The grown Lilith, needing no adornments or expensive walking dress to enhance her beauty, laughed up at him, pointing to the mud pit prepared for the tug-of-war. It was sheer will that kept him from turning turn her to face him and kissing her soundly and resolutely in front of all.
Roddam waved them over, at his side Sir Gene, Lady Graham, and the Carmichaels. Lacy and Lynda, he noticed, were affecting ennui, accented with an occasional disdainful glance to the rambunctious children. He shook his head. Such attitudes had no place here. Lilith, he admired, did not disguise her excitement.
“I daresay, this is a splendid idea, Sir Gene,” Walter said. “It’s time I did something like this for my barony. An annual fête would be a perfect tradition to start, I think.”
“The villagers seem to enjoy it,” was all Sir Gene said, surveying the festival from behind his quizzing glass.
Lady Graham, burrowed in winter fur, though the day was pleasantly cool rather than frigidly cold, said, “If only it were not so cold. I fear I might take chill. It’s a lovely day otherwise.”
Lacy, wearing a walking dress far too fine for a fête, twirled a parasol. “We’ll pay for this good weather with rain.”
“Hear, hear,” agreed Sir Gene.
A woof caught the man’s attention. He turned his quizzing glass on Jasper. “Is that one of my hunting hounds?”
Before anyone could answer, Roddam interrupted. “The tug-of-war should start soon. I best choose a side.”
“I hope you’re not serious, old boy.” Sir Gene released his glass’ ribbon to gape at Roddam. “That’s for the laborers. I’ll never understand the appeal. Do you not know the losing team will end in the mud?”
“Aye, I do. Best give my strength to the weaker side, then.”
“Oh, I see! You’re to ensure they win,” said the baronet.
Roddam winked at Walter, saying to Sir Gene, “On the contrary. I plan to lose.”
The baronet stared at the earl, bewildered.
With a nod to all, Roddam made for the mud pit.
Someone tugged at Walter’s hand. He looked down to see the little girl who had insisted they hold hands during the reading. Saucer-eyed, she stared up at him.
“Sophia, isn’t it?” he asked, kneeling.
The girl nodded, her hazel eyes brightening to be remembered. Wordlessly, she tugged at a sad kite limp on the ground.
“Let’s see if we can fly this, shall we?” he asked.
Clasping her hand in his, he was about to look up at Lilith when he overheard the Carmichael sisters, though overheard implied they spoke quietly, when in fact, they said their peace loudly enough for all in the vicinity to hear.
“It must be a great comfort never needing to choose what to wear,” said the voice.
An answering reply tittered. “When you only own two dresses, it must save time deciding. One needn’t even employ a lady’s maid.”
“Can you imagine the ease of preparing for the day? A simple braid, an old rag, and done!”
“Too right. One is tempted to bring back barbaric fashions, complete with club.”
With a chorus of giggles behind him, Walter’s rage mounted. Enough, he thought. Enough.
Rising to his feet, his hand gripped trustingly by Sophia, he turned to the Carmichaels. His mouth opened, prepared for a cutting remark, when another hand touched his arm ever so gently. A red-tinted world softened at the sight of Lilith’s expression. She held his eyes with her own and gave a slight shake of her head and an amused lift at the corners of her mouth.
“Shall we fly a kite?” she asked, breaking eye contact to look at Sophia.
A returning smile on his lips, he reached for Lilith’s hand and laced his fingers with hers, audience be dashed. He was going to marry her even if it ruined him. Let them all see.
A beautiful girl on each hand and a dog at his heels, Walter headed for the green to fly a kite.
Roddam’s team lost the tug-of-war, and the earl had to excuse himself from the festival to wash and change. His parting words, that he hoped to return in time for the boat race, were accompanied by a shake of his muddy boots and a flick of his muddy hair, inadvertently splattering the hem of the Carmichael sisters’ dresses, sending them into a fit of vapors and home to change.
Lilith could not remember when she had been happier. Though she was content with her life in Allshire, she could not recall ever being happy.
True, the beastly women had made her feel about two feet tall in their attempts to alienate her, but with Walter by her side and the children gathering around them, she knew she belonged. Not in the village, nor in his world, but with him.
If only they could purchase a little house away from both worlds and live together, unbothered. She was not convinced she could marry him if the continued ridicule by the Carmichaels was a taste of the censure to come.
For now, though, she basked in love.
After enjoying the egg-and-spoon race from the sidelines, Lilith and Walter partnered for the three-legged race. Lilith convinced Jasper to sit between Martin and Sophia.
Walter knelt at her feet and knotted a rope about their legs, casting her an occasional smile, his eyes squinting against the sun behind her, his tricorn useless at that angle. To keep from toppling over while he tugged at the rope, she clasped his shoulder, relishing the warmth of his body against the cool breeze. Her dress was not the best choice for autumn weather, as she could feel the wind bite her limbs with each gust.
Their legs secured together at the ankles, she hooked her arm around his waist. He wrapped an arm about her shoulders. Their competitors rallied. With the crack of the signal, they were off. Walter coordinated their steps.
One, two, one, two.
Her grip tightened around him. Her body leaned into him. The heat of his side warmed and thrilled her.
“We can win this!” Walter said as they took the lead.
Cheers and jeers alternated from the sidelines as partners raced to the finish line. Jasper’s bark joined the crowd. A quick glance at their competition, Lilith spotted Mrs. Copeland and Mrs. Elliot not far behind. The milliner and her husband were mere paces away. She could not see the others without turning her head.
“One, two, one, two,” Walter chanted.
Then she stumbled two before one. His hand captured her upper arm. They steadied their stance. And off they went again, one, two, one, two. Mrs. Copeland and her sister-in-law took the lead. One, two. Jasper’s bark intensified, distraught by his mistress’ stumble and near fall. Lilith glanced to see Jasper standing on all fours, waiting for the moment to launch himself in for a daring rescue.
Another stumble. She only just caught herself, grappling for Walter to steady her.
And here came Jasper. Walter wrapped his arms around her waist to right them, but Jasper had ideas of his own. He bounded across the green, dodging other couples, sending one pair falling to their fate, eliciting laughter from the sidelines, and launching himself at Lilith and Walter. The puppy grabbed at the rope binding their legs and tugged one way and then the other.
Lilith wobbled, and Walter grasped for her, holding her to him. A tug here. A tug there.
“No, Jasper! Let go!” Lilith insisted, laughing.
She stepped back, entangled her legs with Walter’s, and down they tumbled, rolling to one side and taking out another pair of racers. Jasper fought against the rope, oblivious to the chaos. Lilith lay on her back against the cold ground, laughing until her sides hurt. She stared at the blue sky and white clouds, listening to the sideliners applaud the winners, Mrs. Copeland and Mrs. Elliot.
A shadowed face blocked the sky. “Care for a lemonade?” Walter asked, reaching a hand between their linked legs to untie the rope.
Once free, she accepted Walter’s hand and was pulled to her feet. Jasper ran circles, a happy puppy to have a rope as his prize
for the valiant rescue. All efforts to brush off her dress were wasted. She did not care. However much her sides hurt, she continued to laugh.
Oh, yes, this was the happiest day of her life.
She rested a hand on Walter’s arm to head for a refreshment booth. By the time they had lemonade and watched the strongman competition, which eleven-year-old Stephen won, it was time for the pie contest, which Walter agreed to judge.
There were fifteen pies displayed on the table and fifteen anxious bakers looking on as Walter approached.
“Ah, my favorite part of the festival,” Walter said, surveying the pies. “How does this work? Do I eat all the pies in one sitting? A hearty challenge, but I’m game.”
The women laughed, blushed, and curtsied.
“Only one bite each, or do I at least get a slice?” he inquired.
Mrs. Hill stepped forward, a hand to her bosom. “I’ve been telling everyone you’ll eat the inn out of food soon. Though it’s ever so refreshing to know someone of refined taste appreciates my cooking.”
“Now, now, Mildred,” said an older woman with a mop of red hair under a lacy cap. “Everyone knows my pies are prized. Fit for the King himself.” She lifted a pie and waved it before Walter.
He exaggerated an inhale.
With a charming smile, he said, “I may not be worthy of this pie.”
The women giggled behind their hands and exchanged glances, besotted with him, despite they were all married with children, most of them happily so. Lilith picked up an exhausted Jasper so he could sleep in her arms before his next bout of playfulness. Knowing he would one day be too big to hold, she treasured the moment.
Though the archery competition was underway, as well as other activities, a small crowd gathered around the booth to watch Walter sample pies and judge their culinary quality. Some were eager for a slice. Others wanted to admire the baron. He tasted each pie with a slow bite, savoring the flavor, closing his eyes in concentration. Each piemaker watched for clues of his favorites.
Lilith stood on the sidelines with the other observers, Jasper snuggled against her bosom.
As Walter moved from one pie to the next, the crowd moved about her to block the view and nudge her farther away. Try as she might to move back to the front with Walter, the crowd blocked her, a walled fortress separating her from him.
The fête had been fun so far. Even the pie judging was fun, especially given how crowd-pleasing Walter made the contest, exaggerating his motions, teasing the onlookers with a wafting of pie aroma.
And yet, on the happiest day of her life, Lilith felt isolated.
Looking about her, she recognized all the faces, her fellow parishioners. She knew them all; yet, none of them had been more than cordial to her over the years, some never acknowledging her, others changing their behavior after her brother discovered her. They did not see her as one of them.
A few feet away stood Walter in all his charm, looking too polished in his green silk coat, tan riding breeches, and shiny boots, but somehow still befriending each person with a solitary smile. She glanced down at her dress, her rags. She imagined how she looked in comparison to him. How could he not be embarrassed by her?
Closing her eyes, she tried to envision herself dressed in the finery of the Carmichaels, twirling her own lacy parasol, her hair short, curled, and swept into an updo. They would see through her, point her out as an imposter. Where did she belong? She did not belong with the crowd around her, though she wanted to and had thought for awhile that she did. She did not belong with the Grahams or the Carmichaels and never would. She was trapped in the middle, isolated.
If she could fit in one world, which? One was full of ridicule, but there would be Walter. The other full of contentment, but there would be no Walter.
Opening her eyes, she watched between broad shoulders and bonnets as Walter offered a winning slice of pie to a young lady. The lady, daughter of one of the local tenants, was in her early twenties with long eyelashes, pert nose, chestnut brown hair, and petite frame. The girl looked at Walter from beneath sooty lashes, blushing prettily, and looking very much like the kind of person Walter should marry. Lilith blinked away tears. She felt old, frumpy, and forgotten.
And she had missed the announcement of the winner.
Burying her face in Jasper’s coat, she wished she could go home. Ha. She had no home. Her cottage belonged to the rector.
“Slice of Mrs. Hill’s winning pie?” a baritone voice asked.
Lashes wet, she turned her head to peek, her nose pressed against Jasper’s neck. Walter stood before her, a pie plate in his hand, all smiles and bright eyes and cologne. With a hand to her elbow, he guided her to an abandoned set of chairs.
When she sat, Jasper stirred, stretched, and circled in her lap before falling back to sleep with a huff. Walter held onto the pie plate, two forks tucked under a thumb.
“I have to admit,” he said, “I worried the redhead’s lemon pie would win. It melted in my mouth. I almost declared her the winner at first bite. Somehow, Mrs. Hill managed to outdo her. The woman’s a kitchen sorceress. I’m sure of it.”
She sampled a bite. He had not exaggerated. Decadent! It was a rhubarb pie the likes Lilith had never tasted. If she died in this moment, with a bite in her mouth, she would be perfectly content. Her woes of the moment forgotten, she took another bite and moaned.
Walter chuckled, taking a bite for himself.
“What do you think of me hosting an annual fête like this?” he asked.
She could see him hosting his own, as much a part of the fun as the villagers, unlike Sir Graham who watched everything from the other side of his quizzing glass.
“I think you make your father proud,” she said.
The corners of his mouth turned down, and he set his fork on the plate.
Jasper nudged her hand, awakened by the scent of food. She shared a bit of pie crust with him.
“He would’ve loved you,” he said. “Above all, he would’ve loved how happy you make me.”
She stared, startled. “Do I?”
“You know you do.” His smile returned, but softer. “This, today, being with you, as we are now. Nothing could feel more right. Tell me you feel it, too.”
Nodding, she said, “I do. I wish we could find a village like this and live in a little cottage on the edge, accepted by all, waving from our chairs in the front garden. No fancy home with servants, no trips to London, no mingling with polite society. Above all, no dinners with aristocrats or the censure that comes with it. Just the two of us, or should I say the three of us to include Jasper, without a worry in the world. Wouldn’t it be perfect?”
She smiled wistfully at him, seeing the picture so clearly, wanting so much for it to be true.
His own smile died, the light in his eyes fading. “Lilith. I can’t stay here indefinitely. I’m a baron. I already have a home, Trelowen. Your brother may be happy as a recluse, but I couldn’t live like that. I have friends. I like dinners. I like dancing. I love London. I want you to come with me for the dinners and the dancing and the glitz and glamor. I can’t wait to introduce you to my friends. That’s what I wish and what I envision for the future. Us, standing side-by-side in a London ballroom. Us, sitting side-by-side at an annual fête in my barony. If you accept me, you must accept all that comes with me.”
With a wan smile, she said, “I know.”
Until this moment, the day had been one of Walter’s happiest, if not the happiest, though he did have a plethora of fond memories with friends and family. Her words had not ruined the day. At least she saw them together in her vision for the future. But they had struck him rather deeply, a punch to the gut.
It would take time to accustom her to a new way of life, but it was not out of the question that she could learn to be part of the beau monde. Once gossip died down about her time at the orphanage, and certa
inly if Roddam introduced her as his sister, his full sister rather than half, she would feel more at home. But she had to want to accustom herself. She had to try, at the very least.
As though the moment had not occurred, Lilith scooted Jasper off her lap and stood. With the same sunny smile she had worn all day, she added the plate with the other discarded dishes and returned to grab his hands and pull him upright.
“The boat races will begin soon. Race me to the lake!” Without another word, she lifted the hem of her dress and took off at a run across the green, Jasper at her heels.
What a tease! All he could do was jog after her.
This was the most undignified behavior for a gentleman, he thought in good humor, laughing as he chased her. He was aware a group of children were chasing after him, and that the villagers who were not already downhill at the lake were watching them in reproach.
She raced ahead, her braid bobbing behind her.
The vixen turned at intervals to laugh at him. When she crested the hill and disappeared on the other side, he quickened his steps, cold wind burning his cheeks, his blood pumping, his heart racing. Their visibility to others lost and a sizable gap between them and the stragglers, he raced forward, nearly tumbling down the hill on the other side.
The steepness of the hill had slowed her pace. Jasper barked up at him, running back and forth between them with only a few stumbles.
In easy strides, Walter caught up to her, grabbing her by the waist and spinning her. She threw her head back and laughed.
Her fists pummeled lightly against his chest as he twirled her to a tree near the bottom of the hill. Angling them behind the trunk in the off chance someone saw them, though as far as he could tell, they were quite alone, he pressed her to the bark and shielded her body with his, his mouth covering hers, open, hungry, tasting of rhubarb.
A hand to the tree next to her head and the other cupping her face, he kissed her with abandon. She melded to him. Her tongue explored him, tracing the edges of his teeth, flicking the tip of his tongue, undulating between his lips.
The Baron and The Enchantress (An Enchantress Novel Book 3) Page 26