by Romy Sommer
Far from it. She grinned. When he returned to society and left the ghosts of the past behind him, he would make some lucky woman a wonderful husband. A taciturn husband, to be true, but if she didn’t mind, why would another woman?
She sifted through the neighbours she’d already met in her short time in the country. Perhaps Sir Robert Preston’s young widowed sister? Or the Ferncrofts’ eldest daughter? But neither woman seemed quite right for William. She shrugged and cast the thought aside. She’d think about it another day. Not now, on such a beautiful morning with the sun shining and the birds singing.
William’s dark hair fell forward over his eyes. He brushed it aside as he rose. His brooding look was back, which was not part of her plan at all.
“This isn’t London, with all its attractions,” he said.
The statement caught her off guard, unexpected as it was. “No,” she admitted. “It’s not.”
His guard dropped down, shutting her out. What had she said wrong? Then, wanting to drive away that forbidding look, “I’ll race you back.”
Chapter Six
William let his horse have its head, instinctively heading for the safety of home. Wind rushed at him, tearing at his clothes, whipping at him from all sides. Excitement surged through his veins, pulsing in his blood in time to the pounding of hooves. He hadn’t ridden with such abandon in years. Not since he’d last ridden with Julia.
Ducking his head to avoid the low-hanging branches of a tree, he pursued Rosalie out of the woods and onto the open heathland. It was as though time suspended, and he was back in the past, chasing another laughing girl with flushed cheeks and dark curls flying. Feeling alive and whole.
But as his house came in sight, and they slowed to a trot, reality crashed back down on him. He wasn’t twenty any more. And he wasn’t whole. There was a great big gaping hole where once his heart had been, which wasn’t entirely due to a faithless sweetheart but rather a lifetime of loss.
Peters waited for them in the stables. He cast an eye over the sweating horses as he helped Rosalie dismount. “Looks like you had a good ride.”
“We did.” She flashed Peters an easy smile, and the scars in William’s chest contracted painfully. Julia had smiled exactly like that. She’d been bright and friendly to everyone, treating all people alike, and everyone had adored her. Even Peters, the dour sailor, that one time he’d met her.
The next time Peters had come to Stogumber was the day he’d brought the letter urgently summoning William to his new commission on the imminently departing Dartmouth.
By the time William had read the summons and gone to say goodbye, Julia was out riding, and the proposal he’d meant to make in person had been consigned to a letter. He’d never even had the chance to say goodbye.
He rubbed a hand now across his face.
“There are refreshments in the library.” Peters smiled back at Rosalie.
William had known him long enough to recognise the signs: Peters was smitten. William couldn’t blame him. But that didn’t mean he too was going to be a sap a second time round. Rosalie had made it clear enough beside the old lime kiln; the attractions of a small village on the edge of Exmoor couldn’t compare to the thrill of London. Like Julia, she wasn’t going to stick around.
This time, he wasn’t going to let himself care.
He swung himself down from his horse. “You go ahead,” he said to Rosalie. “I’ll help Peters get the horses settled.”
She set her hands on her hips. “Then I’ll help, too. We’ll be done sooner if we all pitch in.”
She met his glare with a level gaze and unbuckled the girth under the mare. Peters helped her lift the saddle down, but she took the brush from his hands and began to brush down the horse on her own. Her hands were quick and deft. She knew her way around a horse, he’d give her that. And not too proud to get her hands dirty. Julia would never have stooped to grooming her horse.
William turned away, busying himself with unsaddling his own horse. When they were done and the horses back in their stalls and fed, they walked side by side into the house, down the long passage to the drawing room, where Peters had set out a feast.
In silence, Rosalie poured two glasses of lemonade while William served slices of cake and sandwiches onto their plates. He wondered how they would look to an outsider: the image of domestic bliss, or the crusty naval officer out of his depth entertaining a pretty young woman?
At least Rosalie didn’t seem to mind the lack of conversation. She made herself comfortable on the sofa, tucking her long shapely legs up under her, and flicked through an outdated Country Life magazine as she sipped her lemonade. Only once did she look up to catch him staring at her. She blushed prettily. “Do you realise this is the third time we’ve shared refreshments, but the first time I’ve been welcomed in?”
If she felt welcome today, then he really must have been a dreadful host the previous times she’d been here. He managed a smile. “Yet it seems like only yesterday when you first barged in here.”
She laughed. “I didn’t barge; I rang the doorbell.” Her smile turned coy. “Next time, I’ll be sure to wait for an invitation...if there is a next time?”
“If you don’t mind my brand of hospitality, you’re welcome here any time.” He must have taken leave of his senses. He didn’t know why he said it, when a part of him wanted her gone and the peace of his house undisturbed once again. But the other part, the younger man inside him who remembered what it was like to laugh and talk with a woman, to ride hell for leather, to want a woman, seemed to have taken temporary control.
“It’s a deal.”
Her smile set fire to parts of his body he’d believed dead. He really shouldn’t have given her an open invitation.
She set down her glass. “I need to leave. Anna will wonder where I am.”
He escorted her to the door, holding it open for her. She paused on the threshold and turned to face him. They were so close, he could smell the sunshine of her hair, and the light scent she wore, fresh as spring. Something long forgotten stirred in him.
Her wide blue eyes, guileless and full of life and laughter, sparkled up at him. “Thank you for the ride, William. I’d love to do it again.”
He nodded. His mouth felt unaccountably dry. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. And if the weather is too wet for riding, perhaps I can beat you at chess, instead.”
“You can try.”
Her smile shot straight through him, and then she turned away and ran on light feet down the long drive. He watched until she was out of sight before he closed the door. He was immensely grateful Peters wasn’t around. The other man’s sharp eyes wouldn’t have missed his state of arousal.
Rosalie found herself humming as she pushed open the back door and stepped into the kitchen. She breathed in the homely scent of fresh-baked bread.
“That smells heavenly,” she said to Anna, stooping to kiss the housekeeper on her cheek.
“Your walk did you a world of good.” Anna’s critical gaze swept over her. “But where did you leave the basket?”
The basket! Rosalie clapped her hands over cheeks suddenly turned to fire. It was too late. Anna’s eyes narrowed. “Where have you been?”
“Commander Cavendish invited me to go horse riding with him. I left the basket with his servant, Peters, and completely forgot to ask for it back afterwards.”
“And you just happened to meet the Commander while you were out walking?”
Rosalie nodded. She couldn’t quite bring herself to lie outright to Anna. This was as close as she’d ever come to deceiving the woman who’d been as good as a mother to her for so many years.
Anna sniffed and turned back to the fresh bread she’d removed from the oven. “And did you enjoy the ride?”
“It was wonderful! I haven’t had so much fun in ages. He’s invited me to go riding any time I want.”
That brought Anna’s attention back to her. “You’re not making a fool of yourself over him?�
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“Oh, Anna, you know me better than that! I’ve never been one of those giggly, impressionable girls who fall for the first man who shows an interest in her. If I did, I’d have been married and out of your hair ages since. Besides, I’m not the kind of woman he’d be interested in. He needs someone serious and quiet.” She couldn’t resist a little mischief. “I think perhaps Deidre Preston would suit him quite well.”
Anna set her hands on her hips and glared at Rosalie. “Ah-hah! I was right: you are trying to match-make the poor man.” She shook her head. “This is going to end badly, I can tell.”
“You are such a pessimist.” Rosalie twirled away. “Luckily, I’m not.”
But as she headed upstairs to change her clothes, a sense of disquiet settled over her. She remembered how William had looked as they’d raced back from Old Vellow, his eyes bright and alive, a wild energy coursing through him.
She bit her lip. Perhaps not Deidre Preston, after all. Beneath his stern demeanour, William Cavendish was a man of passion. He’d be better suited to a young woman full of life who could encourage that side of him. Perhaps Penelope Ferncroft would make a better match.
Chapter Seven
A restless wind rattled at the window panes. Rosalie glanced up from the book in her hands in time to see a drift of yellow leaves dance across the lawn.
“We hardly seem to have had a summer yet,” she observed.
William looked up from his book and his gaze followed hers. “London is a far more comfortable place to be in winter than the countryside.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
His smile lit up his eyes. “I already tried and it didn’t work, remember?”
A soft laugh escaped her. She’d expected to be bored long before now, especially now that the renovations were nearly done, and her plans for the festival in place, but the comfortable routine she’d settled into was far from dull. Most days she visited William, and they rode, or played chess, or read quietly together, or talked. Late summer passed so rapidly into autumn that she hadn’t even started putting her plan for phase two of Project William into action: re-introducing him to county life.
She shook her head. “Good, because I’m not ready to head back to the city just yet.”
“Why does that scare me?” But he said it with a smile.
She rolled her eyes. “Not you too! Anna and Father seem to think I’m always up to mischief. I have no idea why anyone would think that. I’m good as gold, really.”
He laughed, the sound easy and full, a world away from the man she’d first met a few weeks ago. “Because those baby blue eyes of yours deceive no one. You have mischief written all over you.”
She set the book down on the table beside her and stretched her arms above her head. William’s gaze followed her movement, and she smiled to herself. A little mischief couldn’t hurt, right?
He cleared his throat. “Isn’t your father concerned that you spend so much time here with me?”
“I don’t think he’s even noticed,” she answered honestly. “He’s so involved writing his book, the whole world could stop turning and he wouldn’t notice.”
“What is he writing?”
“A military history of England through the ages. He started when he retired, and it’s turned into a magnum opus.” Rosalie reached forward to pour herself a fresh cup of tea from the pot on the low table between them. “That’s why we moved here. He said London was too noisy and distracting, and he couldn’t concentrate.”
“But you didn’t plan to stay here long with him, did you?”
Back to that again. “Is it so obvious?”
His expression was grave. “Your resemblance to Julia is more than skin deep. She loved the social whirl of London, too.”
His comment caused a surprising ache in her chest. Was that the only reason he tolerated her company, because she reminded him of Julia?
“Would you care if I went away?” She bit her lip. She shouldn’t have asked.
He didn’t look at her as he replied. “Mairi wouldn’t get as much exercise.”
She hadn’t expected him to beg her to stay, but his answer sent a flash of pained shock through her. He still cared more for his horses than he did for her. She’d hoped she meant more to him than merely a way to fill the emptiness of his life; she thought they’d become friends.
Blinking away the sting of tears from her eyes, she forced cheer into her voice. “That’s all right then. My aunt invited me to spend Christmas with her in London, so I’ll probably be gone by December.” Which set a time limit on her plan. She needed to get Phase Two in motion soon.
He nodded, not looking up from his book.
She sipped her tea, barely tasting it, and eyed him over the rim of the cup. His mouth had a pinched look, as if he were in pain. As she watched, he laid a hand on his broad chest, rubbing lightly just above his heart, an unconscious gesture she’d noticed before.
The doorbell rang, startling them both. William frowned. “Peters isn’t back from the village yet. I’ll have to get it.”
He set down his book and rose without looking at her. Rosalie sat up on the sofa, slipping her feet back into her shoes, and crossed her ankles demurely. She heard the front door open, then William’s voice. “John! What an unexpected pleasure.”
“I’m here for our usual weekly chess game.” The older man’s voice sounded bewildered.
“I thought you were in London visiting your brother.”
The door closed and the voices moved closer. “I was. I got back late last night.” She recognised the visitor now: the vicar. She faced the door as they entered, hiding a sudden attack of nerves behind a bright smile. Why did she suddenly feel like a naughty schoolgirl caught out in a ridiculous prank?
“Rosalie, this is my friend, John Hemmings. John, this is Miss Rosalie Stanton, from The Grange.”
Rosalie would have paid good money to capture a picture of the vicar’s expression. His eyebrows disappeared high into his salt-and-pepper fringe, and he looked as startled as she felt.
“We’ve met.” The vicar stepped forward to shake her hand.
“Would you care to join us?” William asked. “The tea’s probably cold by now, but I can make a fresh pot.”
“I don’t mind a little cold tea.” John recovered himself enough to take in the tray with its half-eaten spread. Scones and cake courtesy of Anna, who refused to believe two men living alone could possibly cook for themselves. “I hope I’m not interrupting a party.”
William laughed softly. From the rather dazed expression on the vicar’s face, Rosalie assumed it wasn’t a sound he was used to hearing. If she needed a confirmation that Phase One of her plan had succeeded, and it was time to move on to Phase Two, this was it.
“Speaking of parties, I was thinking of hosting a dinner party for a few of the county families later this week,” she said. “You’re both invited.”
William stiffened. John cast an anxious glance between them before answering. “Thank you. That would be lovely.”
William turned away, ostensibly to pour a cup of tea for his new guest. But the tension radiating from his straight back gave Rosalie the odd urge to reach out and lay a reassuring hand on his arm. But there was nothing she could do, not without risking further rejection from him.
“And what brings you here?” John asked, settling himself on the sofa beside her. If he’d hoped to change the subject to a less controversial one, he was wrong, though the change in William’s face when he turned back to them caught Rosalie as much by surprise as it did the vicar. The laughter was gone, his eyes shuttered, his face forbidding.
“Miss Stanton has been exercising Mairi for me. I offered her tea but she’s leaving now.”
She rose, turning to John with a wry smile. “It seems I’m leaving. It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Hemmings.” Then to William, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
A curt nod. Nothing more. What had just happened to upset him?
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sp; Rosalie let herself out and William sank back down in the armchair, resisting the urge to run after her. He’d been rude to her. Again. It seemed a hard habit to break.
“It’s only a dinner party.” John’s soft voice cut through his thoughts.
“With everyone wondering about me and feeling sorry for me.” Bile burned in his mouth. “No, thanks.”
“It’s been five years. You’re the only one still clinging to the past.” John polished his glasses, avoiding William’s eyes. “Miss Stanton doesn’t feel sorry for you.”
John had an uncomfortable knack for seeing straight through him. William scowled. “She doesn’t know anything about me and if she knew, she’d probably run a mile.”
“They’re nothing but scars, William. You’re not a monster.”
William shook his head. Beautiful, fashionable young girls like Rosalie Stanton didn’t want damaged men like him. They wanted healthy, good-looking men, and all the excitement and passion that went with youth. She deserved the best, not the scraps he had to offer.
John settled his glasses back on his nose. “You should give Miss Stanton a little credit. She got through your defences, after all. Now how about that chess game?”
Chapter Eight
Rosalie closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun, breathing in deeply the crisp scent of earth and decay. Another bright, clear autumn day. She knelt in the bare flower bed and laid her sketch on the ground before her. “This is where we’ll start, with a border of hyacinths up against the wall.” The village lad she was training up as a gardener knelt beside her, keen eyes flicking from her sketch to the freshly turned soil.
“And the crocuses here?” He pointed to the smudge of white and yellow in her sketch.
“Exactly.”