She pinned up her hair and waited while he dressed, pretending that he didn’t fascinate her and that her fingers didn’t itch with the desire to touch him again, to undo every button he fastened. When they both looked relatively composed, they descended the ladder, and he took her hand as they made their way back around the stable and up the curving drive. Then, before she could pull her fingers away, he released her.
“Back to charades, I suppose,” he said in a low voice, brushing a strand of her hair back behind her ear.
Caroline mentally shook herself. This pleasant haze that had enveloped her needed to go away. Otherwise everyone in her family would know what she and Zachary had been up to. “And back to cows.”
“Yes. Speaking of which, the dozen head I purchased should be at Powell’s in the morning. Care to accompany me while I explain how I want the project to go?”
“I believe I can fit that into my schedule.”
He smiled. “Good.” Gently he kissed her again.
Oh, she should have refused. What was wrong with her? While he lurked in the shadows on the portico, she hurried into the house, up the stairs to her bedchamber for her shawl, and back down into the drawing room. As she’d anticipated, no one had missed her.
Rather, they were wondering whether someone should go and find Lord Zachary, or whether they should send for a physician to tend his headache. Anne shifted off her chair to sit on the couch beside Caroline.
“Did you have trouble finding your shawl?” she asked.
“I got distracted looking out the window,” Caroline improvised. “The moon is full, and the shadows along the creek and pond are exquisite.”
Anne nodded. “Did you see anything else exquisite out there?”
Caroline hoped she wasn’t blushing. “The dew is sparkling in the field.”
“Goose. I meant Lord Zachary. He’s wandering out there somewhere.” Anne sighed. “Probably looking at cows. I liked it better when he was set on being a soldier.”
“I didn’t. For heaven’s sake, did you want him to go out and get killed, simply because he would look well in a crimson uniform?”
“Of course not. But you have to admit that the army is more glamorous than herds of cows and their milk.”
Caroline didn’t agree; it was the light in his eyes that she found attractive, not the task he pursued. Saying that, though, was out of the question. “Papa was a soldier, and now he’s a farmer. I prefer him here,” was all she said.
Zachary strolled back into the room. The instantaneous cacophony drowned out whatever Anne had been about to say. Everyone wanted to know whether he felt better, or if he needed a whiskey or warm milk or some tea with honey.
“I feel much better, thank you,” he said loudly, quieting the mob. “All I needed was some fresh air.”
“You have hay on your coat,” Susan said, brushing at the fine, dark material.
“Dimidius nearly knocked me down,” he returned easily, grinning.
Realizing she was staring, Caroline cleared her throat and turned her gaze away, only to see Lady Gladys looking at her. Wonderful. Four more blasted days, Caroline. If she could control herself for four more days, all of her dreams would come true.
Even so, she had the suspicion that tonight she would be dreaming of a dark-haired lord in a hayloft, and how very wicked and alive and free he made her feel.
Chapter 20
Zachary looked at Caroline sideways. “You actually want to know my opinion of the Parthenon?”
“If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”
“But your father re-created it.”
They headed up the rutted road leading to Vincent Powell’s small estate. Sagramore had obviously been cooped up for too long, because the gelding was galloping circles around Caroline’s more sedate mare, Heather. Zachary would have enjoyed a good run, too, but he had no intention of rushing through the outing. Even with a groomsman trotting along behind them, he relished another few hours with Caroline. There were far too few of them left, as far as he was concerned.
“He worked from sketches and, I’m afraid, a fair share of imagination,” she returned. “I want to know what the actual ruins are like.”
She didn’t mean merely a physical description. It drew him to her, the way she sought out his opinions and impressions. “I remember white,” he said slowly. “White pillars surrounded by downward slopes of white rock and earth. It was hot and dry, except for a slow breeze coming off the sea.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “And quiet. Visitors chatted, and there were birds about, but even with the low noise it felt…still. Waiting.” Shaking himself, he grinned. “Not that I expected Apollo or Athena to make an appearance.”
She gazed at him for several hard beats of his heart. “I could feel myself there,” Caroline finally said. “It must have been wondrous.” A moment later she cleared her throat and looked away again.
Stealing a look at her profile, her slender body in her hunter green riding habit and the matching hat tilted over her auburn hair, he wanted to take her there, to let her see it with her own eyes. That, though, was far beyond the bounds of any agreement they’d made together. “I have a question for you now.”
“Yes?”
Think, Zachary. You know what you can’t ask. “What accommodations does Monsieur Tannberg have for his apprentices and artisans at his studio?” he ventured. “You’re not going to have to sleep on a bench, are you?”
She snorted. “He owns a small building and rents the apartments out to his employees at a reasonable rate.”
“And will you be happy, living in an apartment in Vienna?”
“I’ll be doing what I’ve always dreamed of doing, so yes, I’ll be happy.”
“You are accustomed to living with eight other people. That’s a large change.” Zachary wasn’t quite certain what he was trying to say or to discover, but he did know it was important to find out whether her goal was to be a painter or to escape from Wiltshire.
“Half the time my family doesn’t know I’m here. And no, I’m not complaining—it’s merely a statement of fact. They all have their own lives, and their own goals and dreams. Mine are different.”
“Anne seems to understand.”
A slight frown crossed her face, then vanished again. “Anne is very bright. But her aim is the same as the rest of my sisters.”
“To find a husband.”
“In her case, to find a husband and escape Wiltshire.”
He took a breath, wondering whether he was simply insane to keep asking these questions. “Would you consider marrying, if your husband was a patron of the arts or another painter or something?”
“What would be the point?”
“Love, companionsh—”
“When my parents married,” she interrupted, her voice harder, “my mother, who had gone to finishing school along with your aunt, found that her most useful accomplishments were embroidery, hosting soirees, and the occasional playing of the pianoforte, and all of that was secondary to her ability to have children. I am not going to live that life.”
Despite the bite of her words, he sensed that she blamed not her father for expecting those qualities from Sally Witfeld but rather her mother for living up—or rather, down—to those expectations. “She seems happy enough,” he offered.
Caroline glared at him. “Yes, she’s turned twittering and helplessness into an art. I’ve simply chosen to pursue another kind of art.”
“So if I, for example, were to ask you to marry me, you wouldn’t be interested?” he asked, hoping to God that she couldn’t hear the serious edge in his voice. If she hadn’t been so ready to leave, and if their remaining time together hadn’t been so short, he could probably have found a way to cure himself of this odd…happiness and pleasure he felt whenever he spoke with her or touched her or even set eyes on her.
“Of course not. Marrying a Griffin would be even worse than being exiled to Wiltshire.”
“And why is that?” h
e returned, doing his best to sound amused rather than deeply offended at the insult to his highly aristocratic lineage. Her answer hadn’t surprised him, and in a sense he was relieved, but damnation, he’d practically proposed. She didn’t have to sound like she’d just swallowed a beetle.
“You’re a duke’s brother. State events, dining with simpering politicians, mimicking Society’s latest bon mots, expressing no opinion of my own—I would rather paint houses than live like that.”
“There are several ladies who could prove you wrong,” he returned, unsuccessfully attempting to keep his light tone. “Authors, activists, adventurers. My sister, as well. I respect her opinion over just about anyone’s.”
“I see. And other than your sister, how many of these ladies are married?”
His jaw clenched. “Several of them.”
“Mm hm. Look, your cows have arrived,” she said, and he turned his gaze from her to the pasture ahead of them.
Vincent Powell stood on the lowest rung of the pasture railing as they arrived. “Good morning, Zachary, Miss Witfeld. I seem to have twelve Guernsey heifers.”
Zachary swung down from Sagramore and stepped over to help Caroline to the ground. “Yes, you do. Two South Devon bulls will be arriving tomorrow. We’ll need to split up the cows for them—I want to know which bull is producing which calves, since the offspring will be the next step in the process.”
“They’re a healthy-looking herd,” Powell commented, grudging approval in his voice.
Apparently Zachary had managed to convert him to the cause. Of course the venture wasn’t costing the farmer a damned pence, so that probably helped, as well. “Seven of them are pure-bred Guernseys,” he said, joining Powell on the railing, “and five have some Hereford blood, since Herefords fatten well on plain grass. I want to see which produces more milk to start with, and at a lower cost.”
“How many head are you giving over to Eades?”
“The same. I’ve had to purchase another two dozen from farther north, and three bulls from South Devonshire. Then your other neighbors—Samms, Donnelly, Hallett, and Prentiss—will have eight head each, and Witfeld’s adding another twenty to his herd as the control group since he’s farther along in the program.”
“You’ve put some work into this, haven’t you, lad?” Powell said. “And some blunt, as well.”
Zachary shrugged, though the older man’s comments pleased him. “I want to give us a solid foundation.”
“And what about the Duke of Melbourne’s involvement?”
“I’m expecting his answer any day now. If he agrees to invest, we’ll probably double the breeding population to start with. If not, well, you’re looking at all your Guernseys for the next six months.”
“What about pasture size? If I double this herd, then—”
“I’m doing the figures right now. By the end of the week I’ll know how much land I need to purchase for you, and how much grain I’ll need to supplement.”
Powell stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Zachary.”
Zachary shook it. “We haven’t accomplished anything yet.”
“Aye, but I’m beginning to feel optimistic. And you didn’t have to include me, especially after…” The farmer trailed off, glancing in Caroline’s direction.
“We all make mistakes.” Zachary hopped down from the fence to take Caroline’s arm. Even annoyed with her, he couldn’t shake the desire, the need, to touch her on some pretext or other. “Will you give us a tour, Powell?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
By the time they finished touring Mr. Powell’s pastures and pens, Caroline began to wonder whether the Witfelds were Zachary’s greatest admirers, after all. She told her companion that as they cantered back toward Witfeld Manor while the farmer waved at them until they rounded a hedge out of sight.
“He’s enthusiastic. There’s nothing wrong with that,” Zachary returned. “In fact, I’m thankful for it. One naysayer is all we would need to have the whole lot of them refusing to give over pasture land.”
“Pasture land that you’re compensating them for losing, you mean.”
He slowed Sagramore to a walk, and she reined Heather in beside them. Since their silly conversation about marriage this morning he’d seemed a little out-of-sorts, and she’d begun to think that he’d been serious. The idea horrified her: not that she would mind more intimacy with him, but the rest of the marriage trappings, even with someone as amiable as he was—and despite his protest that there were married ladies who lived productive, independent lives—would kill her. She knew it.
“If you think I’m making a poor decision, I wish you’d tell me,” he said after a moment, his gaze on the wheat field that bordered Witfeld land.
“I don’t think you’re making a poor decision,” she returned. “But would it matter if I did?”
“Not particularly.”
She hesitated, surprised that he’d so easily dismissed her participation. “Oh.”
He chuckled, glancing at her. “You have a great deal of intelligence and common sense, Caroline. Of course I would prefer that you think I’m being brilliant and progressive.”
And abruptly the world felt right again. “You are being brilliant and progressive. I just hope the cows cooperate.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear, love.”
When they arrived at the foot of the drive, both Anne and Joanna stood waving at them. Caroline glanced at Zachary as they neared, but she couldn’t see anything in his expression but his typical easygoing politeness. She didn’t know why she was so worried, anyway; even if Anne did have some plan in mind to snare Zachary, it couldn’t possibly be the first time a lady had tried to trick or cajole him into marriage.
Even so, she wanted to warn him—but what kind of sister would that make her? Especially when Anne had been the most understanding and supportive of all her siblings? If he hadn’t asked her about marriage, the decision whether to warn him or not would have been easier, but now she had no idea what to say to him. And yet saying nothing at all seemed cowardly.
“Good morning,” he said to the young ladies as they reached them.
“Good morning, Zachary,” Joanna returned, grabbing the toe of his boot. “I need to speak with you.”
“I was here first,” Anne argued.
“Perhaps you might let Lord Zachary down from his horse before you assault him,” Caroline suggested, urging Heather between Sagramore and Anne.
“You don’t have any say over his time any longer, Caro,” Joanna said, following as they returned to the stable. “The portrait is gone to Vienna, so we should be entitled to as much time with him as you. Even more, since you hogged him for days.”
“I didn’t hog him. I—”
“Perhaps we might go for a walk by the pond, Miss Joanna,” Zachary suggested, dismounting. “Miss Anne, will an afternoon stroll suffice?”
Anne smiled. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”
Joanna seemed in a large hurry to go, and she practically dragged him out of the stable yard toward the path. Zachary went along with her, mostly because he needed to think about his future and Caroline’s future and how they seemed determined not to become intertwined. She was so damned stubborn. Of course he hadn’t made much of an effort to declare his intentions, either—mostly because he wasn’t precisely certain what he was doing, and partly because he had enough pride that he didn’t want to be rejected.
No, he didn’t want her to leave for Vienna, where he’d probably never see her again, and no, he didn’t want last night to be the last time he ever held her in his arms. Damnation, he liked talking with her, and he liked that she listened and didn’t dismiss his interest in art or even in cattle breeding. Hell, she shared the same interests. And she was intelligent—probably more than he was. At least she’d applied herself more diligently to her passion, while he’d wallowed about for four-and-twenty years looking for his.
“I gave John Thomas the portrait I painted,” Joanna said, s
till practically towing him toward the tree-lined path.
“You did? That’s splendid. What did he say?”
“He said it looked like a potato with a turnip stuck on top. And then he ate all of the baked chicken and apple pie I’d brought for our picnic luncheon, all the while telling me how Mary Gorman has a thousand-pound dowry and how skilled her pianoforte playing is.”
“That wasn’t very polite. Do you think he means to wed Mary Gorman, then?”
“I’m sure he does. And now everyone but me will have a beau and a husband, and all my stupid sisters will laugh at me.”
“No, they won’t, Joanna. We’ll find someone else for you. Someone who appreciates your painting, and your apple pie.”
Maybe he didn’t need to propose to Caroline to keep her, he mused. The Griffins were wealthy enough; he could travel to Vienna for a visit at least twice a year. Zachary frowned. Twice a year? And what would he do the rest of the time? There were always chits willing to spend the night with him, but for some damned reason the idea of endless liaisons with innumerable ladies just didn’t appeal to him any longer. They were just to pass the time, and now he’d found someone worth spending his time with.
And thanks to that someone, he’d also finally found the right path for himself, unlikely as it seemed. Cattle breeding. The idea of finding the right combination of breed, sex, and temperament to create an entirely new dairy cow interested and intrigued him mightily. He’d always had more of an academic bent than he’d felt comfortable admitting, especially in the face of his family’s teasing. According to them, food and ladies took up what space there was in his brain.
And he’d gone along with that because he hadn’t had a suitable retort. Now, though, thanks to a portraitist, a gentleman farmer, and a cow, he did. Life was very odd, at times.
“Oh, you’re not even listening,” Joanna wailed.
He started. “Of course I’m listening. I’ve been going through the list of local gentlemen. What do—”
An Invitation to Sin Page 25
