by Esther Hatch
Her mind went blank for a second and her eye roamed down to the point where his shirt disappeared beneath his waistcoat. “Oh.” She shook her head and once again moved her trajectory slightly to increase the space between them. He must be hunting something quite interesting indeed for his eyes to light up like that. What game lived in the area? She made a note to herself to discover it.
“Here is the kennel and dog trot,” she announced as if Lord Farnsworth didn’t know that better than she.
“It is quiet, isn’t it?”
“I told you, I’m fairly certain there are no dogs here. I’ve never heard any.”
“Can I have a look?”
“Suit yourself.”
Jonathan ducked his head and shuffled into the darkness of the kennel. It was tall enough inside that he didn’t have to crawl, but he had to remain bent at the waist. When he was a boy there had been at times upwards of twenty dogs here. His mother had never hunted much, but his grandfather had. After his grandfather passed away, the dogs were sold rather than have them not put to use. However, the summer before his mother had died, she had taken in a litter of abandoned puppies. They weren’t hunting dogs, but a type of cocker spaniel mutt that no one had wanted. But he and his mother had loved them as pets. He understood those dogs, and he felt they understood him. No one wanted to feel cast off and unwanted.
Of course they were gone. Even if the staff had continued to care for them, they would have been too old indeed to have survived until now.
One more thing he should have returned for.
How much had he missed because he had listened to his father? Jonathan walked down the middle of the stalls, not ready yet to return to Miss Duncan. They were musty and showed no signs of use. Those dogs had most likely been gone for years.
He placed a hand on one of the rough wooden beams. He had begged his father to come to Greenwood Manor and bring even one of those dogs home to their estate in Bedfordshire. But after Jonathan was born, his father had never set foot in Greenwood Manor when mother was alive, and he wasn’t about to after her death, either.
Nor would he send a servant.
Jonathan was left to mourn his mother alone, for his father certainly never did.
Jonathan shook his head. What was done was done. What he needed now was an excuse to charm Miss Duncan. Once again his plan had fallen short. Perhaps she would walk with him. He could give her a tour of the grounds.
He squinted his eyes at the sunlight as he emerged from the kennel. “No dogs.”
“I had thought not.”
“And there are no dogs in the house?”
Miss Duncan shrugged, her eyes wandering back to the manor as if she had much more pressing things to do. “I haven’t seen any.”
“Of course there wouldn’t be anything as mundane as dogs in your home; you have far more exotic plans, like moose and fish and who knows what else.”
The corner of Miss Duncan’s mouth quirked as if she wanted to laugh, but was controlling herself. Jonathan had no idea what was happening with the stairs, but the menagerie had to be fictitious.
Didn’t it?
What kind of woman wanted a menagerie in her home? Or for that matter, what kind of woman made up a menagerie?
That quirk of a smile made him think she was, if nothing else, an interesting one. He hoped he had the time to find out. How exactly did one go about courting a woman who lived less than a mile away? In theory it should have been easy. In practice, it would have been much easier to simply ask her to dance one too many times. “Would you like me to show you around the grounds? Since I am here, I fancy a walk.”
She raised both of her eyebrows. “You would like to give me a tour of my grounds?”
Blast. That had come out very wrong. “You could give me a tour—that is, if you have time.” Jonathan leaned forward and smiled. She glanced back at Greenwood Manor, that same longing to return gracing her face. “Or I could come back tomorrow. You could give me a tour then. If that doesn’t work, the next day. I’m free most days.”
Miss Duncan pulled her shoulders back and gave him a winsome smile, not quite as winsome as the one she had given Oliver in his office, but winsome nonetheless. “I’ll take the time today. No need to keep returning. The manor can wait for a few minutes.” And then she started on her way. He jumped ahead to catch up with her.
If a few minutes was all she could spare, he would have to make the most of them. What had she liked about him so far? He needed to find some way to accentuate it. His chest? He had to have something more to offer the woman than a broad chest. He was a baron. In the past that had been enough to tempt most women. He eyed Miss Duncan. She didn’t walk like the women he was used to. They strolled, but Miss Duncan marched. His title would have to be saved for a last resort. His eye for fine fabrics? That might hold some sway. He had a lot of fine friends back in London—other than Oliver, most of his friends were titled—and they all came to him for advice on clothing. And if all else failed he would compliment her. Women loved compliments. He had seen more than one marriage happen because of a well-timed mention of a woman’s sparkling eyes.
He may not have the handwriting of a scribe or a brain for numbers, but he could flatter women in his sleep.
Chapter 8
Sally had plenty of experience dealing with needy and indulgent clients. When you sold fabric that only the highest crust of society could afford, it came with the territory. She broadened her smile and made Lord Farnsworth feel that he was in charge of the situation, but once she had the opportunity to slip away, she would be back inside the manor. Victoria was arriving in only a few days and there was still much to do.
“What part of the grounds would you like to see? I believe you have already had a tour of the pond.” She couldn’t help that quip. Lord Farnsworth seemed bent on wasting her time, but at least he had provided her with some entertainment.
Lord Farnsworth smiled, his face open and compelling. If she didn’t know better, she would think he also had to deal with difficult clients. “Our pond,” he said.
Those deuced property lines. Who put a line directly through a pond? And how had she missed that when looking over the details of the contract?
It was unfortunate they hadn’t found a dog. It might have helped him catch whatever game he was looking for. And even if it didn’t, perhaps it would keep him busy and off of her property. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. At least he could keep up. Mr. Harrison had always wanted to walk at a leisurely pace. It had unnerved her to no end. That should have been her first sign that the relationship was never going to work.
“It seems as though you are already well-acquainted with the back of the home; would you care to walk down the lane until we meet the main road?” That would give them a finite amount of walking time. In a garden, couples could meander about all day—not that they were in any way a couple. She pushed away from him slightly, keeping her skirt from brushing the bottom half of Lord Farnsworth’s leg.
“I haven’t actually seen much of the back garden other than to pass by it. I saw the rose garden yesterday. Is it in bloom?”
Her short, finite walk was evaporating. The lane would have been much quicker. And he had most definitely seen the rose garden. It was visible from the pond. “Yes, it is. Would you like to see it?”
He leaned toward her, eyes shining. “I would love to see it.” The intense excitement in Lord Farnsworth’s manner belied the simpleness of their plan. He must be quite bored, indeed. He held his arm out and with a sigh she took it. His arm was thick and sturdy. Everything about his physical appearance, other than his clothing, made him seem like he would be more at home on a dock than in a ballroom. He led the way further behind the house, his pace matching hers from earlier—if anything, it was even quicker. “I’ve never had a chance to see the roses in bloom...at least not in full bloom.”
“You were never here in the summer?”
“No, I only came here while my father was in
London for the parliamentary session.”
Mrs. Hiddleson had spoken to her as if the family had always been there. She hadn’t realized they hadn’t lived here in the summer.
“I suppose that explains the winter garden,” she said. The winter garden was more impressive than the rose garden in both scale and variety. It wasn’t in bloom now, but Mrs. Hiddleson had boasted numerous times about the flowers that would bloom there.
“I would like to see the winter garden as well.” Lord Farnsworth walked with his shoulders tilted forward. Sally found her feet following in his forthright, steady rhythm. The grounds were beautiful—she had made certain of that before buying—but she hadn’t yet taken the time to walk and enjoy them. Trees dotted the pathway, some of them hulking enough that they might have been planted a century ago. No trees grew like that in the places she had lived in London. Victoria would love it here. After the stairs were done, Sally would send some workers to flatten out the pathway so Victoria could enjoy the garden when she came.
Lord Farnsworth cleared his throat. “Your dress is very beautiful. A fine muslin, perfect for the country.”
Her dress was plain. She had planned on a full day of work, not on entertaining a gentleman. The fabric was of course fine, though; he wasn’t wrong about that. Just because she sometimes needed to wear muslin didn’t mean she needed to wear coarse muslin. “Thank you.”
“Is it also from another country? Like my silk?”
He seemed genuinely curious, although why, she had no idea. “No this is good, old-fashioned English muslin. Nothing very special about it.”
He stopped and pulled himself away from her but kept hold of her, sliding his hand down her arm lightly until he held her by the fingertips. He tipped his head to one side as if he was examining a bolt of fabric. “On you, any material would shine like a gaslamp.”
She held in a laugh. She’d heard her fair share of flattery, but what? Who wants fabric that shines like a gaslamp? What if it were a nightgown? She would get no sleep. “I have seen many fabrics in my day. None of them were as bright as that.”
“Then perhaps it is you that is so bright.” Lord Farnsworth smiled, and then stood there, waiting, as if his asinine comment deserved a reply, or even worse, gratitude. If she were still the owner of British Vermillion Fabrics and he were a stuffy nobleman wishing to impress her, she would have smiled and indeed voiced a thank you. But she no longer had to live under the thumb of impressing those who might help her company.
She pulled her fingertips from his grip, and let out a laugh that was more of a scoff than anything. She didn’t need to placate the strange baron simply because he had a title, lands, and thick forearms. “I assure you, Lord Farnsworth, I bring no light to a darkened room.”
Lord Farnsworth’s eyes followed her hands and then went back to her face. He quirked his lips. “That is an experiment I wouldn’t mind testing.”
For a strange moment her breath caught. She was used to men paying her compliments, but most of them were because they were trying to gain her favor and get a better price on her fabrics. It had been too long since she had walked or talked with a gentleman in something other than a business-like manner. Even Mr. Harrison hadn’t said anything as forward as Lord Farnsworth’s comment, and they had been engaged.
She turned and started walking again. They would soon be in the back garden. Hopefully he would leave and head to his hunting lodge from there and she could return to overseeing the work her men were doing on the front stairs.
He hadn’t liked those stairs being removed.
He wasn’t going to like the rest of the changes she was making.
Her lips lifted into a smile. He may be able to unnerve her with wet shirts and overly forward remarks, but she owned his previous home and there was nothing he could do about that.
The back garden came in full view. Two stone paved paths cut the garden into four sections with a fountain surrounded by stone benches where they intersected in the middle. One of the fourths closest to the house was the rose garden. The other was the winter garden. Both of those options were better than the hedge maze or the statuary. At least in the flowering gardens they would be in full view of the manor. Lord Farnsworth’s strange manner was a bit concerning out in the open, and she didn’t want to end up somewhere out of sight with him. There was no telling what he would do.
She eyed him. He had said a few things that would make her think him a rake, but other than standing in a wet shirt in her pond, he hadn’t ever done anything untoward. It was hard to know exactly what to expect from Lord Farnsworth. He was a study in contradictions. At times, like now, his face was full of light like a young boy discovering new things around every corner. But at other times, he was suggesting he teach her to swim or hinting at being with her in the dark.
They passed the winter garden first, but she didn’t try to turn him deeper into the small paths found there. If they only spent time in the rose garden, she would be rid of him sooner. When they passed the last small pathway leading into it, she felt it would be safe to comment without running the risk of adding to their walk. “I have been very impressed with the winter garden. It has been immaculately kept over the years. I don’t think I have ever seen a larger winter garden anywhere.”
Lord Farnsworth followed her eye to the last corner of the winter garden. “I see the hellebore is still growing. You will have some lovely violet blooms early this winter. I will have to pick some for you.” Sally furrowed her brows. He would not be here in winter. He would be in London for the Season. It wasn’t as if he would come hunting twice in a year…would he? He didn’t notice her concern; instead, he still spoke of the garden. “And the primroses will come out early in the spring, before you think flowers should be blooming at all. My mother and I always had a little competition to see who would spot one first. I always won.”
She tried to picture the sturdy man beside her as a young boy. He would have been given everything, even flowers during a time when by all rights nothing should be blooming. “If you always won, it was most likely because your mother let you.”
He stopped and turned back to look at the winter garden now behind them. He scrunched his face together. “You know, Miss Duncan, I hadn’t ever thought of that, but I’m sure you are right.”
“I don’t tire of hearing that.”
He laughed. “I’m certain you have plenty of opportunity.”
“Just as I’m certain you had plenty of things given to you by your mother.” She didn’t mean it as a compliment, but he seemed to take it that way, his shoulders pulling back as he took one last look at the winter garden.
“I did,” he said softly. “She wanted to give me everything she could.”
The baroness certainly could have given him a shocking number of things. His statement solidified everything Sally thought of him, and yet the way he said it did not. He spoke of his mother with a reverence that defied her notion of a self-serving lord who cared for no one but himself.
She shook her head. It didn’t matter who exactly the baron was. He would be leaving soon and then she could get on with her preparations for Victoria. “The rose garden is in front of us. Is there a particular variety you would like to see?”
“Rose du Roi,” he said without hesitation.
Blast, she had no idea where that rose would be. They could be in the garden for hours looking for it. “That one is red, isn’t it?” she asked, not certain he would know.
“Yes, mottled with violet, making it a deep shade. It has a yellow eye and the most heavenly scent.”
“I thought you hadn’t seen it in bloom.”
“I haven't, but I learned all the names of the roses, nonetheless. I dreamed of someday seeing them in bloom and taking in their scents.” He turned his head and surveyed the garden in front of them as if planning his pathway through it. With a smile like a boy in a candy shop, he took her hand and tugged her into the small path meandering through the roses. His excitement was contagiou
s, and the touch of his hand seemed to send layers of curiosity into hers, like a rose opening to the sun. “I know where they are—or at least where they were.” He navigated her garden with ease. His eyes shot here and there and he stopped to exclaim the name of a variety of a rose every other foot or so. Her eyes remained for the most part on their hands linked together. It was an impertinence, surely, but his demeanor wasn’t ungentlemanly—it was innocent, as if he had been transported back in time, and the two of them were children on an adventure. Where would the impertinence be in that? His only disappointment was “the old cabbage rose,” which he had thought would be much bigger. “That is what I get for having an avid imagination, I suppose. I truly thought it would be the size of a cabbage.”
The energy coursing from his hand to hers was too much when they were simply standing still. She tugged her hand free without any resistance on his part. Had he even noticed what he had done? “It is beautiful, though,” she said, touching one of the large round blooms. How did a flower manage to produce so much beauty?
He lifted a hand to pluck it, and then stopped. “I suppose I cannot give you this flower, since it is yours.”
She shook her head. “No, you cannot.” Flowers from Lord Farnsworth would be a problem. It was one thing to receive a squirrel from him. She could laugh that off, but taking flowers? It was too much like what she would have received from men in London. And they were not in London, they were in Dorset, the place she had come to leave London behind and start a life focused solely on Victoria. “But you may take it for yourself. I’m sure your mother would have wanted you to have it.”
He grinned and then reached down and twisted the stem of the rose, breaking off the flower and holding it in his hand. Now that he was holding the rose, he wouldn’t thoughtlessly grab her hand again. It had been a smart move to allow him to pick it. She flexed her left hand. It was much more proper to explore the garden without contact.
After they meandered through what must have been half the rose garden, they finally reached his Rose du Roi. He immediately bent low and inhaled its scent. Then he didn’t move; he simply stayed there with his face in the deeply colored bloom. When he arose, his eyes were alight. He moved his blossom into his left hand and pulled her over to the Rose du Roi by her elbow. “Come, you must smell this.” A small laugh escaped her lips as she was jostled forward. There was much to do in the manor behind them, but that all slipped away as she buried her face in the brilliant blooms. “This one lives up to all my hopes for it. Mr. Ashton hadn’t exaggerated.”
