“Very good, my lady. His Lordship proposes that you join him for luncheon, and as the day is quite fine, he recommends a picnic. If you agree, I am to have Mrs. Fraser prepare one.”
“Yes, thank you. That would be lovely.”
“His Lordship also suggested that you pack before you join him since the two of you are taking the five o’clock train for London.”
She felt a stab of disappointment at that reminder how short their time was here, but she nodded. “Have my maid pack my things, if you would,” she told the butler. “I’m going for a walk after breakfast.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Belinda ate her breakfast, then occupied her time with a tour of the house and grounds. It was a charming house, at least on the outside. The inside, as Nicholas had told her, was rather awful. But the rooms were well proportioned, and with a bit of ingenuity and some work, they could be made quite attractive. Outside, there were lovely cottage gardens and herbaceous borders, and a forest of birch trees to the north. To the east was the home farm, and past it, the tenant cottages and farms. To the south and west, the hops and barley fields rolled out to the horizon in lush, green waves.
Honeywood was a warm and pretty place, not like Featherstone Castle. That house had always seemed like a mausoleum, a cold lump of granite and marble in the middle of Yorkshire. She had hated it there.
Belinda found a garden bench with a view of the hops. Even from here, she could smell them, a fresh, herbal scent that reminded her a bit of evergreen needles. She breathed in the scented air, so much nicer than London, and gazed out at the fields, but in her mind, she was thinking of Nicholas, and yesterday. It had been amazing and erotic and the most wonderful experience of her life. She wanted to do it all again—be undressed by him, held and kissed by him, made love to by him. And not just that—she wanted to simply be with him. It made her happy, happier than she could ever remember being, and she wanted to kick herself for taking so long to make up her mind to come to him. As May Buchanan had said, love was really pretty simple.
Love. There it was. That word, the one she hadn’t let herself think about. It had been years since she’d thought of love in conjunction with her own life. Until now, she’d been content, but she hadn’t been aware of the loneliness beneath that contentment. But leaving him last night, lying alone, hugging her pillow, she’d been painfully aware of the void that had been inside her for years—perhaps for her entire life. Could Nicholas fill that void? Was she willing to trust him, to let him? Was she falling in love with him?
If so, it wasn’t like her love for Charles. It was far more erotic, for one thing. She thought of Nicholas’s eyes, of the way he’d looked at her when she’d been naked in front of him, a way Charles had never looked at her. But was that love? Her feeling for Charles had been a crush, an infatuation that she knew now could never have grown into a deeper love because Charles had been incapable of that. He had not been, she realized now, a man who could truly love anyone.
Nicholas, as he’d pointed out to her back in May, was not Charles. She knew that now, and she believed his declaration of love last night was genuine. She was less certain about her own feelings.
Time was probably the only way she could be sure of what she felt. She was always cautioning her clients to take their time, and yet, she knew she did not have that luxury. The longer this affair went on, the more risk to her reputation. And it wasn’t even as if Nicholas’s declaration had included a proposal of marriage. Without marriage, a woman in love had nothing but shame and social ruin waiting for her down the road. On the other hand, if Nicholas asked her to marry him, would she agree? What if all he wanted was an affair? Could that be enough for her?
Her mind couldn’t help going over these questions again and again throughout the morning, and when a footman led her down to meet Nicholas that afternoon with a picnic basket, she still had no answers, but when she saw him, standing by the hops fields, she knew it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was now.
He was talking with another, older gentleman when she arrived, seeming wholly at ease as the two men discussed the crop, and she realized in some surprise that country life suited him. He wore no hat, and his hair gleamed like amber honey in the sun. The simple clothing he wore—linen shirt, tweed trousers, and riding boots—fitted his body even more perfectly than the tailored morning coats and dinner jackets of town. As if to confirm that fact, he lifted his arm in a sweeping gesture across the hops fields before him, and the bright sunlight showed the silhouette of his torso through the linen. Yes, she thought, appreciating the sight, country life suited him very well indeed.
She’d never had thoughts like this about a man before, but now, as she lowered her gaze to his narrow hips and remembered what he looked like without his trousers, she realized how much she liked this sort of thinking, and it was a realization that made her smile. Heavens, what would society think if they knew that Lady Featherstone was capable of such lascivious thoughts, especially about the Marquess of Trubridge? What a sensation that would make.
As if he sensed her watching, he turned, and when he caught sight of her standing with the footman, he smiled back at her and brought his conversation with the older gentleman to an immediate end. “Thank you, Mr. Burroughs. My apologies for making you miss church services.”
“No apologies necessary, my lord. I know you’re leaving for London today. And don’t tell my wife, but I’ll not regret giving services a miss. Our vicar is a bit long-winded.”
Nicholas laughed. “Well then, go on to the pub and enjoy the rest of your Sunday. I’ve kept you long enough.” As the other man was walking away, Nicholas turned to the footman and took the picnic basket. “Thank you, Noah. You may go.”
“Very good, Your Lordship.” He bowed to her. “My lady.”
As Noah departed back up the path to the house, Nicholas turned to her. “What are you thinking about that’s making you smile like a cat in the cream jug?” he asked, and leaned closer. “I hope it’s the same thing I’m thinking about.”
Her smile widened. “I was thinking how much country dress suits you.”
“I was rather hoping you were remembering what I look like undressed.”
“Maybe I was,” she blurted out before she could stop herself.
His smile vanished, and she thought she heard him catch his breath, but when he spoke, his voice was carelessly light. “My, my, how naughty you’ve become,” he murmured, and pressed a kiss to her mouth, then he turned away before she could reply and gestured to a nearby meadow. “I thought we might dine over there.”
She agreed, and soon they had trampled down a space of knee-high grass and daisies, spread out their blanket, and sat down with the picnic basket.
“Let’s see what’s in here, shall we?” Nicholas opened the basket and began pulling out various foodstuffs as he laid them on the blanket between them. “We have bread, ham, two cheeses, pickles, a pot of mustard, and blackberries. Hmm, no wine?” He took another look in the basket. “Ah, she gave us beer.”
He pulled out two bottles, but when he held one out to her, she shook her head. “I don’t drink.”
“What?” He looked at her askance. “Belinda, I make beer. Are you never going to drink any?”
She shook her head again, laughing at his chagrin. “I don’t like the taste.”
“Worse and worse!” He flipped the top of the bottle, letting the stopper fall back against the glass with a clink, and took a swallow. “It’s not your morals that stop you, but your palate?”
She made a face at him. “Oh, very well, when you make all these hops into beer, I’ll taste it. I won’t promise to like it, mind you, but I’ll taste it.”
“That’s my girl.” He leaned across the foodstuffs between them and kissed her again, a kiss that tasted of beer, but somehow, she didn’t quite mind the taste on his lips.
He sat back
, took another look in the picnic basket, and heaved a sigh. “No poetry? Dash it, I told Mrs. Fraser to toss a book or two in with the sandwiches.”
She frowned in bewilderment. “But you don’t like poetry.”
“Stuff.” He plucked a blackberry from its woven basket and popped one into his mouth. “Where did you ever get such a notion? I’m English, my darling. I adore poetry. And I wanted to read you some Shelley today. Every man should read Shelley to his lover over a picnic. Or Byron—women always like him better. You’d fall straight into my arms and make mad, passionate love to me right here in the grass if I read you Byron.”
She felt her cheeks heating at those words. In fact, her whole body was growing hot, but she felt impelled to correct him. “I never fall straight into your arms.”
“More’s the pity. I’d adore it if you would.”
“I still don’t understand about the poetry,” she said, deciding it was safest to stick to that subject. “You said you like the sciences.”
“So I do. I also like poetry. I am a multifaceted man, my darling. What?” he added, laughing at her confounded expression. “I can’t like both?”
“But that day when we discussed what sort of woman you wanted, you said you didn’t like poetry.”
“No,” he corrected. “To the best of my recollection, what I said was that I hate worrying about tercets and quatrains. And that’s true. It’s because of Eton, you see.”
“Eton?” She shook her head, laughing. He really was the most unaccountable man. “I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”
“When I was a boy at Eton, they were constantly at us to compose poetry, and forever chastising us if our compositions didn’t use the proper form for the assignment.”
He frowned at her. “No, no, no, Trubridge,” he said in the severe, lecturing voice a professor at Eton might have employed, “that isn’t a haiku. A haiku has seventeen morae. You’ve used eighteen.” He ate another blackberry. “I like poetry, and I like science, but they aren’t the same, and they can’t be approached the same way. In science, one must use precise measurements, all one should worry about in regard to a poem is if it sounds right.”
“So, it wasn’t Blake you disliked that day at the National Gallery, but Geraldine Hunt’s recitation of it?”
He groaned. “She was almost as bad at reciting Blake as my schoolmates. Can you imagine listening to thirteen-year-old boys standing up in front of you reading Songs of Innocence and Experience? It was torture.”
“You were thirteen, too,” she pointed out.
He grinned and took another swallow of beer. “Yes, well, I was better at reciting poetry than other boys.”
She laughed. “Or perhaps you just like to think so.”
“Why don’t you be the judge?” He pulled a few more blackberries from the basket and leaned back, resting his weight on his forearm and hip. He studied her for a few moments, eating berries, then he said, “As breath to life, she is to me; as springtime sun to winter’s icy dart. A stab by knife, her frown to see; her smile one of summer to a January heart.”
Belinda’s breath caught, not only at what he said, but the tender way he looked at her as he said it. “I . . .” She paused, her voice failing. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’ve never heard that poem before.”
“I shouldn’t think so,” he said, and popped another berry into his mouth. “Since I just made it up.”
“What? Just now?” When he nodded, she shook her head, amazed. “It was beautiful.”
“Thank you, but an Etonian professor wouldn’t agree. I’m sure I missed a syllable or two in there somewhere.”
“I didn’t notice,” she assured him. “I thought it was lovely.”
“Thank you, but I don’t compose much now that I don’t have to.”
“You should.”
“Yes, well, perhaps with you as my muse, I shall take it up again. But enough about me.” He rolled over, settled onto his stomach, resting his weight on his forearms as he looked up at her. “Let’s talk about you.”
She shrugged in a deprecating way, hoping not to have to talk about herself. “There isn’t much to tell that you don’t already know, I imagine.”
“I disagree. I know almost nothing about you.”
She stirred on the grass, uncomfortable. She hated talking about herself. “What do you want to know?”
“Where you grew up. Your parents. School.”
“I was born in Ohio. Like yours, my mother died when I was very young. My father is still alive. For school, I had a governess.”
“You didn’t go to away to school?”
“No, but then, many girls don’t.”
“True. What’s your father like?”
“A ne’er-do-well.”
“And where is he now?”
“Nevada somewhere. Silver-mine concessions. I don’t really know where.”
He waited, but when she said nothing more, he sat up, looking at her as if quite aggrieved. “Belinda, really! This is like pulling secrets from the Sphinx.”
“I don’t talk about myself much.” She took a deep breath. “The truth is I’m quite shy. I told you so . . . last night.”
“Yes, I remember, but many women are shy when their clothes come off.”
She wondered how many women gave him reason to know. She didn’t ask, but she knew there were probably quite a few.
“Still,” he went on, forcing her to put aside petty speculations about the other women he’d bedded. “I would never have thought you shy in conversation.”
“I’ve learned to hide it. I had to after I married Charles. A countess is expected to entertain, to be the hostess of house parties, to supervise servants. I had to learn to cope.” She gave a little laugh. “It was rather in the manner of sink or swim. Charles wasn’t . . . much help. He—”
She stopped. Perhaps she shouldn’t talk about her husband.
“What about him?” Nicholas asked when she didn’t go on.
“I loved him. He knew that. I mean, I said it once before we married, but he didn’t say it back. He didn’t say anything. He just smiled and changed the subject. I thought he was like me.”
“Shy? Featherstone?”
“Not, shy, no, but like me in the sense that perhaps he found it hard to say how he felt when it was important. I’m like that. The important things always make me the most tongue-tied.”
“Everyone’s like that to some extent. My shields of choice are to be witty and careless and pretend I don’t care. Yours are silence and propriety.”
“Charles’s was indifference. I mean, he was charming to me before we married, but afterward . . .” She stopped and swallowed hard. “I told him again that I loved him the morning after we were married, after he . . . after we . . . he said—” She stopped again. “This is difficult,” she said after a moment.
Nicholas reached over to cup her face, make her look at him. “What did he say?”
Belinda made herself tell him. “He said, ‘Let’s not pretend, shall we? We both know love isn’t the reason I married you. We’ll have a much easier time of it if you don’t insist upon declarations of affection or demand of me feelings which I don’t possess.’ ”
“Good God.” He blinked, staring at her in disbelief.
“You’re shocked.”
“Shocked? I’m nauseated.” He moved to sit beside her and took her in his arms, held her close, kissed her mouth. “My darling. I can’t begin to imagine how that must have hurt.”
“Can’t you?” She lifted her head from his shoulder, turned her head to look up at him. “What about the girl you loved? The one your father bribed to go away? Didn’t that hurt?”
“Well, yes, but Kathleen was just weak. She wasn’t deliberately cruel. Hell, she was an angel compared to your husband.” He pressed a kiss to h
air. “And I had no idea. I never saw a cruel streak in him. I mean, I didn’t know him well, of course, but whenever he came to see Jack, he always seemed an amiable sort of man to me.”
“Oh, yes,” she agreed. “Very amiable. He was always quite amiable to me, too . . . in public. In private, he didn’t bother. In fact, he seldom spoke to me at all. I think he often forgot I was even there. But then, he was almost never home. And I was already so insecure, all that made me more so.”
“You must have felt unbelievably lonely.”
“I was. Nancy was who really helped me. Lady Montcrieffe. We became friends, and she taught me ways to overcome my shyness with others. She used the same trick her governesses used on her. When we were both in town or together at some house party, we’d go for long walks. At every corner or every ten arborvitaes, or something along that line, I’d have to ask her a question.”
“Ah. Forcing you to make conversation.”
“Yes. If I couldn’t think of anything to ask, I had to recite, ‘I am a thistle sifter,’ to the next person we met, no matter who it was, be it shopgirl, housemaid, or chimney sweep. Once, I had to say it to a duchess.”
He laughed at that. “They all probably thought you mad.”
“Exactly so. It was so awful a prospect, that I soon had an entire repertoire of questions I could fall back on, so no one ever had to endure my long silences at dinner. And I began to realize that if I got other people to talk about themselves, I wouldn’t have to talk about myself. And I have a knack for observation—so many years of sitting in a corner watching and listening to others, I suppose.”
“All of which helps you be a matchmaker, I should imagine.”
“Yes. It’s much easier for me to talk to people nowadays, and I’m more self-assured than I was as a girl. But underneath it all, I’m still shy. I have to be in the grip of very powerful forces, I think, before I can reveal my true feelings.”
That made him a laugh a little. “Then I obviously spark very strong forces in you because you’ve never held back speaking your mind to me.”
American Heiress [1]When The Marquess Met His Match Page 26