her away.Far from it.
He rose and approached the intruder. “What the hell has the world come to, when a duke’s sister must entertain herself by trespassing on her neighbor’s property?”
She jumped, swinging the walking stick to her shoulder as if preparing to take a turn at bat on the cricket pitch. “You startled me.”
“How inconsiderate of me,” Nathaniel said, ambling closer, “to linger in my own garden at dawn. Have you come to peer through the windows in the tradition of nosy, prying, neighbors from time immemorial?”
She flicked a gaze at the façade of the Hall. “Is attempted peeking a crime?”
Nathaniel dared not come any closer to her. “Trespassing, my lady, is a crime. I will not hesitate to turn you over to the magistrate.” If Nathaniel did such a thing for the sake of making a show, he’d also notify the magistrate that no charges should be pressed, for a reclusive duke must not testify at the parlor session. Or at the assizes. Or anywhere.
When had his role become so suffocating?
“Fine,” Lady Althea retorted. “Turn me over to the magistrate, and I will explain to him that I was simply returning my nosy, prying neighbor’s walking stick. The same neighbor who apparently feels free to roam my riverbank first thing in the day. The same fellow who lurked in my garden in the dark of night.”
She poked him in the chest, three times: In the—poke—dark of—poke—night—poke. Then she smoothed her palm over the same smarting place and Nathaniel had to grab her hand simply to get her to stop touching him.
Or something. “You should not be here, my lady. You know better.”
“You should not have left your walking stick at my house, Rothhaven. You know better. Some beady-eyed footman would notice that no gentleman’s walking stick has ever graced my porter’s nook before, and yet, yours appeared between sunset and sunrise. We can’t have that, now can we?”
She smelled of damp wool and honeysuckle, her hems were soaked, and her hair…her hair was a positive fright. Tiny beads of moisture clung to a halo of errant strands. Her braid was half-down and half-up, not so much a coiffure as a battle lost to the elements.
“In my experience,” Nathaniel retorted, dropping her hand, “no footman is half so astute. Women use walking sticks when they take a notion to hike the countryside. I’ll thank you to return mine.”
She held the stick away from him. “Apologize first.”
The lady was in deadly earnest. She’d clobber him with his own walking stick if he failed to abide by her command, and she’d make the blow count.
He scowled to keep from smiling, not for the first time in present company. “Apologize for…?”
“For startling me, for being so inhospitable to a guest, for threatening me with criminal charges when you have behaved with even less regard for the law. What if one of your pebbles had broken my window? Should I have had you tried in the Lords for destruction of propertyandtrespassing?”
She’d do it too. “You invited me.”
“Not to lurk in my garden, I didn’t. Not to come and go like a thief in the night. Not to pounce upon me at dawn when all I sought was to leave this walking stick where you’d find it.”
Nathaniel had the suspicion she’d been intent on no such errand, but the gleam of righteous ire in her eyes said otherwise. And she was correct: He’d been not simply unfair, but ridiculous. Increasingly, he was ridiculous and the whole charade had passed tiresome years ago.
“I am sorry, my lady, for startling you. For indulging in the bad though effective habit of solving as many problems as possible by being somewhat disagreeable. For receiving you so uncordially. Now may I have my walking stick?”
She considered the handle, which was plain silver, but good and heavy, and sized to fit Nathaniel’s grip.
“My brother Stephen has a pair just like this one,” she said, passing the walking stick over, “serviceable and elegant. Too good for hiking the fields, Rothhaven, and not as much of a weapon as some others would be.”
Nathaniel set the walking stick against a statue of St. Valentine. At one time, decades ago, this had been called the lovers’ garden, because it was safe from the world’s eyes. Now it was simply the walled garden, Master Robbie’s retreat.
“You could make that apology convincing by inviting me to breakfast,” Lady Althea went on, strolling along a border of red, white, and yellow tulips.
Nathaniel fell in step beside her, the better to monitor her snooping. “My staff would have a collective apoplexy if I invited anybody to breakfast.” Robbie might have an apoplexy in truth. The provocations for his illness were mysterious, though he’d apparently outgrown the worst of the violent fits.
“Then replace your staff. You are entitled to entertain as you please, Rothhaven. Another plate at breakfast is no trouble at all.”
“My staff does not deal well with change.”
“Neither do you, but then, I have been known to treat my first supper invitation from Lady Phoebe as if she’s dropped a sovereign in my begging bowl, haven’t I? I should beboredof accepting invitations by now. Beyond bored, though I never thought to receive any invitations, except perhaps the invitation to rot my life away in the poorhouse.”
