Aunt Jacqueline required assistance directly after breakfast, which meant Rebecca had to make her excuses to Christian. He accepted them without so much as the flicker of an eyelash. Though she kept a careful study of his expression, she had not yet successfully found the key to understanding it. The man wore sobriety like a mask. If Rebecca could but see where that mask ended and his true emotions began, she might make more progress in coming to know him.
She paused at her aunt’s bedroom door and ran her hands down the skirt of her gown. Hettie had neglected to tuck enough pins into Rebecca’s hair. The whole arrangement would be a terrible mess by dinner time and would need to be redone. The curls were already limp, despite Hettie using a concoction of her own invention to force Rebecca’s naturally straight hair into fashionable spirals.
She brushed again at the faint brown pawprints on her gown but couldn’t help smiling at them. If her aunt commented upon that mess, she could at least report the dress had been a necessary casualty in her attempts to better her relationship with Christian.
After her knock, the door opened to reveal her aunt’s maid. The servant always looked as though she’d eaten something disagreeable, but given she was attending such a difficult mistress, Rebecca had a smile for her.
“Rebecca,” her aunt’s voice called imperiously.
Aunt Jacqueline sat at her writing desk.
“Here I am, Aunt.” Rebecca went to stand beside the desk and performed her usual curtsy. “How may I assist you?”
“I am writing your father. It occurred to me that as startling as I found your viscount’s invitation to the party to be, your father is likely unaware of it altogether. Unless you saw fit to inform him?” Her blue eyes had a knowing glint to them. Hettie would’ve told her aunt of any letters sent.
“I did not, Aunt.” Her freedom from her father’s grasp neared with every day. Leaving him uninformed of Christian’s presence was a small act of rebellion. What could it matter to her father if Christian was present at the house party? If anything, he should be pleased.
“I see.” Aunt Jacqueline pursed her lips. Today she wore a deep red gown, trimmed in black lace. The colors were dark for a day dress, with only a white fichu at her aunt’s throat providing any relief from their severity.
That was the benefit of being old and powerful, Rebecca supposed. You could get away with a myriad of things society would never tolerate in a younger person.
Rebecca tucked her hands behind her to avoid fiddling with her fingers. Her aunt had the air she frequently adopted just before pronouncing some great deficiency in Rebecca’s character. Perhaps if she spoke quickly enough she could defer some of that lecture for another time.
“I have taken a walk this morning with Lord Easton.” She tried to keep her tone light.
Her aunt arched one gray eyebrow at her. “Really. What was the outcome of that little endeavor?”
“We went searching for the treasure together. We didn’t find it, but we are to resume our search after the picnic luncheon. He will be fishing with the gentlemen this morning.”
“Hm.” Her aunt turned back to her letter. “Very well. You are dismissed.”
Rebecca’s mouth popped open in her surprise, but she hastily closed it again to avoid a rebuke. “Thank you, Aunt.” She curtsied and made a hasty escape. There was no reason to prolong exposure to someone willing to mete out punishment for slight infractions.
I at least expected some sort of instruction on proper behavior during a picnic. She closed the door behind her and released a sigh. And now I have a few hours of freedom. Rebecca didn’t bother to hold back her smile. She fairly skipped across the hall to her room to retrieve several items. She moved with haste, lest her aunt change her mind or Hettie appear.
At the last moment, Rebecca added a bonnet to her armful of supplies, then rushed from the room, and the house, to the gardens.
Settling beneath a tree, Rebecca noted there was enough shade that she could forgo the bonnet. Aunt Jacqueline would be scandalized if she saw her out of doors without a head covering, but since Rebecca’s chosen spot was hidden from the house by various shrubs and trellises, she wasn’t too concerned.
First, she took out her journal and a pencil. Ideally, she would write in ink, but it wasn’t practical to carry all the supplies necessary for that out of doors. She could always copy over the pencil later. It took her nearly half an hour to write out her observations regarding Christian Hundley, Lord Easton. She still had more questions than answers about his character.
He didn’t seem to want to talk about his mother. Or Italy. She tapped the pencil to her lips in thought. He must miss her. And his home.
Or perhaps she took too much liberty in assigning her own feelings to him.
Putting her notes aside, she took up her novel instead.
Mansfield Park, by the author of Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice. Every time she read the author’s crediting line, she wondered who the writer must be. Could it be some fine lady of society, afraid of what would be said were she found out? Or was it not a woman at all? She doubted a man could write such insightful things about a woman’s mind, though she’d heard the speculation before. Whatever the case, she wished she knew if only to send the author a note full of thanks, praise, and a question or two.
She opened the book and leaned back against the tree, curling her legs up close and pulling the pages nearer. The poor heroine, Fanny Price, seemed to fall into one painfully awkward situation after another, all while her heart crumbled piece by piece every time her cousin overlooked her devotion.
Rebecca’s aunt would call the novel ridiculous drivel, but Rebecca knew it was so much more. The book was a love story, yes, but it was also a reflection of society. And not a very flattering one. Perhaps that was why the novel did not have the same popularity as the first by the anonymous lady author? The flaws of clergymen, of those who lived for society’s notice, of the wealthy, were brought up again and again.
It took a special talent to tell a story and teach morals at the same time. As she read, Rebecca grew more and more absorbed in the words.
…But there is nobleness in the name Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; of kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry and warm affections.
Fanny was in love with Edmund Bertram. How could no one else in the novel see it?
“Here you are.”
Rebecca jumped, clutching the novel to her chest, her eyes leaping upward. And up more. Christian stood before her, his imposing form all the more so from her position on the ground.
Was it her imagination, or did he look almost happy? He certainly wasn’t smiling, but something about the lines near his eyes suggested he might be on the verge of such an expression.
“It is nearly time for luncheon,” he said. “The servants were going to come looking for you, but since a footman saw you enter the garden, I offered to try first.”
“Oh dear.” Rebecca noted the position of the sun. Blast. It was more than halfway across the sky. She bit her bottom lip. “I’m afraid I get rather caught up when I’m reading.” Her aunt would find fault with her lack of care in minding the time, her bonnet, and in forcing someone to search her out.
“This is a regular occurrence?” he asked, his tone lighter, almost amused. There was nothing disapproving in his look or words.
“I’m afraid so,” she admitted. “And as I’ve promised to be honest with you, I must be perfectly blunt. I have been late to many a social engagement when I have a new book in my hands.” She offered him the slightest of smiles. “It is one of my failings.”
Astonishingly, Christian Hundley lowered himself to the ground before her. “I’ve been known to put off responsibilities for the time it took to finish reading something of interest. May I see?” He held his hand out to her, his gaze steady.
She clasped the book tighter, it’s gently worn cover warm in her grasp. It was second-hand, with a few damaged pages, p
urchased at a book seller at a very small cost. Yet it remained precious to her.
She’d once handed her aunt a novel when asked what she was reading. Aunt Jacqueline had taken one look at the title, declared it rubbish, and dropped it in the hearth.
Surely, Christian couldn’t be that cruel. Though she didn’t know him well, he’d come to her rescue in the music room. He’d played with his dog within her sight. The man had a kind heart, she was convinced.
Finally, she closed the covers of the novel and handed it to him. Their fingers brushed when he took hold of the spine.
Did he feel the spark between them? Did he, too, experience the tingling sensation now skittering up her arm? The awareness almost made her shiver. Only her concern for the fate of her book kept her body still. She watched him, saw his lips move as he read the title page. Then he turned to the first page, and he began to read aloud.
“‘…But there certainly are not so many men of large fortune in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them…’” His words lilted through the whole of the introduction to the three sisters who would become Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and Mrs. Price.
His deep, strong voice gave the words richness; he read well, his inflections perfect. Was this what the author had in mind when she made Henry Crawford read aloud in the story? If so, Rebecca understood Fanny Price’s admiration. She’d heard other gentlemen read, of course, and some with real feeling. But this was different. As the only audience to Christian’s words, they wrapped around her differently. And he continued as though there was nothing extraordinary about it.
His voice is beautiful. She leaned forward, refusing to let even one syllable be lost to the air. Her rapt attention settled on his lips as he spoke, watching as each word was formed. She studied the scar for a moment, noting how it didn’t hinder his ability in the slightest.
No hint of the Italian tongue in his words. Ten years in Italy and no purring consonants, nothing that could possibly give him away. It was a shame. She’d heard beautiful accents a handful of times in her life. She loved Italian. Or at least, she thought she did. She’d heard snatches of Italian operas, and poetry recitations, through the years. How must it sound when he spoke it?
He stopped at the end of the page and then turned it, reading on silently.
“Don’t stop,” she said, without thinking. His eyes raised from the page slowly, meeting hers. Warmth rushed through her body, but most of it settled upon her neck and in her cheeks. Rebecca hastily lowered her eyes to the grass between them. “But of course, you must. We will be late to the picnic.”
She pushed herself upward, then bent again to gather her things, moving in flustered haste. Christian remained seated, her book in his hands, and she felt his eyes on her. She hadn’t meant to speak. But when he stopped reading, all she’d wanted was more. He must think her foolish. Or too bold.
Composing herself as she straightened, bonnet and journal in hand, she reached out for Mansfield Park.
Christian regarded her closely, his head tilted to one side. She knew her cheeks were blazing red. If only he’d show an interest in looking at her when she wasn’t busy completely humiliating herself.
He rose to his feet, unfolding to his impressive height, the book still in his large hands. She swallowed, noting his nearness, again aware of just how striking a figure he was. Nothing about his stance was remotely threatening, but she sensed a power in his person she couldn’t say she’d noticed in another man. Not ever.
“Is it as entertaining as Pride and Prejudice?”
Rebecca’s jaw fully dropped, without her permission. “Have you read that novel?”
“A year or more ago,” he admitted, shrugging. “I won’t say it’s the best work I’ve read. I much prefer Waverly.”
“Scott’s novel,” she said, a trifle breathlessly. Hearing her own voice, Rebecca hastily cleared her throat and tried to compose herself. “I enjoyed that one, too. But this woman’s novels, they are different. They aren’t meant to be adventures. They’re a reflection of our life here, in England. They make me think on things differently, for all that the settings are familiar.”
“Hm.” He held the book out to her. “I imagine the heroines appeal to you?”
She took her book back, disappointed he held the edge in such a way that their fingers would not come in contact again. “They do. Even though they are women, they find a great deal of freedom in their situations. They make choices that I might be afraid to make.”
His eyebrows raised and he raised his hand as if to brush it through his hair but stopped and dropped it back to his side. “You don’t see yourself as one of them?”
Rebecca laughed. “I would like to be so bold and intelligent as they are. But no. I am not a heroine in a novel. I am only Rebecca Devon.” She curtsied, a touch of humor in the movement.
“And Rebecca Devon is late to luncheon. As is Christian Hundley, I’m afraid.” He held his arm out to her. “I understand it will be near the lake. Shall we be on our way?”
Rebecca took his arm happily enough, but she couldn’t help regretting that they must join the others. Conversing with him was proving to be an excellent diversion. They’d only made it a few steps before she stopped, forcing him to do the same.
“I don’t have my gloves,” she said, pulling her arm away, absolutely mortified. “And my bonnet—” She thrust the books out to him. “Please, hold these.”
He took both books and tucked them beneath his arm, watching her. With amusement. He was actually smiling at her. It was the most pleasant expression she’d seen on his face so far, and here she’d caused it by being forgetful.
Rebecca shook her head, trying to tie her bonnet beneath her chin while studying the expression on his face. The scar across his mouth did little to detract from the charm of his smile. Nor did the old scars peppered across his skin. His lips were full, and curved upwards, they made the straight lines of his jaw and cheekbones stand out, appearing more sculpted. The man certainly wasn’t attractive in the traditional sense, but Rebecca found she liked the way he looked.
His dark eyes lightened, just a touch, while he watched her fumble with the ribbons. If only she had a mirror! She finally tied the bow without managing to choke herself, then held her hands out for the books again.
He handed them back, then pointed to her chin. “Forgive me, Miss Devon, but your ribbons. One side is much, much longer than the other. Is that acceptable?”
“No.” She huffed and started to hand him the books again but stopped when he raised both hands toward her.
“May I? It would be more efficient.”
Her breath hitched in her chest, but she nodded. It wasn’t proper. Helping a lady with any aspect of her clothing, even if it was only gloves or bonnet, was an exceptionally intimate thing to do. At least by society’s view.
But they were late. And besides, allowing him to do so might assist her in her goal to fall in love with him. How could it not? It was a kind gesture, and—
All thought immediately ceased when she felt his fingertips beneath her chin, upon her neck, barely brushing her skin as he untied the bow. His hands, though larger than hers, and rougher, managed the bow in a far less fumbling manner than she had. Everywhere his fingers brushed, her skin tingled. The strange sensation traveled down her neck, across her shoulders, into her arms, making her head feel lighter.
“Better,” he announced, his voice soft. They stood astoundingly close, she realized. Facing each other. She couldn’t think of when she’d been so near a man before. Not even in dancing. She wasn’t allowed to waltz yet, after all.
His hand lingered near her chin, his fingertips no longer against her skin, though she could feel the heat from his hand. If she tilted her head, her cheek could rest in his palm. If she stepped forward, she could lay her head upon his shoulder. She raised her eyes to his, overcome by those strange thoughts, and uncertain, yet terribly tempted to act upon them.
This couldn’t be right. She barely kn
ew him. Yet the attraction was there.
His eyes darkened, his breath hitched, and he leaned the slightest bit forward. Not enough. Not as much as she wanted him to.
Then he blinked and looked away, the spell broken, the electric quality to the air settling instead in her chest.
“We had better be on our way.” He stepped forward, not offering his arm this time. She hurried forward to catch him. Though she was taller than most of the women of her acquaintance, he was taller than any man she knew, and his stride longer. Rebecca had to practically kick up her skirts to keep pace with him. If his sudden agitation was any indication of his feelings, Christian Hundley was fully aware of something buzzing between them. And uncomfortable with it.
Optimism took full hold on her imagination. Perhaps, if things went well, she wouldn’t be the only one to fall in love.
Chapter Twelve
The entire party had turned out of doors for the picnic. Everyone was busily speaking of their morning. Christian and Rebecca’s late arrival barely elicited notice. He walked with her directly to her cousin, Lady Annesbury.
“Oh good, you found her,” the countess said, quietly enough that no additional attention was attracted. “Rebecca, Cook made your favorite tarts.”
“If you will excuse me, ladies,” Christian heard himself saying. He bowed and walked away, as if to speak to the marquess who was sitting in a chair beneath the shade of a chestnut tree. Truly, he just needed to get away from Rebecca, and quickly.
The younger people had spread a blanket to eat, but there was a table and chairs set up nearly as properly as they would have been in the dining room. The married people sat there, eating and filling the air with their chatter. Christian had nothing to say to anyone at the table, but he took an empty chair anyway.
A footman appeared at his side with a plate, laying it before him with a bow. Christian started to fill it automatically, though eating was the farthest thing from his mind.
He’d gone in search of Rebecca as a show of goodwill. He’d been with the other gentlemen when he made the offer. They’d all just changed after their fishing excursion when Lady Annesbury found them and mentioned not knowing where her cousin had gone. It had been for show. He wanted them to see that he had a close relationship with Rebecca. Close enough that he had confidence in finding her where others had failed.
Miss Devon's Choice: A Sweet Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 5) Page 11