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As she came over the crest of yet another of the park’s hillocks, her heart leaped when she saw him chatting with Delilah.
How gratifying that his shoulders tensed, and he did her the courtesy of not looking over his shoulder, though he sensed she was there.
Tabitha turned on her heel and headed for one of her new favorite places to brood.
Had she always been a brooder? She must have, as she could call to mind several well-hidden places in every town and city they’d traveled in, where she went to think; most times she was thinking, but just as often—
She brooded. And this was prime ground for such an undertaking.
It was a vantage point like one she and the duke had lain upon to watch thecursio,like the one His Grace’s cottage perched on; if she turned around completely, she would see his summit. She did not do so.Hersummit sat to the west of the Close, the distance between them no farther than the length of beach she used to run in less than four minutes. An ancient chestnut tree held court, the spread of its branches so wide, it was likely as old as England; beneath it, a conveniently placed boulder provided the opportunity to sit and rest. She saw yet another high hill making up the last compass point, surely intentional; the park yielded yet another of its secrets. Nothing here was left to chance.
Chance would be a fine thing, she huffed to herself. To be courted by a duke. One who did not seem to think much of the disparity between their lots in life. Which ought to be a mark in his favor, for what would she do with a proper duke?
What was she to do with a suitor who insisted she give all her options consideration? Whoever heard of such a thing.
The bee and the goat and the frog had not declared at her; a mark in their favor.
The very notion of breaking crockery with any of those? She could not picture it.
Oh, but Tabitha could easily recall the picture His Grace made, spread out on her kitchen table like a gruff banquet, those eyes lambent in the candlelight, the feel of his strong body beneath hers. His mouth, his tongue—Blessed Palu, his tongue. The sensation that flooded her being when their hips had rocked together, the sheer sensuality of everything about him: the heat of his body, of his hands running up her back, the sounds he made, a cat purring its satisfaction at getting its way, all that hair, and his eyes and those godforsaken lashes.
Or goddess-forsaken. What did she know about him that she hadn’t discerned as a practitioner? “Tabitha Barrington, what do you know about him as a woman? Quite a lot, I’d reckon, for the—for the love of Palu. Oh, dear.” She moaned. Sulking and talking to herself aloud. What was wrong with her?
“I don’t know what to do.” Shealwaysknew what to do. She had years of experience making decisions and choosing the appropriate courses of action. She, who did not hesitate to pursue knowledge, was embarrassed she had no frame of reference for this at all. It must be a failure of her femininity…although if the bee, the goat, the frog, and a duke of the realm were to be trusted, nothing was lacking there.
She would ask Felicity if they might speak in confidence. And Jemima as well. There, that was a plan.
Tabitha’s stomach rumbled, alerting her to her forgotten breakfast. She had not brought sustenance, as she had not expected to be sulking and lurking the livelong day. It was out of character, but if she were being truthful, it came as a relief. How relaxing, to sulk and to lurk, to throw off the need to be productive and available. She slid off the boulder to the ground, leaned against the tree, and closed her eyes; even this early in spring, even under the cover of the chestnut, the sun that drifted through was hard on eyes that had hardly shut for yet another night…
A noise in the distance woke her. She squinted at the sky; how long had she slept? Long enough to see several coaches had pulled into Lowell Close—oh, it was Beatrice and her new family. Everyone gathered around them, bar Llewellyn, who kept to the edges as usual.
Tabitha stood and stretched and started to make her way down, despite the presence of the Welsh duke, to greet the newcomers. Now she had three friends to ask what to do.
With that rather more optimistic thought, she brushed herself down, indulged in an unladylike yawn, and set off for the Close.
***
Alwyn had sensed when she saw him and avoided him. Delilah had an adverse opinion about that, but he was thrilled.
The faint of heart might find this troubling, but not he. The vitality surging through his veins was unlike any he had felt before.
It was time he let her do what a lady lion would do—hunt.
He was in her sights, and it was up to her to pounce.
Thus, he found himself at the disposal of the Duke of Lowell, as well as his Second and Third as they guided a cart laden with sheets of glass to the disused building they’d been cleaning the other day. That Irish horse moped around after them.
The lengths of glass were unlike anything he’d ever seen. “Is this to be a conservatory?” he asked.
Bates looked at him over his shoulder; he had insisted on taking the lead. “No.”
“Do not bother trying to get more out of him than that, Llewellyn,” huffed Lowell. “He is keeping his secrets regarding this venture.”
“It is not our lot to be the brains of this undertaking, merely the brawn,” added Gambon.
An outbreak of banter followed, peppered with myriad insults to Bates’s brainpower or lack thereof; it even managed to raise a smile out of MacCafferty.
“Take care with this and bring it around the back.” Bates stood with hands on hips and considered the reconfigured roof of the lean-to. It looked like it had been built with speed yet precision, even to Alwyn’s untutored eye. A fleet of footmen set ladders in place, and still others unloaded the carts to hand up the glass.
