Aloneness did not equate with loneliness. It did not call for self-pity. It certainly did not call for scrambling to attend every house party that presented itself. Being in company could often be a great deal less tolerable than being alone.
He was feeling more than usually irritated after a lengthy afternoon ride, during which he had twice been lured away from the group, first by Miss King and then by Miss Dunstan-Lutt, on slight, ridiculous pretexts and would—both times—have become hopelessly lost along winding country lanes if he had not possessed a strong sense of direction and an even stronger instinct for self-preservation.
Were they trying to lure him into marriage?
The very idea was preposterous. Even if he was not literally old enough to be their father, he felt as if he were.
Rather than follow everyone else into the house after their return, he made his escape and headed off through the rose arbor and onto the long grassy alley beyond. It was picturesque and secluded, with its knee-high stone walls on either side and behind them long rows of laburnum trees, whose branches had been trained to grow over trellises into a high arch overhead. It was rather like a living, open-air Gothic cathedral.
It was also, on this occasion, occupied. Mrs. Derrick was sitting on the wall on one side, reading what he supposed was a letter.
She had not seen him. He might have withdrawn back through the rose arbor in good order and found somewhere else to walk—unlike that other time out at the lake, when she had collided into him. But he did not withdraw. She might have an unfortunate tendency not to know how to behave on occasion, but at least she was not silly, and she did not simper or flirt.
After he had taken a few steps in her direction, she looked up and saw him.
“Oh,” she said.
She was wearing the floppy-brimmed straw bonnet again. Indeed, he had not seen her in any other all week. It was quite unadorned apart from the ribbons that tied beneath her chin. It was inexplicably fetching. She was also wearing a dress of striped green-and-white poplin with lace-trimmed square neck and short sleeves that she had worn several times before—unlike her fellow guests, who changed several times a day and rarely wore the same thing twice. The dress was neither new nor in the first stare of fashion. He wondered if it was her best or the newly promoted second best.
She looked remarkably pretty.
“I will not disturb you, Mrs. Derrick.” He inclined his head to her, his hands clasped at his back. “Unless you care to walk with me, that is.”
She had looked startled at first. Now she regarded him with that look that always intrigued him as much as it occasionally annoyed him. How could she smile—or rather laugh—when her face remained in repose?
“Have you just returned from the ride?” she asked him. “And were you now attempting to escape the press of humanity? And then found me disturbing your solitude as I did once before? Except that this time I was here before you.”
At least, he thought, here was someone who was not forever throwing herself in his path trying to win whatever contest the very young ladies had concocted among themselves.
“
Will
you walk with me?” he asked her.
For a few moments he thought she would refuse and was glad of it. Why the devil would he want the company of a woman who, in his opinion, ought not even to have been invited to this house party? But then she looked down at her letter, folded it and put it away in a side pocket of her dress, and got to her feet.
“Yes,” she said.
And then he was glad of
that
.
It seemed like an eternity since any woman had stirred his blood. Rose had been gone for all of six months. It constantly surprised him to realize how much he mourned her loss. He had always thought theirs more a satisfactory business arrangement than a personal attachment.
Christine Derrick undoubtedly—and quite inexplicably—stirred his blood. He became instantly more aware of the leafy branches overhead, the blue sky visible beyond, the sunlight making patterns of light and shade on the long grassy alley ahead. He became aware of the heat of the summer day, of the light breeze on his face, of the heavy, verdant fragrances of grass and leaves. The alley was loud with birdsong, though none of the songsters were visible.
She fell into step beside him, the brim of her bonnet hiding her face from his view. She had not worn a bonnet during their lake walk, he remembered.
“Was the ride pleasant?” she asked him. “I suppose you were born in the saddle.”
“That might have been a little uncomfortable for my mother,” he said, and won for himself a glimpse of her face when she turned her head to smile rather impishly at him. “But, yes, thank you, the ride was pleasant.”
He had never, actually, seen the point in riding about the countryside purely for pleasure, though his brothers and sisters had done it often—if
riding
was the appropriate word for what they had done. More often they had galloped neck or nothing, jumping any obstacle that happened to be in their path.
“It is your turn now,” she said after a few moments.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked her.
“I asked a question,” she told him, “and you answered it. You might have elaborated for a few minutes, describing the ride and your destination and the stimulating conversation you enjoyed with the others. But you chose to answer with great brevity and no real information at all. Now it is your turn to attempt to make agreeable conversation between us.”
She was laughing at him again. Nobody ever laughed at him. He found himself curiously intrigued that she would dare.
“Was your letter pleasant?” he asked.
She laughed out loud, a light, cheerful sound of genuine amusement.
“Touché!” she said. “It was from Eleanor, my eldest sister. She has written to me even though she is only two miles away at Hyacinth Cottage. She is a compulsive and amusing letter-writer. She taught my geography class at the village school two days after I came here and wonders how I can ever teach the children anything when they are so full of questions about any topic under the sun
except
anything related to the subject of the lesson. It was their little trick, of course. Children are very clever and will take full advantage of the novice who does not know any better. I shall scold them roundly when I return, but of course they will all look at me with blank, innocent faces, and I will end up laughing. And then
they
will laugh and poor Eleanor will never be avenged.”
“You teach school.” It was a comment, not a question, but she turned her head to look up at him again.
“I help out,” she said. “I have to do
something,
after all. Women do, you know, if they are not to expire of boredom.”
“I wonder,” he said, “that you did not remain with Elrick and his wife after your husband died. You would have remained in the social milieu to which you must have grown accustomed and have been offered more in the way of activity and amusement than you can expect here.” And as a dependent of Elrick’s she would have had some new clothes in the past two years.
“I would, would I not?” she said, but she did not pursue the topic.
It was not the first time she had avoided talking abut her marriage or anything connected with it. And he had noticed that the Elricks stayed away from her and she from them. They had not liked her, perhaps. It was probable that they had disapproved of Derrick’s marrying her and had not accepted her gladly into the family fold. It would not be surprising.
“I could tell you more about my letter,” she continued after a short pause, “but I must not dominate the conversation. Do you spend your summers going from one house party to another? It is the way of the
ton,
I know. Oscar and I did it all the time.”
“This is the first I have attended in years,” he said. “I usually spend the summers at Lindsey Hall. Sometimes I travel about the country, inspecting some of my other estates.”
“It must be strange,” she said, “being that wealthy.”
He raised his eyebrows at the vulgarity of the comment. Well-bred persons did not talk about money. But it would be strange not to be wealthy. She was evidently poor. It must be strange to be poor. It was all a matter of perspective, he supposed.
“I hope, Mrs. Derrick,” he said, “that was not a question.”
“No.” She chuckled, a low, attractive sound. “I do beg your pardon. It was not a well-mannered observation, was it? Is not this a charming alley? The whole of the park is quite, quite lovely. I once asked Bertie, when I was still married, why he did not open the park to the public so that all the people from the village might enjoy strolling here, at least when the family is from home. But he rumbled and laughed in that way he has, and then looked at me as if he thought I had uttered a great witticism that did not require a verbal response. Does Lindsey Hall have a large park? And your other estates?”
“Yes,” he said. “Most of them do.”
“And do you allow the public to enjoy any of them?” she asked him.
“Do you allow the public into your garden, Mrs. Derrick?” he asked in reply.
She looked up at him once more. “There
is
a difference,” she said.
“Is there?” It was the sort of attitude that irritated him. “One’s home and one’s garden or park form one’s private domain, the place where one can relax and be private, one’s own personal space. There is no essential difference between your home and mine.”
“Except for size,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed.
He resented people who put him on the defensive.
“I believe,” she said, “we must agree to disagree, your grace. Otherwise we will come to fisticuffs and I daresay I will get the worst of it. It is a matter of size again.”
She was laughing at him once more—and perhaps at herself too. At least she was not one of those disagreeable crusaders who must press her argument to the point of offensiveness, especially if there were any suggestion of aristocratic privilege and injustice to the poor involved. Actually, all his homes except Lindsey Hall were open to any traveler who cared to knock on the door and ask permission of the housekeeper. It was a common courtesy extended by most landowners.
Light and shade played over her form as they walked. She was pleasingly formed, he noticed again. She had a mature woman’s body rather than that of a slender girl. He tried to verbalize in his mind what exactly it was about her that was attractive to him. He knew many women who were more beautiful and more elegant—including several of their fellow guests. Certainly her slightly sun-bronzed skin and those freckles made it impossible to call her a true beauty. And her hair was short and frequently looked rumpled. But there was that energy about her he had noticed from the start, that vitality. There was a sense of light and joy about her. Certainly she appeared to light up from the inside when she was animated—and she frequently was. It appeared that she loved people—and most people returned the compliment.
But he would not have expected to be attracted to such a woman. His tastes, he would have thought, ran more to quiet refinement and sophistication.
“You did not care to join the ride?” he asked her.
She flashed him a smile. “You ought to be thankful that I did not,” she said. “I
can
ride, in the sense that I can scramble onto a horse’s back and remain there without falling off—at least, I have never yet fallen. But no matter what horse I am mounted on, even the most docile, I invariably lose the battle for control within a few minutes and find myself on a prancing, sidling course, being led in every possible direction except the one I wish to take or the one everyone else in my party is taking.”
Wulfric did not comment. All true ladies were accomplished equestrians. Most were also graceful, elegant riders. He was indeed thankful that Mrs. Derrick had chosen to remain behind this afternoon with her letter.
“I rode in Hyde Park once with Oscar and Hermione and Basil,” she said. “But only once, alas. We were riding along a narrow path as a whole host of other riders approached from the opposite direction. Oscar and the others moved obligingly off onto the grass to allow them to pass, but my horse chose to turn sideways, blocking the whole path, and then to stand stock-still. It stood there like a veritable
statue
. My companions were full of apologies to the other group, but all I could do was
laugh
. The scene struck me as enormously funny. Basil explained later that the other riders were all important government officials and the Russian ambassador. They were all good sports about the incident, though, and the ambassador even sent me flowers the next day. But Oscar never invited me to go riding again when we were in London.”
Wulfric, looking down at her bonnet, could just imagine the embarrassment of her party. And she had sat there and
laughed
? But the strange thing was that picturing the scene, imagining her sitting helplessly atop her statue of a horse, laughing gaily and attracting the admiration of the Russian ambassador, made
him
want to laugh. He should be feeling disdain. He should be feeling confirmed in his conviction that she did not know how to behave. Instead he wanted to throw back his head and shout with laughter.
He did not do so. He frowned instead and they proceeded on their way.
They were coming to the end of the alley, he realized after a while. They had been walking for the past few minutes in silence. It had not been uncomfortable—at least not to him—but there did seem to be a certain tension in the air about them suddenly, a certain awareness that must surely be mutual.
Was it possible that she was attracted to him as he was to her? She certainly had not gone out of her way to entice him. She did not flirt. She was not a coquette. But was she attracted? Women did not as a whole, he believed, find him attractive. His title and wealth, perhaps, but not
him
. Perhaps she was merely embarrassed by the silence.
“Shall we continue?” he asked her, indicating the upward flight of stone steps at the end of the alley. “Or would you prefer to return to the house? I believe we are in danger of missing tea.”