Chapter 7
A floral bouquet scented the garden, the air heady after the rain. Was it Graeme’s imagination, or were the blooms brighter, as well? His vision had yet to adjust from the dimness of the chapel—yes, that must be the reason.
What had compelled him to invite Miss Whittington for a turn about the garden was a point of contention within his warring mind.
He told himself it was all strategy. In a more relaxed setting, she would release her guard and may reveal intentions.
The truth, however, was that he could think of little else than how determinedly his heart thumped when their eyes had met across the pews.
That her perfume mixed so intoxicatingly with the garden scents did little to dissuade his pulse, least of all when every swish of her gown accentuated the aroma.
“Does the butler always doze during the service?” she asked.
“Always.” He kept his attention forward, avoiding the glimpses of her profile. “Then, I’ve only been in residence long enough to attend three services, including today. But during all three, the choir of snores accompanied the chaplain’s sermon.”
She chortled but offered no response.
They walked the length of one path in silence, he matching her strides.
In his mind, he flipped through one topic after another, searching for the right anecdote, witticism, or question, but everything made him feel dull as ditch water.
What does one say to a woman who is simultaneously a beautiful temptation and a suspect of fraud and greed?
Graeme slowed, gravel crunching underfoot, hands clasped loosely behind his back. “You strike me as the sort who would catalogue every flower by genus before stopping to enjoy their scent.”
Miss Whittington laughed again, bright and unguarded. “So says the man brought up with ledgers as thick as sermons.”
“Touché.” The corner of his mouth tugged despite himself. “My mother would approve of your wit,” he admitted. “She has a saying for every occasion. ‘A man who steadies his voice can steady his future,’ for example. That is a favorite of hers.”
Miss Whittington eyed him askance, mischief glinting.
“I cannot say I’ve known many steady men.
Papa leaps from one venture to the next, thrilled by the chase.
He loves nothing more than haggling, not the least interested in the outcome, only the risks and titillation of debate.
Predictable in his unpredictability but hardly steady. ”
Graeme’s curiosity sharpened. If her father was so wealthy, why this desperate scheme? He pressed no further, though, and silence lapsed until she filled it.
“You mentioned your mother. Do you see her often?”
“Until recently, I lived with her and my sister. Both are in London still.” Fondness warmed his tone.
“Are you eager to return to them?”
“Yes and no. My plan is to take up residence at Lobelia Hall. I confess I had been unsure if this would be the case, as I had wished to see the state of the hall first, namely, after the rumors of the unpleasantness of the late earl. I did not know if I would find a hall in disrepair, angry tenants, disloyal staff, or other surprises. I can now say I’m pleased with all before me and hope my family will join soon.
” After a moment’s deliberation, he added, “The earl will need me.”
Her smile teased. “And your wife? Will she be joining, as well?”
His pulse quickened.
“No.” The single word was quiet, decisive. Then, lest she misunderstand, he iterated, “No wife.”
The silence this time was easier, companionable. Miss Whittington paused before a stone cherub nestled in an alcove and considered it for some time.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “Could you have been happy here?”
Rather than look at him, her gaze lifted to the pigeonholes in the stone. She took her time in answering, so long that he wondered if she would ignore the question. At length she asked, “Did you see the chapel window?”
He looked at the stonework, curious how that reminded her of the chapel window.
“There’s a bird nesting in the alcove. I couldn’t stop watching it during the service.”
Graeme angled a glance at her. “A bird?”
“Yes.” She laughed lightly, but then her words tumbled out, unguarded. “It struck me how free it seemed. No ledgers to balance, no bargains to strike, no marriages to arrange. Just a perch, a patch of sky, and the will to fly.” She pressed her lips together, her cheeks flushed. “Silly, I suppose.”
“Not silly,” he said, softer than he intended.
Her animation surprised him, the brightness in her eyes so different from the careful poise she usually wore. For a fleeting moment, he saw not a schemer to be questioned or a guest to be managed, but simply a woman with her heart laid bare.
“That doesn’t answer your question, does it?
” she asked, ambling away from the statue, her steps light, careless.
“It’s not a place or a person for which I pine, not title or fortune, only the freedom to make my own choices.
I can be happy anywhere if I had that.” She laughed, heartily at first, but then with an edge of cynicism.
“I suddenly realized I have more in common with the new earl than I thought possible. We’re both bound by the circumstances of our birth, he to his title and I to my father.
Neither of us has much choice in life, do we? ”
Graeme saw a great deal of difference in their circumstances, but rather than voice that, his thoughts strayed unwittingly to the codicil. “Would wealth not buy you freedom?”
“As in a dowry?” she said crisply. “They purchase husbands, not freedom.”
Her words landed between them like a rook blocking his path. He slowed, searching for a reply that would not sound like a rebuke or a lie. None came.
By the time they reached the end of the path, she had recovered her composure, smiling as if nothing had been said. Yet he could feel the board reset beneath them, pieces shifting for the next play.