He guided them to one of the larger trees and leaned against the trunk to look at her more directly.
Hazel clasped her hands at her waist. “You’re forgiven, but only if you tell me who Patrick is.”
“So derelict I’ve spent more time with him than you.” Mr. Hobbs chuckled. “I promise to remedy that. Soon. As to Patrick, I refer to Lord Kissinger. You remember him?”
She did. The handsome viscount, heir to the Winthorp earldom. Yes, she, Agnes, and Melissa had exchanged many whispered giggles about him. She nodded to her husband.
“He’s been my closest friend for as long as I can remember. Although not his father’s county seat, they’ve resided in their country home here in Devonshire since his father’s inheritance. About ten miles north. We grew up together.” Mr. Hobbs stared at his feet in thought. “I’ve not yet mentioned it because I thought you might not be ready—presumptuous, I know—but he’s invited us to dine this week.”
Her breath caught. To dine with an earl’s family?
“I’d love to. Yes. I accept.” She gave a little bounce then checked herself. Dignity. Ladylike dignity.
He gave a half-smile. “Well, well, Mrs. Hobbs. Our first supper engagement.”
“About that,” she interrupted.
His half-smile slipped.
“As thrilling as it is to be called Mrs. Hobbs, it’s rather silly for you to call me that, don’t you think?”
The smile turned to a frown. “I’m not to address you by name? Wife, then?”
Hazel giggled, although she could not be sure that he had made a joke. “If you don’t call me Hazel, I shall cease to answer to you. I will turn my head and pretend I cannot hear you.”
One corner of his lips lifted. “As you wish, Wife.”
She crossed her arms and turned up her nose.
Pushing against the tree to give her a bow, he said, “It’s lovely to meet you, Hazel. You may call me Harold—if it would please you.”
Eyeing him down the length of her nose, never mind that he was at least a full head taller than her, she presented her hand for him to kiss.
“Harold,” she declared. “Yes, that’s pleasing to me.”
What she had meant to say as a tease sounded so naughty to her ears that she laughed and blushed furiously, hoping he could not guess the direction of her thoughts. He studied her over her knuckles until her laughter dissolved, his expression as serious as always but his eyes twinkling with what she thought might be mischief.
They continued their walk along the wilderness path, but at snail speed, her hand once more tucked in the crook of his arm.
Seeing this as her opportunity to better know her husband, she opened a new line of inquiry. “You’ve been in India?”
“I have. For the past three years. I returned a nudge over a month ago.”
“Is it strange being home, or were you happy to leave India?”
His hand slipped over hers, capturing it between palm and arm.
However thoughtless or instinctual the movement on his part, she found it intimate, a touch between lovers rather than strangers or spouses of convenience. It made her giddy, lightheaded. How different would it all have been had she listened to her father from the outset and set her cap at this man intended for her since birth? Was this how he would have courted her? A walk in the park. A hand over hers. A bashful smile. Would their first kiss have been tender and sensual?
“For a time,” he said, “India was home rather than here. Even after a month, I’ve not fully adjusted; yet there’s a rhythm to England one never forgets.”
“Why were you there?”
Harold clucked his tongue, hesitating before speaking. “Business. On my father’s behalf.”
She waited for him to elaborate. When he did not, she asked, “What was India like?” A glance his direction awarded her a change in his expression from cloudy to wistful.
“The sun, however relentless, has a way of reflecting off the Hooghly River so that light glints and shimmers on the surrounding buildings. An asymmetrical landscape. A straw hut next to a manor, a fort next to a warehouse, park greenery next to industry. The people themselves are as varied as the land, a mixture of cultures and languages, formal attire contrasting with undress, an array of color where the livery shade distinguishes the house, all walking the same dusty street, smelling the same aroma of garam masala spices, smoke, and sweat.”
Hazel tried to envision it, then tried to envision him walking those streets. Her first vision was of the posh heir with his powdered hair and starched linen, but then she transposed that image with one of him as he had looked coming from the lake—shirt vee open, clothes drenched and molded to his frame.
She turned her head to stare down the lake path as it veered away from them, Harold guiding them down the left path towards the dower house. “What did you do there? Not the business but day to day?”
“There was no limit to entertainments. Dinner parties, balls, whist. I toured the countryside for a time, made friends. There were several families living in Calcutta with whom I befriended. Abhijeet, my valet, being one of them. He’s more friend than employee and is only my valet by his own insistence. Stubborn man.”
“What of Lord Kissinger? Did he travel with you?”
Harold shook his head. “I’d not seen him since I left for India. One happy reason to return was to reunite. We’d missed three years of friendship, not that we didn’t write, but letters abroad take a great deal longer than they should and oft lose their way. I noticed you have close friends, as well. Lady Williamson and Miss Plumb, yes?”
Hazel grinned. He had noticed her. Not that it was difficult to know with whom she spent her time during the hunting party, but she would wager Lord Brooks would not have been able to name her friends. Harold had noticed her.
“They are my dearest. I’ve known Agnes, Miss Plumb that is, ever so long. As with Lord Kissinger and you, she lives not far from my ho—I mean to say Teghyiy Hall, my childhood home. Melissa’s father and mine did business together for a time, although I couldn’t tell you what business. It was something to do with the West Indies, but he never shared the details with me. Sir Chauncey was involved, as well, Melissa’s husband, and they met in the West Indies. There was a great to do when he and Melissa’s father returned to England. We hosted a supper party, and there Sir Chauncey introduced his bride. The three of us—Agnes, Melissa, and I—became fast friends after that. She’s supportive of all our endeavors and has the heart of a saint. She and Chauncey are a love match, you know, and to hear her father tell it, he put up quite the fight to have her.”
Realizing she was rambling, and carrying on about love matches, no less, Hazel pressed her lips together. Here she was, determined to get to know her husband, yet at the first opportunity, she rambled. He must think her a silly nit.
And to talk of a love match! Oh, Hazel!
To her surprise, he said in response, “I wish I had become better acquainted with them. In a month or two, shall we invite them to stay for a few days?”
Hazel clasped her hand over his and squeezed. Despite her best efforts to maintain her dignity, she squealed with delight.
Watching their approach and witnessing Hazel’s departure from decorum was Nana. The Dowager Baroness Collingwood waved from the front door of the dower house, calling out a greeting to Helena and Eugene.
Chapter 12
The Countess of Winthorp peered at Hazel over her wine glass. Her expression indiscernible, she gave the glass a gentle swirl, set it down, then said to Lord Kissinger without moving her lips or removing her gaze from Hazel, “You see how easy it is? Find a woman and marry her. Never would I have thought Mr. Hobbs wiser than you, but the proof sits before me.”
Lord Kissinger mumbled inaudible words into his own wine glass. Harold cleared his throat. The Earl of Winthorp cut a piece of venison. Miss
Hale stared at her plate.
The supper was not a disaster, although it appeared that way with each poke and prod from Lady Winthorp. Quite the contrary. It aided Hazel in feeling married, a strange concept, perhaps, since she was irrefutably married, but being so legally did not always translate to emotionally. This was not the first time, rather the second time that week Hazel felt married, a woman part of an exclusive two-member club.
The first time had been during tea with Nana and Harold two days prior. Although Nana confused them for Lord and Lady Collingwood on several occasions during the visit, she remained lucid for the majority, regaling Hazel with stories of Harold’s youth and his seriousness as a boy. What was so monumental about tea was Nana’s ability to paint them as a pair, a unit, a whole. She saw them not as two individuals sitting awkwardly across from her on the Rococo canapé but as a duo, a love-struck duo at that. So often she referenced the twinkle in their eyes that Hazel began to blush and believe just such a twinkle must show, even while she knew the truth. By the time they left the dower house, she could not meet Harold’s gaze without wondering if he could see this mysterious twinkle of infatuation. Despite circumstances, she felt married.
The second time was during this supper party at the Winthorp’s country home. Hazel was seated at the dining table with her husband to one side, Lord and Lady Winthorp at each end of the table, and Lord Kissinger across from her, a pretty young lady by the name of Miss Hale sitting next to him.
Lady Winthorp’s comments were not complimentary; yet she spoke of the marriage so often and referenced so frequently Hazel and Harold as though they were the same pair, unit, and whole that Nana had recognized, no one could doubt that they were married. Given the only person at the table Hazel knew was Harold helped the sensation of being one part of a pair. The fact he watched her through most of the meal contributed, as well. She was ever aware of him. Her husband.
How many arranged marriages, and especially under the circumstances, had turned bitter and resentful? How many husbands punished their wives for being forced into an unwanted marriage? Hers could have ended this way, and perhaps it still would, but if he continued to stare at her as he was, and if she continued to feel such inexplicable elation each time she caught him staring, then surely this would be written in the annuals as one of the successful marriages of their time. She could only hope.
Hazel looked up with a start to realize Lady Winthorp was talking to her.
“You must talk sense into my son. His father won’t live forever and needs to be assured the line is secure. This title is our family’s legacy. Our lineage must be preserved. Is that not right, Lord Winthorp?”
The earl grunted as he cut another piece of venison. The man did not look a day over forty, hardly on his deathbed.
Hazel glanced at Lord Kissinger before saying to her hostess, “Wouldn’t you prefer him to marry for love?”
The countess sniffed. “Do you mistake us for commoners?”
Hazel’s eyes widened, fearing she had insulted Lady Winthorp.
Before she could respond, her ladyship continued, “Miss Hale is sensible. Do you not think they would make a stunning couple?”
The sensible Miss Hale was as red as a poppy and had not eaten a single bite of supper, her attention riveted on the plate. Next to Miss Hale, Lord Kissinger raised an eyebrow at Hazel. Rather than be annoyed or angry, he bore the smirk of amusement, as though this were the greatest of entertainments for the week. Her heart went out to Miss Hale.
A quick peek at Harold revealed he was staring at her again. There was a twinkle in his eyes. Undeniably. Not the twinkle of Nana’s imagination but that twinkle of mischief she had seen before. One corner of his lips rose in a teasing smile. Right there at the dining table, in front of complete strangers, she blushed.
“Mrs. Hobbs? Are you listening?”
In a moment of confusion, Hazel realized yet again that Lady Winthorp addressed her, and from the woman’s expression of sour lemons, had been addressing her for some time. Had Hazel been so caught up in Harold’s smile, or had she not registered the name as her own? Hearing herself addressed as this new persona was akin to dressing in an unaltered gown. It fit, but it did not hug her curves, the sleeves ever so loose, the petticoat too short, the neckline too low. She was not Miss Trethow anymore, she reminded herself. She was, indubitably, Mrs. Hobbs.
“Mrs. Hobbs. I’ll not be ignored.”
Hazel smiled at her hostess. “It’s not for me to say if they would make a stunning couple, my lady, although I’m honored you value my opinion.”
Her ladyship narrowed her eyes then turned her attention to Harold. “As I understand the situation, you and Mrs. Hobbs were intended since birth. Being party to an arranged marriage, you can speak to its success.”
Although more of a statement than a question, it sounded like a command.
Harold took it as such, for he replied with, “I attribute the success to destiny.”
The only lighting in the carriage came from the first quarter moon, hanging low in the sky, and the coachman’s carriage lamps, swaying with the drive. Harold could make out Hazel’s profile against the carriage upholstery but not her expression. She chattered with animation. Her tone alluded to a smile. Not yet a full week of marriage, and he already craved that smile. He did not know how to win a woman’s affection nor how to transfer a woman’s love from another man to himself, but he fancied from all her blushes that he was not doing a half bad job of the task. The next time he spoke with Patrick, he would badger the man about her every expression—had Patrick noticed her looking at him overlong? Had he seen her flush when Harold spoke to her? Had he sensed any attraction between them?
“Poor Miss Hale,” Hazel was saying while Harold tried not to think about when it would be appropriate to revisit her bedchamber—too soon; far too soon; they had only just begun to talk to each other. “I would pity Lord Kissinger, but it was Miss Hale who received the brunt of her ladyship’s not so subtle innuendos.”
“Patrick’s plight in life. He calls on me as an escape from his parents. If Trelowen weren’t nearby, I suspect he would move to one of their other residences.”
“Do they hound him so often?”
Harold nodded but realized she could not see him clearly in the darkness. “To my knowledge, yes. It’s why Lady Winthorp didn’t attend the hunting party. She was disappointed he had refused the newest of sacrificial lambs.”
“Bless. Is he waiting for love, or does the countess have abominable taste?”
“A combination, you could say.” Harold shifted on the bench.
“Has he not thought of marrying to appease them?”
He tugged at his waistcoat. “From time to time.”
“Well, I hope he does wait for love.”
Harold hoped that would be the end of the conversation. It was going in an uncomfortable direction, one he was ill equipped to handle.
Across from him, Hazel gave a little squeal. “I know! Yes, that’s it. I have it.”
Waiting for her to elaborate proved futile. She hmmed and oohed under her breath, deep in thought, with no indication of sharing with him.
The more time he spent with her, the more curious of a young lady she became. His first impressions of her being anything like his mother were unfounded, although there was a sort of simple pleasure about her. Simple was not the correct word, but he could not think of a better one. She garnered pleasure from the least significant of things, be it delight in an autumn bloom along the wilderness path or glee from Nana having the very biscuit she favored most.
“Care to share your thoughts?” he asked with a chuckle.
“I’m determined to find him a bride! I have in mind a young lady from home, one of my neighbors, who would suit him perfectly. She’s—”
“No matchmaking,” Harold interrupted.
“I promise to be discree
t. I won’t be as gauche as Lady Winthorp. Neither will ever know I’m—”
“No matchmaking, Hazel,” he snapped. He had not meant a harsh tone, but the last thing he needed was his wife meddling with Patrick’s love life.
“There’s no need to worry that I’ll—”
“He prefers the company of men.”
The words slipped before he could stop them. Better said than thought, as Patrick oft told him. At least now she would understand.
To his surprise, she laughed. “Well, of course, he does. Just as I prefer the company of ladies. But I’m not speaking of a friend, Harold, but of a spouse.”
“He. Prefers. Men.” Harold enunciated each word. “Unless you have a gentleman in mind, you needn’t bother.”
Although he could not see it, he could sense the pucker forming between her brows.
“Oh.” Was all she said before lapsing into silence.
They both stared out the carriage window into the darkness. As refreshing the silence and as relieving the revelation, Harold’s annoyance mounted. Only moments prior, his wife had supported love matches, but now she disapproved. He had given her reason to judge his closest friend, someone who would call on them frequently, dine with them often, and be a permanent fixture in their lives. This was a conversation he had never expected to have and certainly not with a woman he had known for two weeks, less than two weeks if he counted the days. The longevity of their parents’ intention for them be dashed, and brief prior meetings during their childhood be damned; he had known her for thirteen days.
Harold scowled at the passing silhouettes of trees.
Hazel clapped her hands, shattering the silent night. So startling was the sound, Harold braced against the bench.
“I know the perfect gentleman! Sir Chauncey’s cousin dined wi—”
Whatever Hazel was about to say was disrupted by a howl of laughter. Of all the things he anticipated her saying, that had not been one of them. Harold threw his head back and bellowed the heartiest laugh he had shared in years, so hearty he had to retrieve his handkerchief to dab at the corners of his eyes.
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