Waltz With a Stranger

by Pamela Sherwood

  “Lady Durward.” Aurelia inclined her head toward Trevenan’s cousin.

  The countess wore grey tonight—perhaps to show that she was still in mourning for her father and brother?—and her gown was fashionably cut, showing off a handsome, deep-bosomed figure. Even seated, she appeared quite tall. Aurelia, who did not consider herself a tiny female by any means, felt slightly intimidated nonetheless by Lady Durward’s extra inches.

  But she had not only her own part to uphold, but Amy’s in absentia. So she straightened her spine and prepared to act the queen for both their sakes, if necessary. It helped to know that she looked her best as well in a gown of apricot silk, trimmed with blond lace, which complemented the new rosiness in her cheeks from this morning’s excursion.

  “Miss Newbold.” Lady Durward’s chilly blue gaze swept over Aurelia and—predictably—lingered upon her scar. “I gather it is your sister who is betrothed to Trevenan?”

  “She is,” Aurelia acknowledged levelly.

  “Such a pity she was too—unwell to join us tonight.” Her tone insinuated that to be unwell amounted to the gravest liability a future countess could face.

  “Indeed it is,” Aurelia said, deliberately accepting the remark at face value. “But she’s seldom out of sorts for long, and she brings such vivacity to every occasion.”

  Lady Durward’s brows arched. “Indeed? I should hope she understands that not every occasion calls for—vivacity.”

  Odious woman. “Oh, Amy has an infallible sense of what every occasion requires.”

  “How extraordinary. I should have expected an American to find herself somewhat out of her depth in English society.”

  And I should have expected an Englishwoman to have better manners, Aurelia thought. “My sister is forever defying expectations. She’s been the toast of London for two Seasons now.”

  Lady Durward’s nostrils flared as though scenting blood. “And what of you, Miss Newbold? Have you enjoyed such a distinction yourself?” Her tone implied the impossibility of such an occurrence.

  What a nasty piece of work she was, Aurelia mused. A bully, much like her late brother. Well, one stood up to bullies—preferably before they got the upper hand and thought they could ride roughshod over everyone in their path. She gave a light laugh. “You must not encourage me to be immodest, Lady Durward.”

  “Immodest?” Lady Durward’s lips curved in a feline half-smile. “You surprise me. Given your—condition, I’d have thought you would have found moving in Society difficult.”

  There could be no question of what she was alluding to. Feeling her mother stiffen indignantly beside her, Aurelia stepped at once into the breach.

  “Oh, not particularly. Most of the people I’ve met are far too well-bred to comment on one’s personal appearance. And in any case,” she gave the countess her most dazzling smile, “an ugly scar is far easier to live with than an ugly character. Do you not agree, Lady Durward?”

  Her mother gave a faint muffled sound that might have been shock or even suppressed laughter. Lady Durward flushed—unbecomingly, as she was high-complexioned already. Aurelia continued to smile at her adversary, even as she braced herself for the next onslaught.

  “Dinner is served,” Pelham announced from the doorway, coming to everyone’s rescue.

  The tension dispersed like air escaping from a pricked balloon. Lady Durward turned ostentatiously away from Aurelia as her husband approached; her attempt at the cut direct would have been more successful had she not failed to get in the last word.

  Assuming her most demure expression, Aurelia turned away as well—to find that Trevenan and Lady Talbot had drawn nearer and were now eyeing her appraisingly. Just how much had they seen of that last exchange? Fortunately, neither appeared annoyed or offended; Lady Talbot looked almost diverted. And Trevenan…Aurelia thought she saw a faint glint of amusement in his eyes as well. She ventured a tiny smile in his direction—no more little mouse—and saw the glint intensify.

  Then he was moving past her to offer his arm to her mother, while Andrew, not far behind, came forward to escort her.

  Composed and decorous to their last member, the company went in to dinner.

  Twenty-One

  What if we still ride on, we two

  With life for ever old yet new,

  Changed not in kind but in degree,

  The instant made eternity…

  —Robert Browning, “The Last Ride Together”

  “This is Tamar. She’s very gentle,” Trevenan said as they paused before the horse’s stall. “An ideal mount for a lady, and an unashamed sweet tooth,” he added, producing two lumps of sugar from his coat pocket and passing one to Aurelia.

  The mare whickered and bowed her head, lipping up the sugar from their outstretched palms. “She’s lovely,” Aurelia said softly. “A milk-white mare, straight out of a fairy tale.”

  “We’d call her a grey, here.”

  Aurelia shook her head at this prosaic statement and stroked Tamar’s velvety nose. The mare rolled a liquid dark eye at her, and she smiled. “So, this is the horse you had in mind?”

  “The very one,” Trevenan confirmed. “My cousin Jessica rides Tamar on her visits here, and she’s never come to grief. And I can see the two of you have already taken to each other.”

  “I think,” Aurelia took a breath to calm the butterflies in her stomach, and continued gamely, “I think Tamar and I will get along famously.”

  “You need not fear, Miss Aurelia.” The gentleness in his voice brought the warmth rushing to her cheeks. “We can start out very slowly, just a turn or two about the paddock.”

  “Thank you. That sounds just about my speed, for now. Shall you be riding Camborne?”

  “He’d never forgive me otherwise.” Trevenan beckoned to a groom who came forward to tend to their chosen mounts.

  “I am sorry Amy did not feel up to joining us today,” he remarked as they walked out to wait in the stable yard.

  “I think she slept poorly. The storm last night kept her awake.” Aurelia glanced up at the sky: fair for now, but laced with scudding clouds that might augur more rain in the not-too-distant future. Amy, who’d come down to breakfast this morning, had cast a darkling look at those clouds from the breakfast parlor window and roundly declared her deep distrust of them.

  “I’m afraid Cornish weather can be unpredictable, even in summer,” Trevenan said ruefully. “But these inclement spells don’t last forever. Today has dawned fairer than yesterday.”

  “Indeed it has,” she agreed. Which was doubly fortunate, as they could now venture out of doors instead of being confined to the house with the unpleasant Lady Durward. Although Lady Talbot had so far managed to keep her niece from committing any outright discourtesy, the countess radiated hostility toward whoever was unfortunate enough to come into her orbit. It must be exhausting to be so ill-tempered all the time. “I actually thought the storm quite moderate, as summer squalls go.”

  “It did not distress you, then, as it did your sister?’

  “Not unduly, though I wouldn’t have liked being out in it,” she confessed. “But we’ve had worse thunderstorms than that in New York, especially in summer. And snowstorms in winter. Does it snow here, in Cornwall?”

  “Sometimes, but seldom heavily. Winters tend to be less harsh in the West Country.”

  The grooms emerged from the stables then, leading the now-saddled Tamar and Camborne. Aware of Trevenan’s watchful eye upon her, Aurelia stepped onto the mounting block, told herself firmly that the horse was not a thousand miles off the ground, and placed her foot in the stirrup.

  Up—and over. Mouth dry, palms damp within her gloves, she settled in the saddle, easing her right leg around the pommel, grateful anew for the soft leather breeches beneath the skirt of Amy’s borrowed habit. And even more grateful for Tamar’s utter stillness.

  “Are you sure you’re comfortable in the sidesaddle?” Trevenan, now mounted himself, edged his horse closer to her. “You
could practice riding astride, first, if you feel safer that way. I know it’s not considered ladylike, but I promise not to tell anyone.”

  Aurelia mustered a smile. “Thank you. I’ll certainly bear that in mind. But I think I can manage for now.” She gave Tamar’s snowy neck a tentative pat, and the mare heaved what sounded like a patient sigh. “Which way is the paddock?”

  ***

  She surprised him more and more each day.

  Astride a fidgeting Camborne, James watched from outside the fence as Aurelia urged Tamar first to a walk, then to a trot about the circumference of the paddock. No outward sign of nerves or panic. Severely elegant in a plain dark habit, she rode with her back straight as a lance, her seat irreproachable. He could readily believe she’d been an excellent horsewoman.

  And would be again, he had no doubt. “Ready for something a bit more challenging?” he asked, as she completed her third circuit.

  She tilted her head, regarded him with speculative eyes. “That depends on what you mean by ‘more challenging.’”

  “A leisurely walk along the estate’s bridle path,” he proposed.

  “I don’t suppose that would be too taxing. And if worse comes to worst,” she glanced down at herself, “at least I won’t be spoiling Amy’s best habit.”

  “Your optimism astounds me,” he said dryly. “Pray have a little more faith in your ability to keep your seat and mine to choose a suitable route for us both.”

  She smiled at him. “Very well. I put myself in your hands, Lord Trevenan.”

  “I shall hold you to that.”

  Leaving the paddock behind, they ambled along the bridle path, admiring the lush green lawns and talking easily of this and that. As they rode, James pointed out the various gardens and the orangery, its white walls and mullioned windows gleaming even in the pale sunlight. “My great-grandfather’s doing, apparently—he’d a taste for citrus fruit, whether in or out of season. And we have a second glasshouse for other fruits.”

  “Like the strawberries we’ve been served at dinner?”

  “The very same. And there will be peaches and melons later in the summer.”

  She gave an appreciative murmur. “I do love English strawberries. They seem to have so much more flavor than American ones.”

  “You should try wild strawberries in the field,” he told her. “But they taste best there. They lose something when you bring them home.”

  “We’d go berrying sometimes, in the country,” she reminisced. “Blueberries, mostly—my Aunt Esther, Father’s sister, lives in Maine with her family. We’d come to visit, pick until our pails were full, and there’d be pies that very night.” She sighed. “You simply haven’t lived until you’ve tasted fresh-baked blueberry pie.”

  James smiled. “Then I hope to have the opportunity one day.”

  They rode for some minutes in companionable silence, then spotting the entrance to one of Pentreath’s finest gardens, James reined in Camborne. “Over there is the South Garden, my great-grandmother’s work,” he reported, pointing it out to Aurelia. “She had a way with plants; almost anything would grow for her. She was especially fond of rhododendrons and camellias, though there’s also a magnolia tree planted there—a gift from an admirer.”

  “Lovely.” Aurelia’s tone was absent, almost automatic; glancing at her, James saw that her blue eyes had clouded slightly and she was worrying her lower lip.

  “My dear, are you in pain?” The endearment slipped out before he was aware of it. “We can turn back now, if your leg is troubling you.”

  “Oh, no, it’s not that! I was just wondering—” She paused, frowning, then made a gesture that seemed to encompass the whole of their surroundings. “All this. The estate, the grounds—who would inherit them, after you?’

  James raised his brows, surprised by this turn of thought. “You mean, if I did not have any heirs of my body?”

  Aurelia nodded. “If you and Amy should be childless—heaven forbid, of course,” she hastened to add. “I know how important sons are considered here, when there’s property and a title involved. But just supposing that you didn’t have one, who’d be next in line?”

  “Not Helena’s son, if that’s what you were thinking.”

  “It was,” she admitted. “I couldn’t help thinking of that letter, and how quick she’s been to believe the worst of you. And—forgive me for sounding like the writer of some stage melodrama—I wondered if she might be accusing you in hopes of somehow gaining what you possess. If not for herself, then for her child.”

  “An interesting theory,” James conceded. “Fortunately, I suspect the odds are against her having me hanged or transported for Gerald’s death. But I suppose—if I died without issue—Helena could petition the courts to designate her son my heir by letters patent. But that’s only assuming that no further branch of the Trelawneys could be found, in Cornwall or anywhere else. In any case, it seems a far-fetched way to gain control of an estate she never cared tuppence for.”

  “It may not be the estate so much as the title,” Aurelia pointed out. “Most mothers are ambitious for their children, after all. And there’s the matter of your fortune too.”

  He shook his head. “I have hardly any fortune worth the name. My Uncle Joshua left barely enough to keep the estate running, and Gerald left only debts.”

  “What about your own holdings, in the mines and other businesses? Or,” she colored slightly, “Amy’s dowry?”

  “Reverts to your sister if I die and there are no children of our union. Your father and I agreed on that. She’ll have whatever I settle on her too. Helena certainly would not be entitled to any Newbold money. Now,” he added firmly, “perhaps we might change the subject? I would prefer not to waste a lovely morning discussing my disagreeable cousin. And as I’ve told you before, this is not something with which you need to concern yourself overmuch.”

  Vexation sparkled in her eyes. “Trevenan, you cannot take me into your confidence one day, and expect me to forget what you told me the next! Especially not something that affects your future and Amy’s. I’ve kept my promise and not said a word to her, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped thinking about all this. Or concerning myself—very much—with the outcome!”

  “Good God!” James stared at her, caught between astonishment, annoyance—and something else he could not yet name. “You’re nothing if not persistent, Miss Aurelia.”

  “When it comes to my family’s well-being, I’m prepared to be a great deal more than persistent,” she informed him loftily. “Like tenacious, or obstinate—possibly even obnoxious.”

  The word that came to his mind, startlingly, was “formidable.” Bemused, he rubbed a hand over his chin. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to go on discussing flowers and fruit?”

  A smile hovered about her lips. “Delightful as they are, you’d suppose correctly. I find Lady Durward every bit as disagreeable as you do, but she’s raised problems that cannot be ignored or dismissed.”

  “True enough. Very well, then. What further thoughts have you had on this matter?”

  “Well, presumably that someone would benefit materially from your disgrace, if the worst came to pass,” she replied. “And if it’s not Lady Durward and her son, and if the title and estate are inherited only through the male line, who’d come into them if you were—out of the way? Another Trelawney cousin?”

  “I have no idea,” James admitted. “I was the son of a younger son myself, and thoroughly astonished when I inherited. Given Gerald’s age and general hardiness, I never expected such a thing. But I believe there are one or two extant cadet branches of the Trelawneys, who might conceivably come into the earldom—everyone else being gone. Your guess of a cousin is likely enough. I suppose I shall have to look into it further.” And such an investigation would at least keep him occupied until Robin Pendarvis returned from London, he reflected.

  She nodded. “I really do think you should, Trevenan. If nothing else, perhaps you can narrow do
wn the possibilities of who might wish you ill.”

  A rumble of thunder drew their attention upward to the sky. The light had dimmed significantly, and the wispy clouds had thickened into a fleecy mass the color of eiderdown. As they gazed, James felt a cold drop on his brow, followed by several more in rapid succession.

  “Rain!” Aurelia exclaimed unnecessarily, wiping moisture from her cheek. “Oh, dear. Amy was right after all!”

  James pulled the brim of his hat lower. “Come, the folly’s just ahead of us on the path. We can wait out the rain there, though I don’t think it will last overlong.”

  Aurelia tweaked the veil of her hat over her face. “Lead the way!”

  Together they urged their horses into a trot.

  ***

  The rain had increased to a genuine downpour by the time they reached the folly, nestled among a grove of ash trees. Aurelia gazed in bemusement at the Doric columns and pediment. “It looks like a Grecian temple.”

  “It’s meant to.” Trevenan swung down from his horse. “Follies come in all manner of shapes and styles. Personally, I find the temple easier to tolerate in these surroundings than a Chinese pagoda,” he added, coming over to help her dismount.

  Aurelia slid down from the saddle into his arms, trying not to react to the sensation of his hands clasping her waist; at least her leg had held up under the exercise. “Like the one at Kew?”

  “Yes. And I understand there’s one in Scotland that looks like a pineapple.”

  “A pineapple?” she echoed on an incredulous laugh.

  His grin flashed briefly in the gloom. “On my honor. I’ll show you a print of it someday.”

  Leaving the horses sheltering beneath the trees, they ducked inside the folly. Overhead, the rain beat a light, insistent tattoo on the roof.

  “Is this real marble?” Aurelia asked, gazing around her.

  Trevenan nodded. “My ancestor who commissioned this folly would have nothing less. The pillars and roof are marble, imported at great expense from Carrara.”