by Sarita Leone
“I am glad I amuse someone. So, why are you sneaking up on me?”
“It is hardly sly to stroll one’s gardens, is it? Had you not been so intent on scaring the birds with your colorful language you might have heard me.”
A pair of wrens landed on the pergola. Immediately they began to sing, the female’s warble louder and longer than the male’s song.
“Just like humans, those birds.” He raised one eyebrow, and she recognized his intent to tease.
Rising to his bait, a long-standing habit, she asked, “How so?”
“Oh, can’t you hear? The woman is doing all the talking, and every time he attempts to tell his side of the story, she shushes him with another long rebuttal.”
Oliver’s grin dared her to refute him, so she smiled prettily and played along. It was much less tedious, speaking with an old friend, than contemplating her affairs.
“Well, it certainly does seem that way. But, perhaps she must get the words in while she can.” They watched as the male took flight, leaving the female singing after him. She, too, flapped away, following her mate in sudden feathery silence. “There you have it. She had to speak while she could, because he was already planning to leave her behind. Just like a man…” Her voice caught. Horrified she might cry, she leaned down for the palette.
“You paint beautifully, you know. You always have.”
Oliver’s tone was kind, his words gentle. She gathered her emotions and turned a critical eye on the piece. The water spots were hardly noticeable and now that they were dry were readily fixed. She took the brush, shook it toward the grass, and dipped it in the green paint.
“That is a very nice thing to say.” She feathered the green in, covering the spots so well they were lost to her brush strokes.
“It is the truth.”
Amy finished attending to the grass. She put the brush back into the water cup—carefully this time—and placed the paint palette on the ground again. She turned to face him.
“You have always been kind. Even when we were children, you were never one of those mean boys who pulled hair or put frogs in unexpected places. I always appreciated that.”
He put his elbows on his knees, leaned forward and clasped his hands. A smile, then a shrug which pulled his jacket tight over his wide shoulders. She remembered how it felt to be carried in his arms, how much strength came from those shoulders.
“I was older. It did not seem kind to torture you ladies. Also, Father kept a close eye on me, and I knew that if I did not act the role of a duke’s son, there would be payment due when he learned what I was up to. So, it was not difficult to behave like a gentleman.”
It was not a conscious thought that brought her hand up to cover her heart, but a response to the sharp stabbing between her breasts. Her heart lurched, and she held her breath for a moment.
A comforting hand, closing the distance between them. He put it on her back, bringing warmth and reassurance where a chill had just shot up her spine.
“Are you unwell again?”
She shook her head, the absolute opposite of what she wanted to do. But how to ever admit her heartache? Or the fear that turned her cold?
“No, I’m not. I’m fine, really.”
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
It was an act of supreme determination that pulled her lips upward. Smiling in the face of humiliation and fear was not effortless, but she did it.
“No ghost. Just…” How to explain without fibbing too terribly?
Another man would have let the topic drop. He would have commented again on her painting. On the birds. On the scent of roses that filled the air surrounding them. Another man would have done all that—and more, even—to not have an unfortunate conversation with a woman.
Oliver Gregory was not “another man” by any means. He ran a palm down her back, gentling her with the compassionate touch while he encouraged her confidence.
“Just what? You know you can talk with me, don’t you? I would not even divulge what you share to the queen herself. I promise, Amy.”
Promise. The word held such high hopes. Raised a woman’s heart to soar in skies she had only imagined were real.
So much rode on the seven short letters, it was almost criminal to casually utter them.
Because some things were not real, and some intentions were not kind, and there were moments that did not warrant using the word when the only promise behind its utterance was a lie. It was a lesson she had already learned—and one she did not intend to forget.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” She sounded bitter, even to her own ears. Experience colored her tone. Loneliness, despair, and broken trust made a woman harder than she
should ever be.
“I don’t. You can trust me.” He did not remove his hand, although it stopped moving and lay across her shoulders. “Please, tell me what is wrong. We can fix it together, no one need ever know what we are up to. But I need you to talk with me—share your unhappiness so we can turn that frown into a smile.”
She was tempted. Oh, so very tempted. To just lay the burden down, not to be the only soul in existence who knew the secrets of her traitorous heart.
But a man’s promise was worthless. She didn’t know much at this point, but she knew that.
“There is no unhappiness to share. I am fine, really.”
“Those who say they are fine are generally the ones who are furthest from it. After a lifetime of friendship, you cannot confide in me? Even after I have given you my word to keep your secrets?” The sadness in his eyes almost made her capitulate. But, he was, sad eyes or not, a man.
And there was no good to come of trusting a man.
“I have no secrets, Oliver. I promise.”
Chapter 16
“We have been sitting about like bumps on logs for too many days. We need to get out, even if just for an afternoon drive. A picnic, even. Something—anything—just a diversion.” Lady Gregory set the gilt-edged china cup on its saucer with an uncharacteristic clatter. “It is entirely too much to be imprisoned in one’s own home when the weather is this beautiful.”
Her husband did not look up from his toast and jam. He had heard too many breakfast decrees to pay this one much attention.
Amy and Miranda both turned their heads toward their hostess. It was, after all, the only polite thing to do. Neither, however, commented.
Oliver realized his mother’s elegant verbal foot-stomp was aimed his way, and as such he did not have the option of not replying. He swallowed the last of his eggs and toast, touched his linen napkin to his lips and looked around. Not at his mother, seated at the far end of the wrought-iron, glass top table, but at the view from the terrace.
The property was really quite attractive. Aside from the rose garden, kitchen gardens, greenhouse, fruit orchards, and various creeks and lakes forming hidden havens, there was a Folly as well as several quaint cottages. Rolling fields, riding trails, croquet lawns…there was beauty in abundance. Far more than any park offered.
It seems one should be satisfied with what is right beneath one’s nose, he thought.
Tossing his napkin onto his empty plate, he looked up and addressed his mother. Dressed in a delicate mint green morning gown, she looked as fresh as one of the daisies growing in profusion from the terra cotta pots lining the wide stone steps leading onto the grass. She seemed much more fragile than was the case, a simple illustration of the fact that judging a book by its cover was unwise.
Especially when the book scowled.
“Mother, Lucie and Nick are in no shape to be run about. You know that.”
“Hmmph!”
Uh oh. That sound was one she borrowed from her husband and used only when particularly vexed.
“It is the truth,” he insisted.
“Don’t try to tangle me in truths. We both know that whether or not the rest of us are here, those two will never know. They are comfortable in their apartment, and the good doctor is keepi
ng a close watch on Nick’s progress. So, running them about, as you put it, is not at issue here.”
“What is the issue, then?”
The others looked from one to the other, a ping pong match played with words rather than a ball over a dining table. If he hadn’t been so frustrated in the face of such female stubbornness, he would have laughed. They did look silly.
“Why, it is clear as the nose on your face, I would think. We cannot expect to be kept imprisoned indefinitely.”
“You are not imprisoned. And it is not indefinite—merely until we discover and apprehend the others involved in the highway robbery.”
“We are right in Season, and if we cannot go about and socialize…well, that certainly does feel like imprisonment.” She furrowed her brow, directed the next to her husband. He still worked on his toast and seemed content to let the conversation swirl on without any effort on his part. “Your father must have some feelings on the matter. Don’t you, Dear?”
Conversation stilled. Lord Gregory looked longingly at his last triangle of toast but with a resigned sigh, wiped his fingertips and left the toast on his plate. He met his wife’s penetrating stare.
Then, he turned to Oliver.
“Certainly we can allow your mother and the ladies some latitude, can’t we?” He gazed at his wife, gave her a tiny smile, and continued. “It does not seem fair to cage such beautiful butterflies, son. A ride to Town, a turn about the park…what harm can come of that?”
Women might be the gentler sex but men knew when to bow to their graces.
“None, we hope.” Oliver turned to his mother, whose frown had turned to a smile in a heartbeat. “We shall take a second carriage with guards to follow the first. And if—”
“We shall take the barouche.” Lady Gregory raised her hands, palms upward, to the sky. The morning was bright and light with a promise of more to come. “It is too lovely to be closed in a horrid, stuffy carriage.”
There was not a single carriage on the grounds that was either horrid or stuffy, but it was futile to point that out. So he didn’t. Recognizing defeat, he nodded.
“As you wish. The barouche, but with a carriage in front of it as well as one behind.”
“But—”
He did the wholly improper and cut off his own mother with a firm shake of his head.
“It is the only way you and the ladies are getting to Town, Mother. I will not take chances with those I love. Until the conclusion of this near-fatal event is at hand, we shall all be mindful of the threat.”
The mention of the word “love” brought a small giggle from Miranda, but he did not acknowledge it. Someday the woman would find another to catch her fancy. He prayed that day was imminent, but until it was, he would not encourage her to attempt to forge a connection that would never be made.
Amy turned to him, her tea cup poised between tabletop and mouth. She smiled, and it seemed she looked brighter this morning. Not nearly as white and drawn as on previous days. Perhaps the vapors she battled were on their way out.
“Thank you, Oliver. We shall enjoy our day out and be all the livelier this evening for having seen the sights and sounds of our fine city.”
Chapter 17
Lady Gregory was a smart woman. The ride, with warm wind against their cheeks and sunshine upon their parasols, was refreshing. Amy tilted her head back, closed her eyes and slanted her face so a sliver of sunlight touched her cheeks.
“Whatever are you doing? Why, you will be wrinkled before you are wed if you persist showing your skin to the sun. Why, you know better.”
Miranda could be so starched she fairly squeaked, so the scolding was not shocking.
Amy did not open her eyes, nor did she move her face, when she answered. “As I have no intention to do that anytime soon, I may as well enjoy myself. And as for knowing better…why, dear sister, I wise enough not to fret away today in anticipation of tomorrow. It will come to no good, engaging in that sort of thinking.”
Lord Gregory refused the outing so Oliver sat beside his mother on the seat across from them. He chuckled when Lady Gregory murmured.
But, Miranda was true to form. Like a dog with a bone, she would not surrender.
“Really, how can you say such things? We need to keep our sights on tomorrow. There is no sense squandering your future for a bit of sunshine. It is preposterous.”
Oliver cleared his throat. “I am not sure it is not a fine idea, to feel the warmth of the day upon one’s face. It heats the soul, I think. And while I am all for considering the future, enjoying the present is also a rather good endeavor.”
All their lives, aside from the incident a few years back when he was indisposed, Oliver had been Lucie’s reasonable, older brother. Miranda, the stodgy-before-her-time character. She, the wild one. And Lucie? Well, Lucie had been perfect from the very first breath.
Hearing his reason tempered with a bit of her wild streak brought Amy upright. She swung her head to catch his gaze, intending to smile, but that thought vanished on a sudden wave of nausea.
“Oh!” She clutched her parasol tightly and leaned forward. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on not being ill. But the movement of the barouche, coupled with the abrupt spinning in her head, forced her eyes open instantly. It was better to see her white boot tips than the swirling colors on the backs of her eyelids.
“My dear, you are positively green.” Lady Gregory sat forward and put her hand on Amy’s shoulder. “Shall I have the driver stop?”
She shook her head, which was a rather bad idea.
Miranda’s arm was around her, and she had moved her own parasol to provide a circle of shade. “You must allow the doctor to examine you. This has been going on for weeks.”
Again, she shook her head. A moan, very unladylike but better than other events that might still escape her lips.
“It is the backward motion.” Lady Gregory stood. The conveyance was large enough to stand comfortably between the seats. “Oliver, help her into my spot. Going backward could make anyone ill.”
She allowed him to help her up. Two steps and she crossed the space, doing a minor dance move with her hostess on the center floorboard. Oliver put a steadying hand on her arm, and she lowered herself to the bench. It put her in close proximity to the only man among them, but propriety be damned. It was better to hold the contents of her stomach than refuse to sit beside a man.
They rode in blessed silence for a short while. She felt all gazes upon her but did not look up at anyone until she was sure she was not going to embarrass herself. Finally, she raised her head from her hands.
“Better, my dear?” Lady Gregory’s smile was kind, her voice gentle.
“Much.” She swallowed. “Thank you.”
“Why, we have all had the collywobbles riding backward. These silly things should have two forward-facing seats. Now, that would make more sense.”
The man beside her was polite enough that he scooted to the far side, putting space between his body and hers. The seat was wide enough that she did not feel trapped.
“Are you sure you are well enough to continue?” Oliver’s tone held concern. “We can turn around right here, if you wish.”
She met his gaze, saw mirrored in his eyes what she heard in his voice. “I am fine, thank you.”
A slight lift of one eyebrow. “Fine, eh?”
Teasing was better than concern. She must look improved enough that he could raise that brow.
“That’s right. I am fine. And I do not wish to turn around. Why, we are nearly halfway there.”
Hyde Park in the Season teemed with carriages. It was a place to see and be seen, the sort of indulgence any woman enjoyed. Of course, they would stay far from Rotten Row, and its speed-seeking set astride horseback. As well, the Ladies’ Mile was out of the question, with Oliver insistent that no one be that fully vulnerable. A turn around the Ring, covering the gravel roadway at a sedate pace, was precisely what everyone needed—and what they would get. The drivers of
all three carriages were aware of the plan. And, Oliver had apprised the women of his intent as well.
Had she cared to be seen it would have held the promise of excitement, but in her situation the best she could hope for was a pleasant few hours to take her mind from her own troubles.
“As you wish.” He did not press, and she was grateful.
Lady Gregory indicated a hedge dripping with red Morning Glories. “Always one of my favorite flowers. Too bad they don’t arrange well. I would love to have my maid bring them into my room, but they simply do not stay as lovely cut as they are on the vine.”
“They are pretty. And hummingbirds find them very appealing.” Miranda supplied the ornithological fact with a nod. “Any red flower, it seems, will attract a hummingbird.”
Oliver waited a few moments. “Speaking of maids, I have not seen one of ours around the place in a few days.”
His mother raised an eyebrow. Amy kept her amusement to herself; the gesture was almost identical to the one he used so often.
Apple trees make apples, she thought. He was certainly an apple from the Gregory tree.
“Whatever do you mean? We have a number of household staff. It seems odd that you look for one in particular.”
“I was not looking.” He sounded a tad ruffled. “I am just saying that I have not seen this young woman in a few days, is all. I wondered if she is…ah, well, perhaps she is ill. That is what came to mind.”
Mollified, his mother looked to Miranda, then met Amy’s gaze. “He always has been considerate, hasn’t he? All his life, thinking about others. I should not be surprised he notices a missing maid.”
“Yes, well, it is in his nature to be considerate.” Amy paused, giving the older woman a smile. “He has been brought up to think of others, thanks to you and Lord Gregory. You have raised him to be a true gentleman.”
“Thank you, my dear. We have done our best, although being a parent is never easy.” Lady Gregory moved her parasol from one hand to the other. She gave a tiny sniff, then added, “As you will see when the time comes, it is a matter of creating a balance of common sense, discipline and, of course, love. All in the correct measure.”