Thankfully, he’d found a servant who had seen her go outside.
Coming upon her, tucked into the back of the garden, curled up beneath the tree and oblivious to all the world around her, had done strange things to him. She’d appeared so peaceful. Focused. Intent. It had almost been a shame to disturb her.
What possessed me to sit and read to her? He shook his head at himself, glaring down at his half-filled plate.
“Has the cold ham offended you somehow, my lord?” Lady Berwyn asked, startling him.
Christian looked up at her amused expression and forced himself to respond politely. “Not at all. I am afraid I am thinking of our fishing. Your husband brought in at least twice the number of trout as I did.”
The baron, seated near his wife, chortled happily and launched into a description of his first catch of the day.
Christian didn’t allow himself to be satisfied by that clever move on his part. He didn’t particularly want attention at the moment. He had to think. Something had happened between Rebecca and himself, something he hadn’t anticipated. Somehow, between the time he’d left the house and arrived at the picnic, he’d stepped into forbidden territory with her.
Never had a woman regarded him with the look that had been in her eyes as he finished reading. There had been admiration in her gaze. And something else. Something that had made him behave like a fool, tying her ribbons, nearly giving in to the temptation to lean forward and—
He jerked his thoughts away from that perilous track.
Christian focused on his plate, pushing himself to eat. A bite of the ham, another of crisp vegetables, some cheese. He started to relax and raised a glass to his lips. He had no wish to revisit his time beneath that tree with her again. While he didn’t equate attraction with love, it was nevertheless risky to become too attached to Rebecca. She could easily grow tired of him. Tired of his reclusiveness. Weary of looking at him, day after day.
In fact, he ought to stop thinking of her by her Christian name. She was Miss Devon, and ought to be until the day she took his name. Pleased with that resolution, Christian took another bite of his lunch.
“My lord?” Rebecca said from his side, her hand touching his shoulder.
He dropped his fork, allowing it to clatter against his plate, and jerked his head up. She stood beside his chair, her pink lips curving upward, hesitantly. She withdrew her hand, but his shoulder still felt the slight weight of it there.
“Yes, Miss Devon?” he said, his voice coming out more strangled than he liked. He belatedly realized he ought to stand, despite the informality of the occasion. He hurried to push his chair back and rise.
“I am sorry to interrupt your lunch. But I thought, perhaps, you would like to check that other location for the treasure hunt? After you’ve eaten, of course.” She held up a small plate of her own, filled mostly with tarts and fruit.
“Yes. Of course.” He glanced around hastily, finding an unoccupied chair. “Would you like to sit here?” he asked, gesturing to the seat two places down from his own. She shook her head.
“No, thank you. I am sitting with my cousin.” She pointed to where the countess had taken a seat in the sunshine. “Enjoy your meal.” Was it his imagination, or had her expression turned playful? He bowed and she went away, lightness to her step.
“I think she’s smitten with you, my lord,” the baroness said, interrupting her husband’s rather embellished story of the largest fish he caught that day.
Christian unceremoniously retook his seat. He managed a smile, though it felt tight, as he answered the woman. “We are betrothed, my lady.”
The woman raised her graying eyebrows but said nothing more. Had she heard the same rumors going about London? Did she think the same as the rest of the ton, that Rebecca had been forced into the engagement?
Miss Devon, he reminded himself. I must remember to think of her as Miss Devon.
He heard her laugh and the hairs on the back of his neck stood while his chest warmed. Every bite of his lunch could’ve tasted like stewed cabbage for all the attention he paid to it. He tried to keep his mind off his betrothed by watching the others at the picnic. Lord Sharpeton and Miss Dunhill had found a swing hanging from the trees. He wondered how their families felt about their obvious flirtation as he pushed her back and forth beneath the swaying branches. The Berwyn sons were seated on either side of Lady Felicity, apparently diverting her with their fishing stories.
And Miss Devon sat next to her cousin, smiling brightly.
A sudden movement in the trees caught Christian’s attention. His eyes went up to the branches of an especially large chestnut tree, where he spied a wooden structure. It was all straight lines amid the tree’s curves and rustling leaves. He peered closer and saw a head peek up over the planks.
A boy, a very young one, was peeping out at the party below. The child spied Christian looking and ducked out of sight. There were children at the house, he knew. Children belonging to the earl and to the marquess. But he’d hardly thought on them, given that any entertainments at such events rarely mixed children in with adult company.
Christian finished his meal and, after making his bows, took his leave of those seated at the table.
He walked to where Rebecca—Miss Devon—sat, doing his best to tamp down the excitement trying to rise within him. He thought he’d succeeded, and then she looked up at him from her place on the grass, her glowing expression lighting a portion of his heart he’d sworn to protect from such troubling things as young ladies.
“My lady. Might I borrow your cousin? We must continue our treasure hunt.”
The countess studied him, openly scrutinizing his face. He tried to appear pleasant but judging from the quirk of her brow he was unconvincing. “You may. Good luck to you both.” Why did he have the feeling she meant to wish them well with more than just the absurd treasure hunt?
He held his hand out to Rebecca, to help her to her feet. She rose gracefully, using his strength as leverage, and then brushed off her skirts. “You will see to my books, Virginia?”
The countess’s expression softened. “Of course, dear. My mother won’t see either of them.”
“Thank you.” Rebecca slipped her arm through his with rather more confidence than he liked.
“Your aunt doesn’t approve of novels?” he ventured to guess, after they’d taken several steps away from the picnickers.
Rebecca’s pleasant expression saddened. “I’m afraid she doesn’t see the value in them.”
Christian had nothing to say to that. It was a common enough sentiment.
“Since you enjoy novels,” she said, lowering her eyes to the ground before them, “you will allow me to read them after we are married, won’t you?”
It was the first time either of them had mentioned after. His disobedient heart skipped and his stomach clenched. The simultaneous sensations were at odds with each other. He would have to sort that out later.
“Why would I want to stop you from doing something you like?” he asked, shaking his head. “As you said, I enjoy novels as well.”
Still not looking at him, her manner somewhat subdued, she spoke with false cheer. “I must confess, I don’t entirely know what I expect from marriage.”
Christian’s stomach twisted again and his step faltered. Her candor inspired his own. “I’m not certain of that either.”
He lowered his eyes to her hand on his arm. She hadn’t been what he expected when his grandfather informed him of the match, of the reasons why a young woman would connect herself to Christian without knowing him. All she had known, all she could’ve known, was the information pertaining to his title and wealth. Perhaps whispers in society. He’d imagined something far different than the woman at his side. He’d pictured someone with more of society’s harsh veneer, a calculating look to the eyes, and a distinct disinterest in him.
Instead, he had Rebecca Devon on his arm. She radiated warmth, smiled easily, and, apart from the reaction to her first s
ight of him, had never given him reason to think she found him lacking.
At the moment, she regarded him with a bemused expression. He raised his eyebrows, inviting her to speak. Her mouth quirked up on one side.
“I am still determined to fall in love with you,” she said.
His first instinct was to drop her arm and run.
But he was an adult. A man with responsibilities, maturity, the ability to reason. He forced a chuckle. If he treated her declaration with all the seriousness it deserved—which was none—she must eventually let the matter drop.
“Love? Love isn’t an emotion in which I place any value.” He continued their walk, the boathouse but steps away.
Rebecca tugged on his arm, pulling him to a stop. “My lord, you cannot be serious. Love is—is important. It is a strong foundation of friendship, of marriage. Dismissing it, saying there is no value to it, that cannot be how you truly feel.” She turned her earnest frown up to him, searching his expression, which he kept carefully closed to her.
He spoke with gentle firmness, determined for her to understand him. To accept his stance. “You have known me for a matter of days, Miss Devon. You cannot know how I feel about many topics.”
She released his arm and raised both hands, gesturing helplessly. “How can you not wish for love? To be loved? A man who enjoys Waverly, adventure and novels, you cannot dismiss romance.”
“While I admit freely to reading novels, Miss Devon, I haven’t allowed their romantic outlook to cloud my judgment.” Having spent years of his life contemplating that very thing, Christian’s response flowed easily from his lips. “Romance is the province of poets and playwrights. The rest of us live in a far more realistic sphere. Love is just another emotion that pulls the energies of life away from important tasks and distracts from what matters.” He spoke every word earnestly, willing her to see the rationality behind them.
Rebecca snorted. She, a well-bred young woman, snorted at his words. When she spoke, it was with fervor, with more emotion than he had yet seen from her.
“I find it hard to believe anything would matter if love did not exist. What is the point of living if there is no emotion, no pull to do or be something other than a poor excuse of a man or woman? It would be a dull existence, a life without love. Why would marriage matter? Children? Friendships? Where there is no affection, no meeting of hearts and mind, all relationships would be shallow—they would mean nothing.”
Her impassioned speech left her glaring up at him, her fists clenched at her sides. He only stared, impressed by the depth of her feeling despite himself. When he said nothing, she made a sound of exasperation and turned from him, stalking to the boathouse and throwing the door open.
After a moment’s pause, he followed, mulling her words over. When he entered the building, he saw her standing on her toes to peer onto a shelf full of ropes and fishing supplies. Two boats were pulled up onto the wood flooring, another was moored in the launching dock. Oars and ropes hung on hooks.
“Your dedication to love is interesting,” he said at last, devoting half his attention to their search. “Have you much experience with it? An example which you hold up to strengthen your argument? Your parents, perhaps?”
She stilled but did not turn to face him. “My parents were not in love.”
From what little he knew of her father, he had thought that might be the case. “Mine were,” he said, calmer now that he had a new avenue of argument. She must see his reasoning. She must understand, if she was to be his wife, why he could never devote himself to her in the way she imagined.
“They were?” She folded her arms and faced him, her chin at a stubborn tilt. “Then why do you object so strongly to the idea for yourself?”
He walked around the dock, putting the water between them. “Because love is what destroyed them both.” He shook his head and ran his hand through his hair. “It brought my mother to a country where she was mocked and despised, and when she died, it crushed my father. He was never the same.”
For a time, nothing was said. The lake lapped quietly into the boathouse, the boat rocking in place, tugging on its mooring rope. Christian watched a tumult of emotions cross Rebecca’s face. Surprise, disbelief, sorrow. Then compassion.
“They must have loved each other deeply to sacrifice so much,” she said at last, her voice nearly a whisper. “It sounds as though they were quite devoted to one another.”
Christian stared at her blankly. How could she not understand? Frustration bubbled up in his chest. “They were so devoted to each other that she died and all he wished to do was follow her.” His voice rising as he spoke. He tamped down on it, but his shoulders were tightening, his heart thudding against his chest.
A stream of frustrated Italian spilled from his lips. “Tu non capisci. È più complicato.” How could she understand? Someone like her, with a respectable English family, had never faced the situations he’d been exposed to from childhood. Speaking of his parents brought all his emotions to the surface, feelings he had kept buried for years pushing through his control.
“Look, it’s the half-English-mongrel!”
“Everyone knows Italians are all heart and no brain.”
“Your emotions make you weak.”
“Your mother died rather than live with the shame of such a son.”
“Your mother was an Italian peasant that tried to marry into the ton.”
The words flooded his mind, leaving a bitterness in his soul and a sour taste in his mouth. He spat his accusation at himself, forcing his hands through his hair. “Stupido!”
Rebecca sucked in a sharp breath. “I may not speak Italian,” she said fiercely, “but even I know that insult.”
He shook his head, dropping his hands. “Not you, Rebecca. Perdono.”
“Then who—?”
“Me.” He struck his chest with one balled fist. “And them. Everyone else.” He groaned and raised a hand to his brow. He had to stop talking. Had to stop feeling. How had she pulled down all his defenses in the space of a quarter hour? Christian needed to free himself of these emotions. He had to exorcise them out of his consciousness. Without another thought, he lifted two oars from their place on the wall and climbed into the docked boat.
“What are you—?”
He stripped his jacket off, dropping it into the bottom of the boat. He looked up to excuse himself, to dismiss her, to say something to make her leave.
Rebecca gaped at him, her cheeks blazing red. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Your jacket—”
The absurdity of the situation struck him, and he was weak. Displaying himself, his aching heart, so openly, didn’t help. He scoffed at her. “Here you speak of love, romance. Passion, even? Yet the sight of a man without his jacket is enough to scandalize you. The English are a ridiculous breed.” He reached for the rope.
“What a thing to say,” she spit out. “Calling me ridiculous?” Then she lifted her skirts and stepped into the rear of the boat, causing it to rock dangerously. He gripped the sides and counter-balanced her shifting weight, biting back more Italian.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“You cannot simply row away without me. We are in the middle of a conversation.”
“We are in the middle of an argument,” he said, glaring at her. “I must be excused.”
“And so must I. Now, cast off.” She folded her hands primly in her lap and raised her eyebrows at him. “I’m not moving from this spot.”
Frustration spilled from him in both languages, though he at least had the presence of mind not to say anything to upset her sensibilities further. He untied the rope and shoved the boat away from the dock, first with his hands, then using the oars. He had no choice but to face her, glancing over his shoulder to ensure their direction, then turning back to glare at her.
Rebecca sat like an Egyptian queen on a sailing barge, her calm expression compromised by the flame of indignation in her eyes. After several minutes of his rowing, she
raised her eyebrows and turned to look back at the shore. They had gone the width of the lake quickly. When he followed her gaze, he saw the picnickers.
What must the party think of the abrupt decision to row across the lake? And surely anyone watching would realize the event must not have much to do with courtship, given his haste and the stiff posture of his passenger.
She turned back to him, her eyebrows lowering and her shoulders relaxing. “Feeling better yet?”
He glowered at her and rowed harder.
She sighed. “Christian, you need not explain things to me, but I do wish to understand.”
“Christian?” he asked, his movement stalling. He stared at her, uncertain if he’d heard correctly.
“You called me Rebecca a moment ago,” she said with a shrug. “We are engaged to be married. We are also alone, with you in your shirtsleeves, having an argument. I cannot think calling you Christian can be any more inappropriate than anything else that has happened in the last several minutes.” She regarded him steadily and released a sigh. “Tell me about your mother. Please.”
*
Perhaps she had crossed a line, but Rebecca would not take her question back. At first, the inclination to let him leave her while he rowed away had been strong. It would be easier to let him go, to end the conversation before it entered deeper waters.
Frankly, Rebecca was tired of pretending to be something she was not. Her aunt and her father had forcefully molded her into the perfect picture of an English miss, without regard to her personal desires. The horrid green dress she wore at that very moment bore testament to their success. She didn’t want to be their version of her. Not anymore. Not when she could taste a new sort of freedom. Not when she had the chance to be who she wished.
She may not have chosen Christian as her intended, but she had chosen to love him. To love him, she had to know him and understand him. She would accomplish neither of those things if she let him leave the moment he became upset. They had such a short time together before they wed, and moments like this one must count.
Miss Devon's Choice: A Sweet Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 5) Page 12