He kicked Phantom forward when it was clear Maris was immobile. He watched as the man bent to the countess and said something. Maris shook her head.
When he was just a few feet away, Reyn stopped. “Good morning. I didn’t mean to startle you. I collect we are neighbors.” The words sounded unsuspicious. Normal. There must be a God.
But she didn’t leap from her horse and into his arms and declare he was her long-lost love. In fact she looked at him as if she’d never seen him before.
“N-neighbors?” The shock in her voice was pure.
So, she didn’t know. Hadn’t been hiding from him. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Reynold Durant. My property borders this dogleg end of yours. My sister and I make our home at Merrywood Farm.”
“Cap—Mr. Durant. I am p-pleased to meet you.” She was playing it as he laid it for the benefit of her hulking companion. They were total strangers to each other—which was fundamentally true.
“I bought Merrywood in January. I understand you have recently come to Hazel Grange, Lady Kelby.” It wouldn’t seem odd that he knew her name. It was probably on everyone’s lips in the village, only he’d been too oblivious to listen.
“Y-yes.”
The rain was falling with some determination, and Maris’s servant shifted uncomfortably.
“Do forgive me for holding up your ride. Filthy weather, isn’t it? You must be on your way before you catch a chill. Good day to you then, Lady Kelby. I look forward to meeting you again under more clement skies.” Reyn wheeled Phantom away before she could respond.
His heart hammered. He could have reached across the horses and touched her skin. She was so very pale, just as she’d been when she’d found him at the Reining Monarchs Society. He’d shocked her then; he’d shocked her now.
How was it possible they were neighbors? Would she think he was stalking her? Nonsense. He’d come to the neighborhood first, had no idea that Hazel Grange belonged to the relict of the Earl of Kelby. When he first looked in the area, he was told a young family had leased the Grange, but that it was vacant. He’d been much too busy to worry about neighbors and let Ginny deal with visits and so forth.
Maris’s surprise had been so intense Reyn couldn’t tell if she’d been pleased to see him. Didn’t know if she would be pleased to see him again in a meeting that wasn’t by chance or rain-soaked. Swift had said she was not receiving. Would she make an exception for him?
She had to. He needed her to. His need was a palpable thing, preventing him from thinking clearly.
But there was one thing he had seen clearly. She’d been wearing his butterfly pin in the crown of her ugly black bonnet. It had twinkled amidst the raindrops. Totally unsuitable for a widow. If hope had wings—
He squelched his hope. Likely it was the first thing that came to hand when she fastened that monstrosity to her head. The woman needed him to help her shop, even for mourning clothes. Perhaps he should write to Madame Bernard.
His lips curled. By God, he was smiling. He imagined Maris’s face when she opened boxes at Hazel Grange and found the most exquisite mourning dresses straight from London. She might have reason to leave her house then. Pretty dresses were always a boost to a woman’s confidence.
She’d know at once who’d sent them. Reyn pictured her thank-you note. He’d work especially hard to interpret her loops and curlicues. She would invite him to the Grange, perhaps for tea, that huge servant nowhere around. She’d tell him she couldn’t possibly accept his gifts and then fall into his arms and kiss him.
Kiss him with all the ardor and innocence she possessed. It had been far too long since Reyn had experienced a kiss from his countess. He got hard simply thinking of her blush-pink mouth trembling beneath his . . . until a sluice of cold rain slithered down his neck.
Why couldn’t they engage in a discreet affair? It would not cause too much comment if he paid her a few visits. They were neighbors, after all. He might be there to advise her on draining her fields or her horse’s fetlock or the price of spring lambs. In a year—in less than a year—she might look to marry again, and there he would be, a respectable gentleman with a prosperous enterprise just next door.
He set to whistling. He wouldn’t leave Madame Bernard’s instructions to a letter. He’d go to London—why not leave in an hour? He was used to traveling light. He might visit Tattersall’s while he was there for a day or two and combine business with pleasure. Ginny would be fine. The young stable boy Jack would be elevated in consequence to think Reyn trusted him enough to be left alone with “the girls” for a few days.
Reyn’s whistling grew ever more cheerful as he entered the warped entryway of his home. During the winter, he’d planed the front door himself so it would shut properly, but the wood floor still bore evidence of years of incoming rain despite Ginny covering it with a moth-eaten Turkish rug she’d found in the attics. He tossed his riding gloves in a dented but polished copper bowl on the hall table and shook the rest of the rain off like a wet mastiff. “Ho, little sister! I’m home, but not for long,” he shouted. “Where are you?”
“In the parlor with Mrs. Beecham.”
Reyn found the two women industriously bent over lengths of curtain material. Ginny looked up, cheeks pink. “You foolish man, you are soaked through! And before you lecture me, these are for the vicarage, Reyn, so don’t think I’ve spent your coin on stuff we don’t need.”
Actually most of Merrywood’s windows could use new drapes, but he smiled down at his sister, not caring that his lawn shirt was stuck to his chest. “Moving in already? May I remind you, the man has not formally asked you—or me—yet?”
Ginny bit off some thread. “He will. The parish sewing circle is refurbishing the vicarage. It’s long overdue. I thought if I helped too I’d get some say in the decoration. You need to get out of those wet clothes.”
“You are a cagey one. Poor Mr. Swift.”
“He likes me just as I am,” Ginny replied.
“He must not know you at all,” Reyn teased. “Gin, I’ve some business in London and will be gone for a few days. You can hold down the fort without me, I know.” To his eternal shame, Ginny had gotten along most of her life without his care.
“London? Can’t I go with you?”
Reyn considered for perhaps a second. “You’ve been doing so well. Why risk it? It’s raining, too, in case you want to yell at me some more. I’m not taking the mailcoach. Old Phantom will earn his oats tonight.”
“Oh. You’re probably right.”
“It must have cost you to say that, little sister. I know I’m right. Have you forgotten the filthy air? The smells?” Reyn didn’t mind them a bit. They were the scent of civilization. Of industry. Of money.
And now that he had some, he was going to spend it on the countess he wanted to woo.
Chapter 22
Maris could not stop shaking once she got indoors. The house was warm enough. The fires were lit against the rain and chill, even in her bedroom. Betsy seemed to think pregnancy was some sort of disease and would have wrapped Maris in fur blankets and hot water bottles all day if she could.
Once out of her wet clothes, Betsy clucking and “I told you so-ing” all the while as she divested Maris of her habit, Maris headed straight for her bed and flopped down into it. She was not tired, but simply confounded.
Captain Reynold Durant was her neighbor.
How could she have not known?
Well, that was easy. She’d met no one but Mr. Prall, his sons, and Reverend Swift. She’d deliberately shut herself in—there was even a black wreath on her door—and spread the word she was not to be disturbed.
That had been liberating. She wasn’t in charge of a legion of servants or responsible for making small talk with people to whom she was totally indifferent. Henry had ignored his neighbors for the most part, but Maris had felt obligated to receive them when they dared come to call. And it was remarkable how daring some of them had been, anxious to get a look inside Kelby Hall to
examine all its treasures.
When she’d retreated to the Dower House, they still came, ostensibly out of sympathy, but Maris had felt like an ant under a magnifying glass, singed a bit by the sun. She’d never been at ease in social situations, even after being a countess for ten years. She’d caused gossip. She was the young adventuress who’d snared the great man Henry Kelby. His secretary’s daughter. Henry’s eccentricities could be forgiven because of his exalted birth, but she was a nobody.
The fact that she hadn’t conformed to anyone’s idea of a femme fatale had not stopped the talk. Somehow with her plain brown hair and plain brown eyes she’d seduced Henry into losing his good sense and making an imprudent marriage. It was all for an heir, they said, and once she had failed to deliver one, the talk only escalated.
Maris knew she was useful to Henry beyond being a broodmare, and that their partnership had been sincere, their affection for each other real. He had not been an old fool. No one could take away her ten happy years with Henry Kelby.
Except for Reyn.
He’d been scrupulously polite for Stephen Prall’s benefit, speaking to her as if she was a stranger. But he was a threat. David would find it very odd that her antiquities expert was now breeding horses right next door.
What was she to do? She trusted her little staff, but that didn’t mean David had still not set spies on her. He could have bribed her footman Aloysius Sunday afternoon once she’d gone to bed with her imaginary headache, for example.
She hadn’t made her escape—her sanctuary—at Hazel Grange after all, but jumped right from the frying pan into the roaring fire. She’d have to write to Reyn now; she had no choice. He must stay away, certainly for the remaining months of her confinement. Maris could imagine him underfoot, being solicitous, bringing her fluffy pillows and sweetmeats. His concern for her well-being would be a disaster.
Could she risk meeting him? To write of her situation would make her even more vulnerable to exposure if the letter went astray. Where could she meet him? The Grange might not be safe.
No place was safe from prying eyes and wagging tongues. Maris squeezed her eyes shut to keep the tears back. She couldn’t spend the remaining months crying. That couldn’t be good for the baby, nor would it accomplish anything. She was sick of crying, anyway; she needed to be strong for the path she’d chosen.
Reyn might not even want to see her. Perhaps his politeness was just that—a pleasant façade, a social grace. She’d been nearly mute herself.
He had looked . . . wonderful. His skin was burnished from the sun, his hair longer, unruly. He’d been hatless and the damp had twisted up his hair into curls at his neck.
Maris rolled off the bed and padded over to her little desk. She’d make the note as innocuous as possible and have Stephen deliver it.
She would write to his sister. Invite them both for tea tomorrow. Get Reyn alone somehow and tell him . . .
What?
She would think of something. She had to. Maybe she’d try the truth.
When Betsy ushered the visitors from Merrywood into her sunny parlor, Maris looked up with a practiced smile. It froze when she noticed the absence of her erstwhile lover. He hadn’t come. Did not want—
A girl unmistakably Reyn’s sister curtseyed deeply, as did her female companion. Miss Durant was possessed of the same dark hair, and same dark eyes. Same long nose, which should have spoiled her looks, but somehow made her all the more attractive.
“Thank you so much for inviting us, Lady Kelby. I am truly honored. May I introduce my friend and nurse, Mrs. Beecham?”
“W-welcome. Won’t you please be seated?”
Miss Durant looked around as she gracefully settled into a wingchair. “What a lovely house this is!”
“Thank you.” Maris’s tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. It had better unstick soon, or the young woman and Mrs. Beecham would think her unfriendly, or so clueless she’d ruin the reputation of countesses everywhere.
“I collect you have not been here long. We are also new to the area. My brother purchased Merrywood in January, and it was a challenge to get it organized. It was in such a shocking state. The house had been neglected for years, but Reyn—that’s my brother, for his sins—was more interested in the stables. That’s a man for you.
“Of course, he was in the army for almost half his life. He tells me he can sleep like a baby in filthy ditches, so a bed is of no consequence to him. Mrs. Beecham, I should be sitting next to you on the couch so you can kick me to keep silent. I’m so sorry, Lady Kelby. I’m chattering like a magpie, but I confess I’m a bit nervous. I’ve never met a countess before. I believe you’ve met my brother, though, haven’t you? He did some work for your husband before his passing. My deepest condolences for your loss.”
Maris found herself charmed by Miss Durant’s nervous prattle. “Thank you. No one needs kicking, save for myself. I’ve barely said a word.”
“How could you?” Ginny’s smile was also like her brother’s—wide and honest, with a touch of mischief. “I have not let you get one in.”
“I must do better. How do you take your tea, Miss Durant, Mrs. Beecham?” Maris kept herself busy pouring and sugaring while Miss Durant commented on the décor.
Maris was quite proud of the way Hazel Grange looked. There was nothing terribly valuable within, but with a baby coming, that was just as well. She took a deep breath. “You are close to your brother?”
“Oh, yes! Reyn is the best of brothers. He sold his commission for me, you know, to take care of me. I used to be very ill, but I’m much better now. Isn’t that so, Mrs. Beecham?”
That was the least of what he’d done for his sister.
“Indeed it is, I’m thankful to say. I’m hardly needed anymore.” The nurse smiled at her charge.
“Nonsense! I hope you’ll live with us forever. I’m to be married soon, Lady Kelby, but it’s a bit of a secret just yet. Even my intended is not aware of the date.”
Maris laughed. Miss Durant was a delight, every bit as amusing as her brother. “What does Captain Durant have to say about all that?”
“Oh, he’s grumbled a bit. But he knows he can’t stop me when I make my mind up. I’m very like him in that way. Did you get to know him at all when he was at Kelby Hall?”
“Just a little. Once my husband died, the need for his services ceased. How is he? I-I expected him to be with you today.”
“Oh, he’s gone off to London. Something about a horse. No doubt he will be very sorry to have missed this afternoon. We are extremely honored to be here. I understand you’ve done very little entertaining, Lady Kelby.”
“None, in fact. I was very surprised to meet Captain Durant on my ride yesterday. It . . . it seemed only neighborly I should ask an acquaintance to tea.”
A horse. So much for her having dazzled him.
“If it’s not too terribly presumptuous for me to ask, Lady Kelby, when is your blessed event?” Mrs. Beecham asked. “I would be honored to assist you in any way I can. I worked in the Viscount Leith’s household for a number of years when his family was young.”
Miss Durant’s face lit. “You’re having a baby? How splendid! But how sad, too, that your husband won’t be here.”
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Damn Mrs. Beecham and her sharp eyes. Surely it was most improper that she, nurse or not, bring up such a thing, but Maris’s parlor seemed filled with improper people, most especially herself. Maris’s voluminous black dress with its high waist was supposed to prevent such speculation. She really was not showing all that much, she didn’t think, which sometimes worried her. What if the baby arrived too small to live? What if there was something wrong with it that she couldn’t fix with love and devotion? No matter what, she thought with fierceness, her child would be cared for with every ounce of her capability.
“It’s not generally known that I am enceinte,” Maris said carefully. “Under the circumstances, I wish to keep my privacy. It is sad, Miss Durant. Hen
ry would have been thrilled.”
A dreadful thought occurred to her. Reyn must not learn of her condition from his sister’s artless conversation. “I would have you say nothing of it to anyone, not even your brother. I—” Maris shook her head—“It’s important to me that I not become the latest news of the day. I don’t wish people to feel sorrier for me than they already do.”
“The baby will be a joy to take your mind off your sorrow,” Mrs. Beecham assured her. “I’m sure the people of Shere would be nothing but happy for you. In our experience, everyone has been very welcoming. And everyone does seem to love a baby.”
“Nevertheless.”
Mrs. Beecham flinched at the steel behind Maris’s single word.
“Of course we’ll respect your wishes,” Miss Durant said quickly. “Reyn wouldn’t care anyway. All he wants to do is tend to his horses. Horse-mad, he is, has been since he was a little boy. It’s lovely to see him take an interest in something. Be so settled. My big brother is growing up.” Miss Durant laughed ruefully. “I did worry for him, you know. He’s always been so restless. Up for any lark. Perhaps his brief time at Kelby Hall made him see the error of his ways. He’s very serious now. A regular sober-sides.”
Maris could not imagine that. But if she was lucky she wouldn’t see him in any incarnation. She just had to convince him to stay away, though her scheme for the day was a total failure.
Well, to be fair, Miss Durant was good company. For a young woman who’d spent most of her life in a sickbed, she was cheerful and outgoing, and made Maris laugh out loud several times as they spent the next half hour together. In another universe, Ginny Durant might be her sister-in-law, eagerly anticipating becoming an aunt.
Maris felt a twinge of guilt to heap upon the ever-mounting pile of recriminations. Her guilty conscience had a guilty conscience. But it wouldn’t do to dwell on the mistake she’d make with Reyn Durant. A child had resulted, and certainly no child was a mistake, no matter how it was conceived. The baby was a blessed event, as Mrs. Beecham said, no matter who your god was or how you worshipped. A miracle.
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