He moved aside and sniffed the ground.
She tossed the rock and laughed when she heard the surprisingly deep, definitely satisfying plop of the stone in the pond. When she wiped dirt from her hands and turned to continue up the hill, she laughed again. The black dog had a stone, twice the size of the ones she had been tossing, in its mouth. It was carrying it as proudly as if it had caught a rabbit in the hedgerow.
The yellow dog was racing about, clearly not wanting to be left out of the game. It pawed at the ground near the wall, then ran after the black dog, nipping at its side playfully.
Valeria followed. The trees thinned, and then she was at the top. Turning to look in every direction, she knew seeing the moors from here was worth struggling up the hill. She should bring someone up here to savor this view, but there was something wanton about enjoying it alone now. The hills rolled away like gargantuan green waves in one direction while the land fell into the gray sea in the other. Along the hills, sheep dotted the fields, resembling grave markers bleached in the sun and cast wildly across a churchyard. Trees, which had survived the battering of the wind, were as twisted as the path she had climbed.
Running her hand along the moss-covered stones on the stone wall, she wondered who had first dared to come up here and try to tame this amazing place. Yes, it was desolate and often boring and occasionally frightening, but it was glorious on this sun-swept afternoon when the only clouds in the sky were a brighter white than the sheep.
The black dog came up to her again and leaned its head against her leg. She smiled and patted it, but said nothing. Silence seemed too much a part of this land, demanding that everyone and everything that trespassed on it should respect that hush. The wind might howl and whistle, but it was a wondrous music she wanted to enjoy.
“We are well met today.”
Valeria whirled and stared up at Sir Tilden. He seemed as tall as a distant hill when he rode closer to her. With the wind sweeping through his blond hair, she could believe he was a direct descendent of some Viking chieftain who had conquered this moor a thousand years ago. She was about to ask him how he had managed to ride up the steep hill when she realized the path leading down the other side was gradual.
“It is a grand day, isn’t it?” she asked as he swung down from his horse.
“It is now.”
She struggled to keep her smile from wavering as his gaze coursed up and down her like a pack of hounds chasing a fox across the moors. Turning back to the wall, she leaned her arms on its uneven top and gazed down at the shore. “The walk up here is worth the view. It is extraordinary.”
“Flawless, I would say.”
Her hands clenched on the stones, but she forced them to soften from fists. Undoubtedly Sir Tilden had heard the poker-talk that Miss Urquhart had been so pleased to repeat. Mayhap he gave it credence. If so, she would have to disabuse him of his delusions without hurting his feelings.
“Have you lived here all your life?” she asked. The past seemed a safe topic.
“Most of it, save for when I went to school or had the privilege to visit Town.” He came to stand behind her.
Even though she waited for him to shift to one side or the other, she realized he had no intention of moving. For her to do so was sure to give him insult, and she could not turn around without being too close to him. Dash him! She never had had any patience for court-promises and come hither smiles, which might have been one of the reasons she had so gladly accepted her guardian’s offer to arrange her marriage to Albert.
She could not help thinking of how Lorenzo’s breath had created a sensual warmth against her skin when he had protected her from the bats. He was not as handsome as Sir Tilden, and he clearly had no interest in courting her. Then why was she thinking of him now? Dealing with one irritating man at a time was more than enough for her.
“Do you miss London?” Sir Tilden asked, his breath coursing along her nape.
She silenced the shudder, leaving an ache on her tense shoulders. If she had not listened to Miss Urquhart’s prattle, she might not be so uncomfortable now. She was being jobbernowl to let an old woman’s chatter unnerve her so.
Or was it only Miss Urquhart’s gossip? Sir Tilden stood too close for propriety. Mayhap matters were different here on Exmoor, but she was the same, and he stood too near for her comfort.
“This is a big change for me,” she said, knowing she must say something.
“Which is difficult in addition to your tragic loss.”
She slowly looked over her shoulder and saw sympathy on his handsome face. No man should be this good-looking, and she wondered why some lass had not hauled him to the altar before this. “Thank you, Sir Tilden—”
“I would as lief that you address me as Tilden, if you will.”
“I would like that.” She faced him, pressing back against the wall as she waited for him to edge away a step. “You must feel free to use my given name as well.”
“And I would like that, Valeria.” He leaned one hand against the wall, not far from where her own hand rested. “You seem to be recovering very well from your loss.”
“Albert’s death and then Paul’s—”
“Not that, the loss of your home and fortune following your brother’s tragic accident.”
Her eyes widened. Not even country-put manners were an excuse to discuss the private issue of her finances. This man had met her but once before today, but she could read in his eyes an avid curiosity about the mistakes Paul had made at the card table.
Slipping past him, she said, “I do not wish to speak of that matter.”
“I understand.”
“I’m glad.” Mayhap he was not a complete bumpkin, after all.
“I thought only to ease my mind on what is true and what is nothing more than mumbles on the wind. From what I heard from Lord Caldwell—”
“Do not speak that cur’s name in my hearing!”
Valeria hurried back down the steep hillside. When Tilden called after her, she did not look back. She could leave him to stare after her, but she could not escape the horror Austin Caldwell’s name conjured out of her memories. The top-lofty man had led her brother into a life of high-stakes gambling and the fast life of Cyprians and blue ruin that may have led to his death. She suspected he had played a part in persuading her brother to use her assets to back his debts until even they were not enough. The pursuit of the game and the chance to win at the price of another’s utter ruin were all that mattered to Lord Caldwell. If Tilden was a tie-mate of Lord Caldwell, she wanted nothing to do with him either.
When the dogs whined, she waited for them to catch up with her. She glanced back, but Tilden and his horse were gone. No doubt, he considered her as queer in the attic as Miss Urquhart. She did not care a rush. All she wanted to do was flee, for a few moments, from the problems that haunted her. She would have liked to go back up the hill and linger without Tilden Oates to distress her, but, if she stood still for very long, her uneasy thoughts came back to plague her. If nothing else, she would be as tired as David after a day of meandering across the moors and would be able to lose her cares in sleep tonight.
Valeria followed the dogs at a cautious pace. She reached out to hold onto the wall, so she did not end up skittering down the path like the small stones rolling ahead of her. Blast it! She should not have let Tilden bother her so much. Going down was worse than climbing up.
Her foot slipped into a hole, and she clutched the stone wall. She looked down at the freshly turned earth. This must be where the dogs had been digging. She lifted out her foot and struck something. Whatever it was clunked hollowly against the wall. Her eyes widened.
It was a vase. A cracked vase. Picking it up, she stared in amazement. She could not mistake the figures on the glossy red vase. The design was almost identical to one she had seen at a friend’s house in Bath, not far from the Pump Room. Her friend had been one of several people along the street in the shadow of the Bath Abbey, who had been complaining of st
rong-smelling water seeping into the cellars. When masons worked to stop the leak, they had dug into the floor and found a vase much like this one. She recalled Claudia mentioning that it was very likely from the time of the early Roman empire.
Turning it over in her hands, she noticed a small hole in the back. It still was in remarkably good condition for having been buried more than a millennium. She looked along the wall and saw places where someone had been digging. Was this where the late Lord Moorsea had found his broken pottery that filled so many crates back at the manor house? She peered over the wall and saw, just below, the chimneys of Moorsea Manor sprouting like frozen weeds from the roof of the house.
Lorenzo would be delighted to see this. Excitement pulsed within her as she imagined his smile when she took this to him. Without a doubt, he would spend the rest of the day going through his uncle’s library to find information that might help him identify this vase. If she stayed and helped him, she might be able to chase away the ghosts of the rumors that both Miss Urquhart and Tilden Oates seemed to be accepting as the truth.
More quickly than she had guessed, Valeria entered Moorsea Manor. The curve of the moors had suggested she was farther from the house than she had been. She had left her two canine companions at the front gate, noting that both of them now carried a stone as if they thought they were part of a game.
Lorenzo was sitting in the library, as she had expected. When she called his name, he came hastily to his feet. Papers flew across the floor.
“No, no,” he said as he gathered up the pages, “I can do this.”
“I won’t read your poetry if you do not want me to.”
He paused as he was reaching for a page that had landed under his chair. Looking up at her, he asked, “You won’t?”
“It is your poetry, Lorenzo. You should share it only when and with whom you wish.”
“You constantly surprise me.” He stood and set the paper, upside down she noted, on the table by his chair. Closing the bottle of ink, he smiled. “I had thought the ladies of London were constantly poking their noses into each other’s business to know the latest on dits.”
She chuckled. “Mayhap, but you should realize that when one leads such a public life, one comes to appreciate small privacies.”
“I shall have to rethink my opinions on this.”
“Which is not a bad thing.”
He motioned for her to sit in the other chair. “Fortunately, for you cause me to rethink my opinions quite often, Valeria.”
“Here is something that may cause you to think.” She cupped the vase in her hands, holding it out so he could see it.
His mouth grew as round as his eyes. “Where did you find this?”
“By the wall up along the hill that runs parallel to the front wall of the manor. I suspect it supports our assumption that some of these walls were built during the Roman occupation of Britain.”
“It’s a lovely piece, Valeria. Better than anything I have found among my uncle’s collection at the house.”
She placed it in his hands. “Enjoy it.”
“You are giving it to me?”
“It is yours, Lorenzo. That hill belongs to Moorsea Manor.”
“But treasure customarily belongs to whomever finds it.”
She smiled. “Then it belongs to two dogs who joined me on my walk. They dug it up. As they have no use for it, it is yours.”
“But, Valeria—”
Closing his fingers over the neck of the vase, she said, “It is yours, Lorenzo.”
He turned the vase over and over in his hands, examining it from every angle. She smiled as she saw how gentle his fingers were as they outlined the painted design. Mayhap she once had considered him gruff, but she could not now. Yes, he might appear stand-offish or shy. She knew better. He simply kept his tongue between his teeth, evaluating every situation before he spoke.
Again her gaze was drawn to his fingers, and once again her imagination wandered in directions it should not. She looked away before she was caught up in the fantasy of those fingers touching her with that same tenderness.
“This is a wonderful piece,” he said, and she knew he had not noticed how she was staring at him. “I’m not sure what to say, Valeria, except thank you.”
“If you wish, I can show you where I found it.”
“I would like that after I have a chance to study this.”
“Mayhap tomorrow if the weather cooperates.”
He started to smile, then sighed. “Tomorrow you have other plans.”
“I have made no other plans for tomorrow.”
“Mayhap not, but I fear I made other plans for you.”
Valeria slowly sat. “What do you mean?”
Dropping into his own chair, he said, “While you were enjoying your walk, we had a caller from Oates Hall.”
“So that is how Tilden knew where to find me.”
“Sir Tilden?” He frowned. “The caller was Miss Oates. She called for you, but when you were not here, came to speak with me. She wished to extend an invitation for you to join her for a gathering at Oates’s Hall tomorrow evening. I believe it is to be an evening of music and conversation.”
Valeria ignored the warmth along her face. As flushed as she was from her climb and the breeze and the sunshine, she doubted if embarrassment could make her face any redder. At least, she hoped not. “She invited just me?”
“Yes.”
“But why didn’t she invite you? This is most peculiar.”
He shrugged. “You will have to ask her. She seemed very eager to extend the invitation to you.”
“Mayhap I was mistaken about Miss Oates’s intentions toward you.” Coming to her feet, she locked her fingers together and went to look out the window. Storm clouds were rising out of the sea. She hoped they did not herald another tempest in her life. “It seems you have a cohort in your attempt to play the matchmaker, Lorenzo.”
“Why are you acting like this?” He set himself on his feet. “First, you state that life here is certain to fill you with endless ennui because you have no one to call upon or to receive. When Miss Oates offers you such an invitation, you react with dismay.”
“I don’t know.” That was a lie. She knew all too well. While Miss Oates had been here extending this invitation, Tilden had sought her out on the hill. It was so clear now. Brother and sister must have come to Moorsea Manor together, and, when they were told Valeria was out for a bit of air, Tilden had gone looking for her while Miss Oates delivered the invitation.
“Valeria, if you have no wish to go—”
“No, I would like to spend an evening listening to music and conversation.” That, at least, was the truth.
“Do you want me to go with you to the gathering at Oates’s Hall?” he asked as he came to stand next to her by the window.
She could not help comparing him to Tilden Oates. Lorenzo did not crowd her, for he left her space to make her own decisions. He saw her as a person, not just a possible wife. No man had ever treated her like this before, and it was confusing and heady at the same time. Without the familiar rules of the Polite World, she had no conventions to use as a crutch. She had to, as he was, rethink her opinions on so many things.
“You would go with me?” she asked.
“Yes.” He leaned one shoulder against the wall. “I do profess a fondness for music. It allows for discussion between each performance, so that one might understand the artist’s goal in creating the piece.”
She suddenly laughed.
“What is so funny?” he asked with a perplexed expression that had become so familiar.
She did not resist the temptation to reach up to smooth the lines furrowing his brow. He caught her wrist between his fingers, but he did not draw her hand away.
“You and I are what’s funny,” she said, but her voice had dropped to a whisper as his thumb brushed the inside of her wrist.
“What do you mean?”
“Listen to you. You are so intrigued with th
e idea of an evening of music and conversation that you are willing to make a faux pas and present yourself uninvited at Miss Oates’s door. She may very well have guessed that you would offer to escort me to Oates’s Hall.”
“She may have.”
“So she need not have asked you, and she could keep from seeming too brazen that way.” She gazed up into his blue eyes and saw something flicker within them. It slipped through him to fly along her, leaving a tremor as if she stood too close to a bolt of lightning and its thunder.
“There is nothing brazen about inviting a neighbor to an evening of music.”
“There is, if one’s intentions have more to do with marriage than music.”
“That’s an assumption on your part.”
“Yes.”
“You should be careful of assumptions.” He tilted her wrist toward his lips. Her own parted with an eager sigh as his breath glided along her skin, a sweet, moist caress. “You scratched yourself, Valeria.”
“I what?” She stared at him. That she had not expected him to say.
“You need to be more careful along the old walls.”
Jerking her arm out of his hand, she said, “I believe I can take care of myself, Lorenzo. Or are you worried that I might contract some disgusting disease that will keep you from marrying me off to Tilden?”
“What are you talking about?”
She knew she was being outrageous, but she could not halt herself. The daydream, fleeting though it had been, that he might be drawn to her as she was to him was precious. She had not wanted it destroyed by commonplaces and prittle-prattle.
“I need to decide what I shall wear tomorrow evening,” she said as she turned away. “And I told David I would spend the rest of the afternoon with him. Enjoy your vase, Lorenzo.”
She said nothing more, because she was not sure whether she would have spoken a lie or the truth. Both she feared she would regret.
Ten
Oates Hall seemed modern in comparison with the ancient walls of Moorsea Manor. Made of brick and with windows marching in neat precision across its front, it brought a sense of civilization to the untamed moors. Lights glowed at each of the windows, and torches blazed along the curved drive and on either side of the double doors that had been thrown open to welcome all the guests attending tonight’s conversazione.
The Convenient Arrangement: A Regency Romance (The Wolfe Family Book 5) Page 12