The Convenient Arrangement

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “He arranged your first meeting?”

  “He arranged our marriage.” She smiled sadly. “Albert had lost his first wife several years before, and he did not enjoy the life of a widower. When he let that fact be known to his tie-mates, your uncle suggested a match between him and me.”

  “And you agreed to this?”

  “Why are you so astonished? Many marriages are arranged.”

  “True, but you are not like other women.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Please explain what you mean by that comment.”

  Lorenzo would have been glad to explain his words, if he had an explanation. Or, more honestly, if he had an explanation he could speak. He had been acquainted with many of the ladies who lived near Wolfe Abbey because his cousin and his wife had insisted that Lorenzo steal some time from his writing to attend various functions about the shire. He had had many conversations with them, albeit often stilted ones. He had joined in outings on the beach or near a stream, which he always had considered a worthy use of time because it allowed him to collect ideas for his poetry. He even had danced on occasion, although no woman had been interested in standing up with him again after her toes endured a pummeling by his awkward steps.

  None of those women had been like Valeria. He could talk with her, even though much of what she had to say infuriated him. Today he was enjoying this ride, in spite of the fact not a single phrase had found its way out of his mind to be jotted down on the paper stored in the purse hooked to his saddle, so he might use it later in a poem. And, as he looked at her sitting so gracefully on her horse, he could imagine her helping even a heavy-footed chap like him move about the dance floor smoothly.

  But how could he say any of that to her? She would think him insane, and he could not fault her. Instead he mumbled something that must have appeased her because she turned again to look down at the pearl gray sea.

  “Mayhap,” she said so softly her words were almost swept away by the wind, “your mother and your uncle simply could not own to a mutual mistake. Pride leaves people with nothing else, but they will cling to it at the price of everything else, even their happiness.”

  “Were you happy?”

  She faced him. “In my marriage? Is that what you mean?”

  “If it is not too personal.”

  “Too personal?” Her laugh lilted across the hills as they continued along the curve of the moor and through a meadow where sheep grazed. “Lorenzo, you really should come to London at least once for the Season. Then you will learn that nothing is too personal. Yes, many were astonished when I chose to marry Albert, not one of the other suitors who were vying for my hand, but he was a good man and cared deeply for me. We were very happy.”

  “Until he died?”

  She took a deep breath and released it slowly, and he tried to keep his gaze on her face instead of the enticing motion. “We had three wonderful years together. So many things we had in common. A love of the theater, delight in the company of good friends, the invigorating quality of a fine wine. He introduced me to poetry and contemporary artists and the waltz. I taught him it was all right to be young at heart.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “So am I.” A smile played across her lips, and he guessed she was savoring memories that would always bring her pleasure. When she reached over and grasped his hand, he stared at her, startled. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For reminding me how much I have to be thankful for.” She squeezed his hand. “I believe it is possible you and I, despite our vast differences, might come to consider each other a friend.”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “Exactly.” With a laugh, she slapped her horse and rode neck-or-nothing up the hill.

  Lorenzo followed, eager to see where this path they were taking might lead. Of one thing he was certain. Wherever it was, it would be more interesting because Valeria was with him. Nothing could alter his determination to make her a match with all possible speed, but he might as well enjoy her company today.

  While he could.

  Eight

  Valeria was not surprised when Lorenzo slowed his horse by another section of old wall along the moor. In the hour they had been riding, he had paused and poked at stones with his boot a half dozen times.

  He must have sensed her smile because he said rather sheepishly, “I know this is not the ride you thought we’d take. It’s simply that I find ancient construction so interesting.”

  “Do you believe these walls are as old as the Roman expansion? I understand the Roman legionnaires reached this part of England.”

  “You know about the Roman Empire?” He half-turned in the saddle.

  She smiled at him. Good! She had startled him for once. Mayhap, after this, he would not take such delight in befuddling her on every opportunity.

  “Simply because I have enjoyed a life in Town doesn’t mean I am without any education. Your uncle insisted that I study many subjects that other girls had no opportunity to pursue.”

  “You never speak of books.”

  “I have tried.” She regarded him steadily, and, for once, he met her gaze without looking away. “I have wished to speak of poetry with you, but any time I have introduced the subject, you have treated my comments with disdain.”

  “I never—”

  “Last night, I was telling Miss Urquhart about meeting the Marquis de la Cour in London.”

  “You spoke of introducing that French poet of love sonnets to the ton, not of poetry.”

  Letting her smile become sly, she said, “I would have if you had not cut me off in mid-word, complaining that I never speak of anything of interest.” She tapped her chin with her gloved finger. “Shall we talk of the unchangeable pattern of sonnets, or would you prefer a dissertation on the rhythms that enhance words? Shakespeare might have preferred iambic pentameter for his plays, but I find it repetitious, don’t you?”

  He stared at her as if he had never seen her before. And mayhap he had not, but she was determined he would never treat her so again.

  “I am amazed,” he said.

  “You shouldn’t be. Among those entertainments that I loved to host and you seem to find the very idea of deplorable, I often held poetry readings and evenings where we read from our favorite passages of both fiction and nonfiction.”

  “I have apparently underestimated you.”

  “You aren’t the first, and neither are you the first to discover that your initial assumptions were a mistake.” She looked back at Moorsea Manor that was a dark blot on the green of the moors. “As I said, your uncle arranged for me to have an excellent education, for he held education dear as you should have guessed after seeing his collection of books and antiquities.”

  Lorenzo shifted uneasily. “I assumed—that is—”

  “You assumed because I’m a female that I would have been taught nothing more than to oversee a household, play hostess at a soirée, and to be an ornament to be obtained by some man with marital intentions during a Season in London.”

  “That is the usual state of a young girl’s schoolroom.”

  “True, but I had thought you would have guessed that your late uncle holds with the canons of propriety no more than you do.”

  “I know nothing of him.”

  “Then you should sit with Miss Urquhart this very afternoon. She loves to bibble-babble about your uncle.”

  His nose wrinkled. “Mayhap I am not that curious.”

  Valeria laughed. As much as she irritated Lorenzo with her desire for a gathering at Moorsea Manor, as much as David vexed him with pranks, Nina Urquhart utterly confounded him. He seemed unsure how to deal with his uncle’s mistress who had an opinion, valid or not, on every subject and treated him like the boy she called him. Of course, he was not the only one Miss Urquhart baffled.

  “What is wrong?” Lorenzo asked, warning that her thoughts had stolen her smile.

  “I’m not sure. Miss Urquhart has been the epitome of kindness t
o me, but she never fails to mention how different I must be from the rest of my family.”

  “You need only ask. I’m sure she would be glad to enlighten you.” He grimaced again. “She seems unable to wait for every opportunity to enlighten me on every facet, no matter how insignificant, of Moorsea Manor. If you were to ask, she would be as forthcoming.”

  “But she isn’t. Odd, isn’t it?”

  “Why are you acting astonished? Everything about her is quite jiggumbob.”

  “I—”

  Lorenzo peered past the wall and smiled. “Look, there is another rider!”

  When he waved, the man turned his mount from amid the trees and rode ventre-à-terre toward them. His horse cleared the chest-high wall as if it were nothing more than a bump in the road. Pulling in beside them, he tipped his hat.

  Valeria stared. She could not keep from staring. Others had used the word Adonis to describe a handsome man, but, as she stared at him, wide-eyed, she could think of no better term. From his golden hair that fell in glorious abandon across his forehead and into his eyes that were the same rich brown as his horse’s windblown mane, her gaze swept over the strong line of his jaw that could not be hidden beneath the stylish cut of his collar. His brawny hands matched the muscular strength of his arms as he held his horse still.

  “You must be Lady Valeria Fanning. I had heard of a beautiful woman who was hiding away in Moorsea Manor, and I own to being pleased that, for once, one of the rumors about Moorsea Manor is true,” he said in a voice that was a resonant bass. Tipping his hat again, he added, “I am Sir Tilden Oates. This is my sister, Mary.”

  Valeria’s answer vanished unspoken when the dashing man turned and smiled at a woman on a horse beside him. She had not noticed the woman until he mentioned her. Mary Oates was a lovely woman, but her beauty was dimmed by her brother’s exceptional looks. Her hair was a pleasant blond, unlike his that challenged the sunlight within each strand. Her features were well-made instead of striking, and even the color of her habit was eclipsed by his.

  “Good day, Miss Oates.” Lorenzo spoke before she could find any words. “Allow me to present myself and Lady Fanning properly. I am Lorenzo Wolfe, Lord Moorsea, and this is Lady Valeria Fanning.”

  “So you are Moorsea.” Sir Tilden Oates eyed him up and down. “I see nothing of your uncle in you.”

  “Did you know his uncle and his household well?” Valeria asked. Mayhap here, at last, would be the answers Lorenzo sought as well as the one that clarified why Nina Urquhart seemed to have such disdain for Valeria’s family, yet treated her with the kindness of an elderly auntie.

  “No.” Sir Tilden seemed reluctant to make that admission. “But there is a picture of the old man down in the tavern in Winlock-on-Sea.”

  “A picture of my uncle in a tavern?” Lorenzo asked.

  “Why not? It was his.” Sir Tilden chuckled, once again wearing a smile that would threaten the heart of any maiden. “Or, to be more honest, it’s yours. Didn’t you realize your holdings reached into the village down on the shore?”

  “I have barely had a chance to explore the manor house itself. Valeria and I were riding about to see the lands connected to the estate today, but it appears I have much more exploration ahead of me.”

  “I hope you won’t spend all your time in such serious pursuits.” Sir Tilden’s words may have been for Lorenzo, but he smiled at Valeria. “My mother has been hoping that you and my sister might exchange calls and become good friends. Isn’t that right, Mary?”

  Mary nodded.

  “You should feel free to call on any Tuesday,” Sir Tilden continued. “Mary and our mother always keep an at home on that day. Our mother believes that the ways of Town are the only method of keeping us from surrendering to the uncivilized ways of our untamed ancestors out here on the moors.”

  Valeria smiled. At last! Some vestige of the life she had left behind in London. She was tempted to throw her arms around Sir Tilden and tell him how much she appreciated his invitation. When he saw how he was candidly admiring her, she doubted if he would object to such untoward behavior. The very thought stiffened her in the saddle. How could she be having such hoydenish thoughts when they were speaking of the ways of the ton?

  “I am sure Valeria would be delighted to give you and your mother a look-in, Miss Oates,” Lorenzo said, again saving her from her own want for sense.

  “Yes, yes,” she hurried to say. “If I may, I would like to call Tuesday next.”

  “Of course you may,” Miss Oates replied in a voice so hushed the wind almost swept it away. “And will you be calling, too, Lord Moorsea? You know we would be so delighted to have you and Lady Fanning join us at Oates’s Hall.”

  Valeria flinched at the warmth in the young woman’s voice. With only a few words, Miss Oates had suggested that she would be happy to set her cap on the new earl.

  Lorenzo said, “We shall see if that is convenient. I mean … We would be delighted to call when—as soon as we can.”

  “You cannot let your life be only duty, you know,” Sir Tilden replied with a chuckle.

  “I have many concerns … My uncle left things in a somewhat unfinished state.”

  “You mean Miss Urquhart?”

  When Lorenzo squared his shoulders, Sir Tilden hastened to apologize. Valeria hid her smile when Lorenzo graciously brushed aside the matter as if the baronet had not overstepped himself with the crude comment. For a man who insisted he wanted nothing to do with the ways of the Polite World, Lorenzo Wolfe had, when he chose, manners as fine as any gentleman she had met in Town. Better than many, she had to own.

  Miss Oates smiled. “Forgive Tilden, my lord. He forgets himself here in grassville.”

  “I believe I already intimated that it is forgotten.” Lorenzo’s glance in Valeria’s direction warned that he was as confused by Miss Oates’s words as by any his late uncle’s mistress had spoken.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Miss Oates put her hand on his arm. “You are very kind.”

  Valeria was not confused by Miss Oates. The young woman made her intentions very clear. If Lorenzo did not watch his step, he soon would find himself with a wife who had succeeded in advancing herself and her family with the single phrase, “I do.”

  The echo of Miss Urquhart’s warning rang through Valeria’s head. Lorenzo was not interested in a wife, but in finding someone else who was seeking one, so he might marry Valeria off with all due speed. It would serve him right if his plan ended up with him standing at the altar.

  “You must forgive Mary, Moorsea,” Sir Tilden said with a laugh. He edged his horse between his sister’s and Lorenzo’s. And between Lorenzo’s and Valeria’s, she noted with a hint of disquiet. Again, as he went on, his words might have been for Lorenzo, but he was looking directly at her, “You have to realize how seldom we have anyone to call upon here on the edge of Exmoor. Our delight at meeting you today goes beyond mere words.”

  Valeria backed her horse away from Sir Tilden’s, but not before he caught her hand and raised it to his lips. The smile he gave her suggested that the matter of their future was already decided.

  When she looked past him, she saw both Lorenzo and Mary Oates watching intently. Had this been a chance encounter? With the vast emptiness of the moor, they easily could have ridden past each other without ever taking note of one another. Was this the reason Lorenzo had dawdled along the wall, pretending an interest in Roman ruins that he could have satisfied quite readily amid the collection of broken debris that his uncle had boxed with such care at the manor house? If he had been waiting for Sir Tilden and his sister to arrive, that would explain why he seemed to have a sudden interest in what she had studied and her opinions on an intellectual subject.

  She withdrew her hand with some difficulty from Sir Tilden’s possessive grip. As she held the reins, making it clear that she would not allow him such an intimacy again, he turned to Lorenzo, his smile still triumphant, and began to speak of matters of the farms across the moor. S
he could not keep from noting while Miss Oates listened in rapt silence, how the two men spoke as if they had begun this conversation previously. Yet, Lorenzo had introduced both of them to Sir Tilden and his sister, suggesting they never had met.

  This was too confusing, but she intended to get answers.

  Valeria tried to pose the questions that would ease her curiosity as soon as Sir Tilden and Miss Oates were out of earshot on their way back to their home closer to the sea. “You and Sir Tilden share common opinions about the tenant farms here, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Lorenzo held out his hand and glanced skyward. “Those clouds have grown too heavy. I believe it’s beginning to rain.”

  “Was that a surprise?”

  “Was what a surprise? I think that was thunder, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  Another peal, closer this time, contradicted her.

  “We need to hurry back to the manor house.” Lorenzo raised his hand to slap his horse just as the cloud released its burden.

  Cold rain coursed down Valeria’s collar before she could turn it up. Steering her horse at the best possible pace down the hillside, she gave it the command, as soon as they reached the narrow path, to go at top speed toward Moorsea Manor. The rain turned the road to mire, but the horse seemed as eager as she to get out of the storm. She did not look back or slow until she reached the stable.

  Slipping from the saddle, she handed the reins to a stable-boy who started to greet her, then looked past her and gasped, “My lord, what happened to you?”

  Valeria spun to see Lorenzo dismounting. He was covered from forehead to foot with splattered mud that was woven with the rain washing over him. Shaking his hands, he shoved his reins in the stableboy’s direction.

  “Lady Fanning failed to realize how close behind her I was riding.” He took a cloth that another boy rushed up with and nodded his thanks. Wiping his face, he motioned for a stableboy to get her a blanket. He draped it over her shoulders. “We might as well continue up to the house, Valeria.”