He filled her list silently, lining up the flour and salt and other items on the counter. A month ago they would have had some conversation while she shopped here. Mr. Preston would have laughed and smiled in his avuncular way. Now his mouth formed a hard line that said he would sell to her, but she deserved nothing more.
She plucked a few coins from her reticule to pay. Mr. Preston had never told her that he would no longer allow her any credit at his shop. Three days ago his wife had followed her out to the lane and explained it.
The scandal had made its way to Watlington a week ago. It seemed to float in on the wind. People who had been helpful and sympathetic after Tim fled, friends who had known her for years, managed not to see her anymore. She would live even more isolated than before from now on.
She handed Mr. Preston another coin and the letter. “Would you please see that this is sent for me? Here is the money to make it postpaid.”
She packed her items in her basket and left the shop. Once more, Mrs. Preston appeared out of nowhere and followed her out to the lane.
“There was a man looking for you,” she said.
Rose stopped walking. “What man?”
“Didn’t give his name. Gentleman from the looks of it. He came in about a half hour ago and asked where your house was.” Mrs. Preston tried mightily to keep both censure and curiosity from her round face, without success.
Rose’s heart sank. This was all she needed—a stranger asking for directions to Miss Longworth’s house. The last gentleman who had called had been Lord Norbury, and now everyone knew what that had meant.
She could not bear the insult of a stranger at her door, introducing himself as if she were the whore that the scandal said she was.
“I am expecting no callers, Mrs. Preston. Nor do I wish to receive any. I ask that you and your husband not satisfy a passing stranger’s curiosity regarding where I live.”
“Oh, we didn’t tell him anything. Not for us to aid the devil.” Mrs. Preston’s head lifted and her gaze shot down the lane. “Well, there he be, coming out of the tavern.”
Rose snuck a quick look over her shoulder. She caught a bare glimpse of a man swinging onto a horse.
She decided that her visit to the butcher could wait until tomorrow. It wasn’t as if she could afford to buy much meat anyway. She walked back up the lane toward the countryside and her home.
She heard nothing, but she knew that man had seen her. She felt him following her. Eventually the subtle thuds of his horse’s hooves approached behind her.
“Miss Longworth? Is that you?”
She knew that voice. She turned.
“Mr. Bradwell, what a surprise.”
He gazed down at her, his remarkable blue eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. Like the last time she had seen him, his garments showed not the slightest sartorial excess or individuality. The dark riding coat, fawn breeches, and high boots had been chosen to be unobjectionable.
“I was in the county and thought that I would see how you are faring, Miss Longworth.” He glanced back at the diminished village, then ahead on the road. “May I walk with you?”
It would be rude to refuse, and in truth she would not mind the company. “Yes, you may.”
He swung off his mount. They strolled down the road while he led the animal by its reins. He took the basket from her hand. “I wondered if I had misunderstood where you lived. No one back there seemed to know who you were.”
“In their own way I think that they were protecting me. You are not known here.”
“Of course. I understand.”
That was something that she liked about this man. He understood. He had that night too. Understood that she had given herself to a man when she shouldn’t. Understood that the auction would probably lead to her rape. Understood that he could spare her that horror, but not the rest of that night’s consequences.
She looked over at him on occasion while they walked. She had never seen him in daylight before. The strong bones and planes of his face did not appear so rough now, without lamps and moonlight chiseling them into harsh angles. It was a thoroughly masculine face, and its expression and his manner reflected the calm confidence that had led him to play the rescuer.
Her other impressions from that night were not much changed by the bright light of the sun. She still sensed a leashed energy in him despite his polite, almost quiet speech. His size and presence still seemed to force the air to roll away to make room. He even incited the same little buzzing caution.
That made no sense. There was no reason to fear this man. He had proven himself most trustworthy and more than decent. She actually experienced secure safety with him beside her. And yet she also experienced a physical alertness. That was not entirely unpleasant, but she was too aware of his size and of the manner in which her blood and instincts reacted to him.
“Has it been bad for you in town? The scandal, I mean.” She asked to make conversation, not that he appeared to require any. The way he merely walked beside her had become a little awkward, however. For her, at least. Without words, all they shared was the road itself, like the strangers they practically were.
No, not like strangers. There existed a palpable, silent intimacy borne of that dreadful night’s events. The awkwardness came from feeling such a stark familiarity with a person she hardly knew.
“It is already passing, and another man might have even enjoyed the attention.” He gave her a sympathetic half-smile. “Such is the injustice in the world, Miss Longworth.”
“I am relieved to hear it still exists. Your role was chivalrous, and I would not like to think that you paid with your reputation as well as your purse. I expect that I am goat enough for the wags to prod. Am I still the topic of choice in town, or will word of my sins be passed around only county drawing rooms now?”
His expression grew more serious. “Has your cousin not communicated with you? I think Lady Alexia would be a better ear for you.”
“Alexia has written twice, even though she should not. Lord Hayden either does not know that she risks her own name in continuing such congress, or else he cannot deny her. I returned both letters unopened.”
“No one would know if you read them.”
“It is astonishing what people come to know. I will not risk Alexia being tainted by any of this. However…” She thought of Tim’s letter, and how her resolve also created problems. “Will you be returning to London soon, Mr. Bradwell? If so, perhaps you would bring my cousin a message from me. There are times when one has to address the living even if one is essentially dead.”
“I will begin back this afternoon. I will do it gladly.”
She watched the slight swing of her basket along his slow stride. “Perhaps it would be better if you did not speak with her, but with Lord Hayden. He will then let her know. Yes, that would be best.”
“I will do it however you prefer.”
She steeled her composure to speak without emotion. “Please tell him that I have received news from Timothy. Tell him that Tim writes that the companion who traveled with him died of a fever contracted in late summer.”
“Nothing more? No news of how he fares or where he is?”
She looked over to find him watching her. His blue eyes appeared dark beneath his hat’s brim. Dark and curious and…hard.
“He fares well enough for one alone and sad.”
“You also appear alone and sad. I trust he does not fare better than you. That would be unjust.”
She thought that a peculiar thing to say. It contained a good dose of truth, but this man would not know why.
“I do not mind being alone. The sadness you see is only today’s spirit, made low by the letter from my brother. If you had chanced by tomorrow I would have been better company.”
They reached the lane to her house. Mr. Bradwell turned down it with her.
“You avoided my question. I take that to mean the gossip about me still rages, and is as bad as I feared,” she said.
; “If it is any consolation, Lord Norbury is not escaping unscathed.”
“For every criticism, he will receive two dinner invitations. Being a libertine has never damaged a man much.”
The trees flanking the lane thinned and fell away as they arrived at the house. Mr. Bradwell removed his hat and surveyed the property with a slow, alert scan. He appeared to approve of what he saw.
She paused and looked at her house, seeing it anew through this man’s eyes. It had more charm than distinction in its stone block center and assortment of wings that did not really match. It rose only two stories, so it sprawled more than towered. It was big, while not especially grand, but the gardens crowding its walls sent wonderful fragrance into every chamber in spring and summer.
“My family has lived here for five generations. Our estate was once much larger, but there is still some land left, and six small farms.”
He narrowed his gaze on the outbuildings barely visible beyond the eastern wing. “Is it a freehold?”
“There is no entailment. My grandfather did not approve of them, and my father neglected to arrange one before he passed away.”
“Careless.”
She opened the door. The house’s gaping emptiness crackled with her arrival. It waited to echo with her solitary footsteps.
She thanked Mr. Bradwell as she took the basket from him.
To her surprise he stepped back and tied his horse’s reins to a post.
“I have an interest in buildings, Miss Longworth. Perhaps you would be so kind as to let me see the inside of yours.”
He waited patiently for her to respond. Tall. Imposing. Impressive. There was very little breeze today, but again she sensed the air churning in the space between them. That silly, almost exciting sense of caution pulsed through her more strongly.
She glanced around the empty yard and their isolation. “It would be comical for me to stand on ceremony now, wouldn’t it? Inviting you inside is a small impropriety in light of the big ones attached to my name.”
“If you prefer to avoid this small one, I understand.”
Of course he did. But it would still be ludicrous, and he understood that too. This man would probably not ask such a thing of a woman with a shred of reputation left to be risked. Like his garments, his behavior would be unexceptionable in the extreme.
She did not make her decision on that basis, however. The cruel truth was that she hungered to hear a voice other than the one in her own head. His unexpected visit had lightened her mood and helped relieve her sorrow about Tim’s letter.
“Please come in and study the house to your content, sir.”
He had not lied. He had been in the county and came to see how she was faring. But he had ridden far out of his way, and Easterbrook’s offer had occupied his mind for days during those spells when that mind was not occupied by other things.
He had recognized her on the road even at a distance. From the back all he could see was her bonnet and cloak, but she had drawn his eye at once. The pride with which she walked had identified her more clearly than any portrait ever could.
He stepped across her threshold, accepting the invitation that a good woman should not give. He was glad that she had not stood on ceremony. There might yet be games between them, but she was too sensible to try to play the cards of virtue, propriety, or safety with him.
He was curious about this house, and her. As he looked over the former, he knew at once how she was faring. Not well. The chambers were all but empty. Whatever furniture had once graced this home had been sold.
It went without saying that there were no servants. The yard had been empty and no sounds had come from the stables or gardens. Now the house quaked with a silence that their presence only seemed to amplify.
She noticed him taking it all in. She removed her cloak and turned away to untie her bonnet. “My brother Timothy suffered financial reversals. Severe ones. You may have heard about it last spring.”
“Yes, I am aware of that.” Financial reversals, hell. The scoundrel dared not return to England. “How did this property survive unsold?”
“Lord Hayden made sure that my sister and I would not be put out. He protected us and this holding. That is what I meant that night when I spoke of his generosity. He covered all my brother’s debts. Of course, I can never repay him.”
Actually, Lord Hayden had not covered all of the debts, much as he had tried to. At least one person had refused to be made whole by other than Longworth himself. Nor had that restitution satisfied everyone who accepted it.
She led him into the drawing room. Three wooden chairs remained there, and one small table and a worn carpet. The windows had been stripped of their silks and left with only a thin, white translucent draping.
“Please sit, Mr. Bradwell. Allow me to arrange some refreshment for you.”
She was gone before he could decline. He did not sit, but instead paced the room, taking its measurements by foot and eye. He examined the sills and ceiling, then moved to the dining room and did the same.
He examined the library, then wandered to the back of the house. Slight sounds drew him to the kitchen.
Miss Longworth stood at a worktable near a window. The afternoon sun glistened off her blond hair and bathed her profile in a glaring light that permitted no hiding of imperfections. Even from the doorway he could trace the delicate line of that profile and count the long, golden lashes that hovered above the lovely curve of her porcelain cheek.
She is not for the likes of you, boy. That was what he had thought that night he admired her in the theater. The warning had been repeated often during the last few days, while Easterbrook’s mad scheme cast its lures in his head.
She was beautiful and elegant and proud. She was from a family that had been among the best in this county for five generations. Definitely not for him.
She carefully sliced a pie, or what remained of one. Beyond the window he could see fruit trees growing. She had picked the apples herself and made this pie herself. He glanced over the meager stores on the kitchen shelving. That pie was probably intended to last her for a week.
Two glasses of cider waited on the table. She slid the pie pieces onto two plates.
“Allow me to help you,” he said.
She twirled on her feet like a dancer at the sound of his voice. He ignored her blush and lifted the glasses and walked back to the chairs in the drawing room.
“I see that you do for yourself,” he said after a few bites of the pie. It was almost inedible. It tasted like she had scrimped on both sugar and salt.
“My father left debts, so we lived modestly here afterward. Only when my brother bought a partnership in a London bank did our situation improve. For a while, that is.”
“That would be your older brother, Benjamin? The one who died in Greece?”
Her expression fell at his mention of that old grief, so much that he regretted bringing it up. Her lids lowered in a poignant acknowledgment of his reference.
She nibbled a bit of her pie. “Due to those earlier years of scrimping, I have long experience with doing for myself. I do not mind. It is good to be occupied.”
“I would have expected Lord Hayden to ensure that you did not live alone in an empty house.”
“I have refused his generosity for myself. I cannot for my younger sister. She lives with them now. Alexia says that I am too proud, but it is not pride that makes me refuse. Her husband is paying dearly for matters not of his doing. I am grateful, but I feel guilty enough without taking an allowance too.”
She blushed on the word guilty. He did not know if she referred to her recent sins or those of her brother Timothy. If the latter, the guilt was misplaced.
She was just one more of Timothy Longworth’s many victims. No doubt the bastard had counted on that allowance from Lord Hayden keeping his sisters in modest style at least. If so, one Longworth had misjudged another one’s sense of fair play.
“The pie is very good,” he said after finishing the
last mouthful.
“You are just being kind.” The flattery pleased her, though.
“Not at all. I eat a lot of fruit pies and know a good one. I even eat them for breakfast some days because I enjoy them so much. Do you have an apple tree in your garden?”
“Yes. Would you like to see it? We might take a walk. I’ll show you the garden and the property if you like.”
“I am always interested in such things.”
It was not until they were out in that garden that she spoke again. He had paced well into it so he could see the back of the house from a good perspective.
“I notice that you do not indulge your interest in buildings and land with a casual eye, Mr. Bradwell.”
“That is because I do not have a casual interest, but rather a professional one.”
“Are you an estate agent?”
“On occasion. I build houses, and I am stealing ideas from yours.”
“You are an architect, then?”
“On occasion.”
He turned his attention from the house just in time to see her working it out. Her mouth pursed and her lids lowered a fraction.
“You are one of those men who take estates and divide them up, aren’t you? As they have been doing in Middlesex so much.”
He could tell that she found the notion distasteful. Many did. “People who own land often want to develop it. There would be no Mayfair without men like me, decades ago. No London squares.” He knew all the objections. He answered the ones that he suspected formed in her head. “I assure you that when I design the houses for those small estates, you would never know they had not been there for generations. As I said, I am stealing ideas from yours and to that purpose.”
“Can they require that? Do the people who lease or sell their land get to demand that the new homes do not ruin the countryside?”
“Since there is never enough land to satisfy the demand, they can require whatever they choose.”
Without further comment, she strolled down the garden. He followed her along a path that revealed squared sections of worked ground, indicating that vegetables and flowers grew here in summer.
Secrets of Surrender Page 5