Gillian flung up a hand. “Please, my lord, you owe me no explanations. I was only expressing the gist of the local gossip since your arrival—without prior notice,” she could not help adding. She continued hastily, suppressing a grin. “Now, here, where the ground begins to rise, are the beginnings of the Gog Magog Hills.”
“That much I know,” said Cord, bending a severe glance on his tutor. “I cannot think where they got their name, however. Is there some reason for supposing that the famous mythical pair dwelled hereabouts?” He glanced about as though expecting two fur-clad giants to appear over the horizon.
“Not that I know of. Perhaps they merely stopped by to wreak a spot of havoc before heading on to terrorize London. In any event, it’s a lovely area.”
“Yes, it is. That little inn over there looks even lovelier at the moment. Shall we refresh ourselves?”
“Mm, yes,” replied Gillian, stretching in her saddle. “A cup of tea would be wonderful right now.”
Once settled in the coffee room by the inn’s equally comfortable owner. Cord gazed across the table at Miss Tate. What, he wondered, had been her purpose in excavating so crudely into his personal life? Was it simple, vulgar curiosity? She scarcely seemed the type to indulge in mindless gossip simply for the sake of acquiring a few tidbits to drop in the villagers’ avaricious ears. No, rather she seemed to be playing a game with him—nudging him to irritation with her ingenious questions. Well, m’dear, he concluded, it’s time for the gander to spoon a little sauce over a particularly tasty goose.
“How long have you lived with your aunt and uncle, Miss Tate?” he began innocuously.
“I came to Rose Cottage three years ago.”
Cord said nothing, but arranged his features into an expression of courteous expectancy. After a slight pause, Miss Tate continued. “Uncle Henry and Aunt Louisa are in good health for their ages, but they have come to a point in their lives where they need help with their ordinary routine.”
“But, how is it they came to ask you? And why did you agree to leave your home in .. ?” Cord lifted his voice questioningly. He had meant merely to discomfit her, but found himself awaiting her answer in some anticipation.
She paused again, and Cord thought he detected an expression of chagrin on her delicate features.
“My home is in a village called Netheringham. It’s some distance north of here, not far from Lincoln.”
“Mm, a long way indeed. You lived there all your life?”
By now, Miss Tate was looking decidedly uncomfortable under Cord’s questioning, and Cord could not help but wonder why. His interrogation had been rather persistent, to be sure, but he had surely said nothing untoward. Nothing that any interested person would not have asked of a new-met friend.
“Yes,” replied Miss Tate, a hint of exasperation in her tone. “My father is a squire, with a fairly large holding near the village. He is the local justice of the peace. Is there anything else you would like to know, my lord?”
“N-no, I guess not,” returned Cord blandly. “But, I must say, I cannot help but wonder why an exceptionally attractive young woman like yourself has chosen to immure herself here in this small village.”
Really,
thought Gillian, this was the outside of enough. How dare this arrogant peacock importune her for answers to questions that were none of his business? She supposed she had opened herself up to such treatment with her own impertinent delving into his personal business but . . .
really!
“If you are asking me why I am not married, my lord,” she replied tartly, “I take leave to tell you. Did you serve in the Peninsula when you were in the army?” she asked dismissively, as though sure he would not have taken part in action of any significance. “Were you at Waterloo? I was betrothed to a young man who was killed there.” As Gillian absorbed the earl’s expression of shock, she reflected wildly.
Good God,
what had possessed her to divulge this information? She had not discussed Kenneth’s death to anyone since her arrival at the cottage.
“I... I’m sorry, Miss Tate.” Lord Cordray had paled, and Gillian knew she had said enough. However, she was further appalled to hear herself continue. “Such were my feelings for the gentleman that I have no desire to so much as think about marriage. Now, my lord, is your curiosity satisfied?”
Cord was shamed. He had entered into this little game of cat and mouse with the sole object of discomfiting the tantalizing Miss Tate. She had started the whole thing with her probing questions about his reasons for coming to Wildehaven. Whatever her motivation in doing so— and he strongly suspected they involved retaliation for his blatant gallantry—he had presumed unforgivably on the situation, resulting in humiliation for Miss Tate and much-deserved embarrassment for himself.
“Please forgive me. Miss Tate,” he began again. “I cannot say that I did not mean to pry, for I fear there can be no other explanation of my words. However, I intended you no pain. And no,” he added quietly, “I was not at Waterloo. I sold out just after the Battle of Toulouse, when we thought we had Napoleon safely caged.”
At this, Gillian experienced her own moment of mortification. She could have escaped Lord Cordray’s probing with a few light words. Instead, she had chosen to inflict on him a measure of the pain that had washed over her at his question.
Good Lord,
it had been four years since Kenneth’s death. Surely, her spirit should have begun to heal by this time. She grimaced inwardly. She supposed it might have if it were not for the burden of guilt that surfaced along with the pain every time she thought of him.
She faced the earl squarely.
“No, my lord . . . that is. Cord ... it is I who must apologize. There was no need to inflict my private grief on you.” She forced a smile. “I suggest we cease this, um, mutual interrogation on which we seem to have launched ourselves.”
“Cry friends then?” asked Cord, extending a hand across the table.
Gillian hesitated a moment before reaching forth to accept the grasp of his fingers. They were very warm, she reflected absently—and strong, for all their slenderness.
“Friends,” she answered, feeling oddly shy. “And to cement my good intentions, I shall offer gratis the information that I am the youngest of two sons and four daughters, all of whom
are
married. Two of my sisters live near Netheringham, while my other siblings have taken up residence farther afield. My brothers are both in Lincoln, and my other sister resides in York. And that, surely,” she concluded with a laugh, “is more than anyone would want to know about
anybody
—even a friend.”
Not by half, thought Cord, releasing her hand with some reluctance. He poured what he hoped was a gaze of pure sincerity into Miss Tate’s brandy-colored eyes, experiencing a peculiar dizziness as he did so.
“I shall reciprocate,” he said solemnly, “by informing you that I am one of only two offspring of my late father—who passed away several years ago, by the by. My mother predeceased him by a year. My brother, the Honorable Wilfred Culver, lives in London, where, I take leave to tell you, he has winkled his way into the Prince Regent’s set and cuts quite a swath there.”
“I am duly impressed, my lord,” returned Gillian with equal gravity. “May one assume he is also a member of the dandy set?” She stopped short, putting her fingers to her lips. “Oh, dear, another question. Please forget I spoke.”
“Nonsense.” Cord smiled. “The answer is an emphatic yes. To behold Wilf in all his tailored glory is to experience the personification of the most exquisite elegance. In fact, I suspect it is through his sartorial magnificence that he has endeared himself to the Prince. Wilf tells me His Royal Highness seeks his advice on every aspect of his wardrobe. As you might imagine, Wilf on the strut in Bond Street is a sight to behold. Do you get to London often. Miss Tate?” he asked innocently.
If Miss Tate noticed the insertion of yet another question, she made no dispute. She merely laughed and replied, “Goodness, no. Every once in a great while Aunt Louisa persuades Uncle Henry to make the trip. On these occasions—usually in coincidence with some museum exhibition or other in which Uncle Henry is interested—she and I make flying visits to the shops and drapery merchants, and then Aunt Louisa pesters Uncle Henry into attending the theater. I daresay, however, we have not set foot there for over a year.”
“I hope,” remarked Cord, in what he admitted to himself was a slightly oily tone of voice, “that you will notify me the next time you plan an excursion to the metropolis. I should like the opportunity to escort you—and your aunt and uncle as well, of course—to the theater, or perhaps to dinner.”
Miss Tate smiled faintly. “That would be very nice,” she responded in the tone of one who sees little chance of her words coming to pass.
Having finished their repast, the earl and his guest took their leave of the inn, to the accompaniment of the landlord’s earnest good wishes for the rest of their day and the hope of their return to his hostelry at an early date.
“Where to now. Miss Tate?” asked Cord as they trotted leisurely from the inn yard.
Glancing at the little timepiece pinned to her lapel, Gillian uttered a small cry. “My goodness! I had no idea the hour was so advanced. Dinner is less than an hour away. Aunt Louisa will be sure we have been set upon by brigands.”
She wheeled her horse about, and Cord, sighing, turned to follow her.
“But we haven’t covered half my estate,” he said plaintively.
“It is not my fault that Wildehaven is such an extensive property, my lord.” Gillian’s tone was tart, but Cord had no difficulty in discerning the smile beneath her words.
“Of course, not. Perhaps on another day we could set out in a different direction.”
Again, Miss Tate’s response was not encouraging. “Perhaps,” she returned, noncommittally.
Good Heavens, thought Gillian. What was the matter with her? The gentleman had issued an invitation for a pleasant outing—a repeat of the one today, in fact—and she had reacted as though he’d suggested an assignation. Not in the coffee room of the quaint inn they had just departed, but in one of its bedrooms!
To be sure, she could not help but feel that such was the earl’s ultimate goal, but he appeared to be willing to play the game according to the rules. That is, first some flirtation, hours spent in agreeable pursuits, perhaps at some point an innocuous gift, such as a posy or a book. All this, she felt she could handle. She had done so many times. The problem was, she admitted to herself, she was strongly attracted to this particular game player. Why this fact so unnerved her, she was unwilling to fathom at the moment. She knew only that she would be much better off at this point by drawing back.
She spurred her horse, and the two rode in relative silence for several moments until Cord, looking up, clicked his tongue in annoyance. Following his gaze, she beheld the figure of Silas Jilbert riding toward them. He was still some distance away, but he raised his hand to hail them.
“Now
what does the fellow want?” Cord muttered in displeasure.
Gillian lifted her brows inquiringly, and Cord continued, “He came to see me yesterday, carrying a briefcase stuffed with matters that ‘required my immediate attention.’ I sent him on his way, of course, telling him that’s what he’s paid for—to spare my immediate attention, but he keeps turning up, usually with some project in mind that will improve the estate and create prosperity for one and all.”
“But he would be remiss in his duty if he did not seek ways to increase the estate’s productivity.”
Cord found the expression of mild disapproval on Gillian’s face irritating. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “I pay the fellow well, and he seems to know what he’s doing. Why can’t he just go off and do what he does without bothering me?”
Gillian’s eyes widened, but before she could respond, Mr. Jilbert was upon them.
“My lord!” he said rather breathlessly, “I am glad I caught you.”
Mr. Jilbert was a small man in his early fifties. When he removed his hat, a thatch of thinning brown hair was revealed. His eyes were an unremarkable brown and partially obscured by a pair of large, thick spectacles that he wore pressed firmly against the bridge of a long, thin nose. He passed his hand over his hair as he nodded respectfully to Cord and Gillian.
Cord sighed. “What is it, Jilbert?”
“It’s about the tenants’ cottages. I believe I mentioned this to your lordship before, but now the matter has become critical. As you have probably observed, the ground is very damp.”
“Yes?” Cord replied unencouragingly.
“That’s because, though today is fine, we’ve had a lot of rainfall this spring. As you know, the tenants’ cottages were built in a low spot. This should have been remedied years ago,” he added somewhat severely, then continued hastily, noting the earl’s growing signs of impatience. “Now the road between the cottages and the fields has become almost impassable. In addition, the river flows close to the cottages, and it has become swollen. I am fearful of flooding. I have instructed the men to erect a barrier of sandbags.”
“Well—that should take care of the problem, shouldn’t it?” Lord, thought Cord, why did the man keep nattering on? This encounter was coming close to spoiling his idyllic afternoon with the lovely Miss Tate.
“Temporarily, my lord,” said Mr. Jilbert, stolidly persevering. “However, it has become necessary to create a more permanent barrier.”
“Then do it, man.” Cord could hear his voice rising irascibly, but he didn’t care. He hated this sort of thing, and the sooner Jilbert became aware of that fact the better.
“But it will mean a great deal of expense, my lord.”
“Surely not beyond my means, however?” He raised his riding stick to tap his boot.
“N-no, my lord, but a project of this magnitude is surely something that should be discussed—”
“No, it should not,” snapped Cord. “I hereby give you carte blanche to do whatever the devil is necessary for your little ‘project.’ If you cannot manage without consulting me at every turn, Jilbert, perhaps you should seek employment elsewhere.”
Jilbert paled. “No, my lord! That is ... yes, my lord. I did not mean—” His glance darted to Gillian and back to Cord. “I shall, er, take my leave, my lord.”