A Companion for the Count: A Regency Romance

by Britton, Sally

  After smothering a laugh, Lord Farleigh ducked slightly. As the tallest in their company, his height became a liability as some branches reached the top of his head. “Men, you had better keep hold of your hats. Lest these branches snatch them off completely.”

  Their order shifted as the ladies fell back, allowing Sir Andrew to hold branches to clear the path for them from time to time. Soon it was Sir Andrew and Lady Josephine leading their group, with Miss Arlen and Luca in between, while Lord Farleigh brought up the rear, his hat completely removed from his head and in his hand.

  Miss Arlen gave Luca a thankful smile when he pushed aside a thorny branch that reached too close to her dress. “Thank you. I confess, I did not expect the track to be this overgrown. I suppose the farmers have all been too busy with harvests to give heed to our little shortcut.”

  “How often do you take this route?” Luca gestured to what looked to be barely more than a game trail to his eyes. Yet it wound its way through farmlands and between meadows, along the paths of humans rather than furry creatures.

  Light on her feet, Miss Arlen skipped over a protruding tree root on her side of the lane. “Rarely. We usually have Lady Isabel and Lady Rosalind with us, and Lord James. That means we stay to the road, as Lord James would love nothing so much as to lose himself along the path, collecting insects or frogs, or sticks and stones. The road keeps the children out of mischief.”

  Luca glanced back, realizing Lord Farleigh had fallen behind enough for the growth to obscure him from sight. He frowned and looked ahead, glimpsing Lady Josephine and Sir Andrew perhaps thirty feet ahead, at the top of a small rise.

  Their voices, raised in argument, drifted back. But the words were too broken up in passage through the branches for Luca to make out what they said.

  “Is Sir Andrew often at odds with his friends?” Luca asked, trying to conceal his frustration. The man did not even seem to like Lady Josephine, yet he had wound up walking beside her, leaving Luca to escort Miss Arlen.

  “Oh, he enjoys a lively argument from time to time. But it’s all in good fun between Andrew and Lord Farleigh. I think it delights him that Lady Josephine rises to the occasion. She cannot stand to let him have the last word on any subject.” Miss Arlen pushed aside a branch tipped in yellowing leaves.

  The change of the seasons had begun, as evidenced by the reds, oranges, and golds in many of the trees above them. Yet enough green leaves remained to hold the memory of the summer sun a little longer.

  As though to contradict him, a large yellow leaf flitted down from a tree and caught itself upon Miss Arlen’s bonnet. The stem tucked into a small gap between a ribbon and the straw of the broad-brimmed hat.

  Miss Arlen kept walking, unaware of her new ornament. “What of you and your sisters, my lord? Do you never tease one another?”

  The implication of her words, that Sir Andrew and Lady Josephine perhaps regarded each other as brother and sister, eased his mind. “Not often. I did not spend much time near my sisters in the years when it would have seemed most natural to tease.” His parents had hidden him away in a monastery and then sent Luca to a university in Spain. Every moment spent with his family had been treasured. “I cannot imagine tormenting them with inconsequential arguments.”

  Miss Arlen’s head turned so quickly that the leaf nearly dislodged, but instead waved like a flag in the breeze her movement created. “It is not a torment, I think. Though I haven’t had a brother, Andrew has done his best to teach me how to laugh at myself. I think that is an important quality for a person to possess.”

  Luca ducked beneath another branch to save the top of his hat. Bruno would scold him if he returned with his hat in less than pristine condition.

  “Do you often laugh at yourself, Miss Arlen?”

  “I try to.” She sent another of her amused smiles in his direction. “Please do not think me foolish, my lord. I am not one to make light of those situations which require solemn contemplation or thoughtful responses. I learned in my childhood that so much of what is wrong with the world cannot be changed with a dour disposition. But if I look for the humor in a situation, if I can laugh, then I can bear onerous burdens for far longer than if I dwell on the solemnity of an issue overlong.”

  Luca silently held aside another branch to clear her path, her words churning about in his mind. “I wonder what members of your parliament might say to such a stance.”

  Miss Arlen laughed outright, and the leaf in her bonnet trembled as though it did the same. “From what I understand, Parliament is as likely to roar with laughter one day as they are to thunder with anger the next. Our wisest politicians couple humor with hard truths, else no one would listen to them long enough to care what they said.”

  He had to bite back his own smile at that. “Then perhaps you ought to apply to the House of Commons, Miss Arlen. It seems you would make an excellent member.”

  “Are you calling me a comic, my lord?” She arched that single eyebrow at him, a trick he wished he had learned given how artful it appeared on her lovely face.

  “Perhaps a wit.”

  She laughed again, and the leaf shivered. Luca reached out a hand and plucked the leaf from its place. His quick movement startled Miss Arlen, so that she took a step back, catching her foot on a tree root.

  Luca tried to catch her arm, but the branch above caught his hat, pulling him to a stuttering stop before dislodging the headpiece entirely. Miss Arlen caught herself after a few steps backward by grabbing at a thin branch. They both stood still a moment, the trees around them silent, staring at each other in wide-eyed horror.

  An apology formed in his mind, though one of the English words he needed in order to make it proper eluded him—

  Miss Arlen snorted. Not a sound he expected from a well-bred woman. But he realized the noise was made as she attempted to quell a laugh. Her eyes danced merrily, and then she put a hand up to point at the top of his head. “You have a leaf—” Then her laughter poured out, like water from a fountain, bubbling with absolute glee.

  He put his hand atop his bare head. She was right. When the branches had snatched his hat, and they’d left a leaf in his tousled hair. He narrowed his eyes at it, then paired it with the yellow leaf he’d plucked from her bonnet. “A matched set.”

  “Perfect.” She stepped out of the branches, then bent to retrieve his hat from the ground. “Lord Atella.” She held it out to him.

  He accepted it from her, looking down into her bright, open gaze. “Thank you, Miss Arlen.” He tucked the leaves into his coat pocket without thinking. When he realized what he had done, he grimaced and put his hat on. “This is not how I thought this walk would be.”

  She looked behind when there was a crash in the brush, and he turned to see Lord Farleigh. “Ah, there you are. I began to think everyone had left me behind on purpose.”

  Miss Arlen went to his side, looping her arm through the earl’s. “It is not our fault you are so terribly slow. Perhaps if you actually used that stick, you’d move faster.”

  Luca sighed and followed along behind them. When they crested the little rise in the land, the path opened at last. The village lay beneath them, and Lady Josephine and Sir Andrew were at its boundary, looking back. They had finally realized how far ahead of their group they were.

  Not at all how I thought it would be. Getting near Lady Josephine on a walk to the village ought to have been an easy matter. Instead, Luca brought up the rear of their party alone. How would he ever get near enough to have a conversation with her? Let alone to flirt with her.

  His conversation with Miss Arlen had flowed easily enough, in private.

  Perhaps Luca needed to reconsider his strategy. Maybe it wasn’t enough for Miss Arlen to approve of him. Maybe he needed more from her.

  Obtaining an English bride of high connection and rank was necessary to his career. No matter what Torlonia said.

  Chapter Seven

  Emma lounged on a cushion beneath an old oak, her shawl loose abo
ut her shoulders. Alice Sharpe sat next to her, spectacles upon her nose, sketching. The duke’s daughters were playing pall-mall with other ladies, while the men stood along the shore trying to form rowing teams.

  All the young gentry—and the not-so-young chaperones and parents—had come at the duke’s invitation for what could well be the last outdoor event of the year.

  A day at the lake, with country entertainment upon the shore, and sport for the men upon the water. Though the breeze sometimes felt a little cooler than Emma found comfortable, she enjoyed the spectacle of the scene.

  “Aren’t you going to play?” Alice asked, not looking up from her work.

  “Aren’t you?” Emma retorted.

  Alice peered over the frames of her spectacles with a smirk. “I am the governess, not an invited guest. I am only here to keep watch over my charges.”

  “That is a fine excuse, even though we both know you were officially discharged yesterday.” Emma leaned further back on her cushion to look up into the tree branches. “You are as much a guest as Mr. Gardiner is.”

  “And he is at the shore, trying to look like he is interested in rowing when I am certain he is actually trying to find late-season water-skippers.” Alice leaned away from the tree trunk to peer out at the men. “I think he only came to be near me, and then Sir Andrew dragged him away. Poor Rupert.”

  Emma sighed, a touch envious of the couple’s happiness. “The two of you are a wonderful pair, Alice. Your happiness is inspirational.”

  “Thank you.” Alice turned her attention back to her sketch. “And what about you, Emma?”

  “Hm?” Emma stared up at the snatches of sky she could see through the tree branches. “What about me?”

  “Yes. When will you find a similar state of happiness for yourself?” Alice had a way of asking personal questions in a way that made them sound perfectly reasonable. Perhaps it came with being a governess—the ability to make any question sound like a scholarly examination rather than the start of a potentially embarrassing conversation.

  Reflection upon the question kept Emma from making an immediate answer, though in the past she would have said something flippant. Made light of the topic of marriage, at least when it came to herself. But Alice had become a friend, and friends who asked serious questions deserved honest answers.

  “I cannot know for certain.” She watched a little squirrel, red with furry points on its ears, hop from one limb to another. Likely looking for food for its winter stores. “Josie isn’t ready for me to leave her, and no man comes courting the companion when the duke’s daughter is present.” She smiled to herself. “I always thought of that as a bit of protection. A gift of time. I need not worry over courtship and marriage until Josie marries. That seems to be a very long way off.”

  “You are an heiress yourself, though.” Alice did not lift her head; her pencil gliding across her paper in long strokes kept her gaze. “Though I suppose that isn’t common knowledge, given how Lady Rosalind swore me to secrecy after she blurted that fact out in conversation.”

  Emma snorted. “Rosalind cannot keep anything like that to herself. I think it must make her feel important, to get attention for saying such things.” Emma looked over to the lake again. “But you are correct. My waiting inheritance isn’t generally known. I am most grateful to His Grace for that.”

  Alice bit her lip and leaned closer to her paper, pushing her spectacles up slightly before applying her pencil again. “I have known you only a few months, Emma. Even still, it surprises me to know you haven’t given much thought to your future. You have plans for everything and everyone else.”

  “There is no need to worry over my future. Not until Josie marries. Or declares her intentions to remain an old maid.” Emma didn’t fear the latter. Josie, for all her declarations of youth and disinterest in marriage, had a romantic nature. She would turn her mind to matrimony when a man caught her interest, if not her heart.

  Emma peered across the stretch of grass between the tree and where the men had gathered. She spotted Lord Atella standing with them, his coat removed like the rest, anxiously listening to instruction. He had said he didn’t row. How had they convinced him to try? And in front of so many people he did not know?

  The man had something deeper than Simon or Andrew’s competitiveness to motivate him. As serious as he was, it was hard to imagine him wishing to join in for entertainment’s sake. As a political ambassador, he would not want to make a fool of himself, either. So what took him from the comfort of lawn games and picnic food, from the men content to sit and speak of politics on the bank, out into strange waters?

  Perhaps he meant to impress Josephine. Or he wanted Simon’s approval. Currying favor with a future duke wasn’t an uncommon thing for Emma to see.

  Lady Isabel appeared at the edge of their rug, her lower lip out in a pout. “Rosalind cheats,” she declared, then dropped onto a cushion. She swiped an apple from the bowl at the center of the cushions and rugs. The bite she took out of it was rather fierce.

  “Have you proof of that?” Alice asked, looking up to meet Isabel’s gaze.

  The girl shifted and lowered her eyes. “Not precisely.”

  “Then let us withhold our accusations of such.” Alice looked to the lake. “It appears the gentlemen have finally decided who will be in which boat.”

  There were three boats, and each would hold a team of five men. All who had agreed to participate in rowing were young and most were unattached to any particular lady. The older gentlemen who had dared accompany their sons and daughters were scattered about on chairs, watching their youthful counterparts. Likely placing wagers on their sons, too.

  Lady Josephine arrived, taking another fruit from the bowl before sitting next to Alice to study her sketchbook. “Oh, that is an incredible likeness, Alice.”

  The former governess scrutinized the drawing. “Do you think so? It has been so long since I’ve drawn a portrait, though I think I could draw stems and petals blindfolded.”

  Emma started and sat up. “Portrait? I thought you were sketching the bowl of fruit.”

  “I never said that.” Alice’s eyes glinted with mischief. She turned her sketchbook toward Emma. “I was sketching you.”

  Emma looked back at her likeness, her lips parted in a protest that died before she could speak it. Alice had drawn her in profile, the way she had been leaning back on the cushions and looking upward. And Alice had caught something in her sketch that Emma wasn’t certain she liked. An open, undisguised longing. Despite the peaceful pose—her form an idea rather than a finished concept—her detailed expression wasn’t one Emma wanted anyone else to see.

  She swallowed and forced a smile when she met Alice’s probing gaze. “Thank you, Alice. I think your skill with portraits is comparable to your botany work. Perhaps better.”

  Alice’s eyebrows raised. “Thank you.” Did she know what she had seen? Did she guess at what Emma’s true feelings were? Perhaps she had caught that expression upon Emma’s face in an unguarded moment, and her steady line of questions had been Alice’s attempt to puzzle out what it meant.

  The men were marching to the short boat launch upon the lake. Emma stood with a deliberate movement. “Oh, look. I think the race will start soon.” She plucked her parasol from the ground and popped it open. “We had better attend to it.”

  The other ladies playing with their mallet and balls had come to the same conclusion, as they put their equipment down and started walking toward the water. Alice and Josephine stood and brushed at their skirts, then Isabel and Rosalind joined them. The young girls took up bickering over the game as they fell into step behind the three adult women.

  Sir Andrew stood at the forefront of one group of men, giving orders and gesturing to where he wanted each man to sit. Simon had his own small crew to direct, and it appeared Lord Atella had been conscripted into the earl’s boat. The third vessel was manned by the only married man in the group, young though he was, their neighbor Mr. Whitfi
eld. Rupert Gardiner, Alice’s intended, manned an oar for that team.

  Simon saw the ladies and chaperones gathering along the shore and waved at them, then shouted. “We are first going to get our boats to the other side of the lake. Once they are in line, we will race back to the dock. The first boat to draw even with the dock is the winning team.” He gestured to Lord Addington upon the dock with them. “Our friend, Baron Addington, will wait for us to signal we are ready. Then he will fire his weapon, signaling the race’s start.”

  “Brave of them, to move a university river sport to a lake,” one of the matrons said quietly to her daughter.

  Emma looked over the pastel dresses and ribboned bonnets, counting seventeen unmarried ladies. They were all neighbors, except for a few guests of the duke she had met the day before at dinner. The castle hosted many people when the duke was in residence. And every guest with single daughters was always certain to bring them, likely hoping to catch Simon’s eye.

  As of yet, no one had accomplished such a thing.

  “The earl is in fine form,” Miss Finchley, the baron’s daughter, murmured to her mama. “He is so handsome.”

  Someone agreed, and Emma bit her tongue. Would they find him nearly so handsome if he wasn’t the heir to a dukedom? Miss Finchley ought to have given up her pursuit by that point. The previous summer, she had shown she possessed an unfeeling heart when a small boy—her father’s ward—had gone missing, and she’d thought it a waste of time to go looking for him.

  The duke’s family, despite their high birth, were exceptionally compassionate toward others. Someone with a stony heart and an attitude dismissive of others could never impress Simon.

  The men climbed into their boats and began rowing across the lake.

  Emma picked out Lord Atella among them, rowing with as much vigor as his fellows. “I do hope the conte is all right,” she murmured quietly to her friends. “He said he didn’t participate in rowing as a sport.”

  “If he elected to join them, I’m certain he will be well enough.” Josie shaded her eyes, having forgotten her parasol under the tree. “I only hope Simon trounces Sir Andrew. Your cousin is insufferable when he wins any sort of game.”