Chapter Fifteen #2
Though he would know sorrow when she departed for London, it would be best for her. She needed to develop her own friends, not those from his family. Her father, and very likely Sir Patrick, would know umbrage with her actions this evening.
“Lady Freya has been exceedingly helpful,” Lady Emma said with a knowing nod in Freya’s direction. “She is such a friendly person. So very nice.”
Nice? Aaran thought as Lady Emma strolled across the opening to where Orson stood with Marksman and Theodora.
“Nice” seemed like such a bland, boring word to describe a woman of Lady Freya’s nature.
Stubborn to the core. Blindingly honest. Kind.
Intelligent. Intuitive. Beautiful. She took people as she found them, refusing to listen to complaints.
“Demme it,” he murmured, “she is nice.” He paused before adding under his breath, “Breathtakingly beautiful inside and out.”
Aaran doubted Lady Freya thought so highly of him.
Of course, he was never bothered by what others thought of him or else he would always be hiding away.
Even so, he had to ignore an irritating little voice that again reminded him that he was making the biggest mistake of his life.
“It does not bother me if she does not consider me nice,” he murmured under his breath as everyone moved to a safer place to watch the fireworks.
“Nice. It is an extremely boring word. Who wants to be nice?” he asked himself, but he knew the answer. He wanted it with all his heart.
Thompson stepped to the center of the circle and cleared his voice.
Everyone grew quiet. “I wish to thank each of you for braving another winter month in Kent and for celebrating this display with me in honor of my bride to be. Most of you I have known since I was a child in my father’s church.
Now I stand where my illustrious uncle once stood. ”
Aaran heard Thompson’s words, but he was watching Lady Freya, who was standing first on one leg and then another. She wore a cape, but it obviously did not keep her warm enough, for she marched in place and tugged the cape more tightly about her.
“Tomorrow,” Benjamin continued, as Aaran began a slow side shuffle in the lady’s direction.
“Tomorrow, you will have a new mistress.” His Lordship tugged Miss Whitchurch closer.
“I must warn you that my lady is no fainting violet. In fact, I would suggest in your dealings with her that you should lead or follow or remove yourself from her way. I learned that lesson the hard way, and I would not wish you to know likewise.”
Thompson was smiling broadly, and Miss Whitchurch was shaking her head at Benjamin’s poor excuse for humor. As the others laughed, one of Thompson’s tenants called out, “Then you have learned your first lesson in marriage, my lord. Some are still learning it after twenty years or more.”
“I have, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Thompson declared in obvious good humor.
“I would not have it any other way.” He tugged Miss Whitchurch into his body.
“My warning, Fitzpatrick, was for the rest of you. The new Lady Thompson is a woman with a great heart and even greater vision for the earldom left in my hands.” A round of applause followed, and Miss Whitchurch rose on her toes to kiss Thompson’s cheek.
“Let us start the display, my lord,” she instructed.
Thompson smiled widely. “You heard your new mistress, Mr. Boone. Let us begin!”
“Aye, my lord.”
Thompson again directed people away from where the prepared fireworks sat upon the rise.
As people moved into a semicircle where they could observe the display, Aaran picked his way along the uneven terrain until he was standing behind Lady Freya, who stood closer to the villagers and Thompson’s tenants than she did with the wedding party.
She had set herself along the back of the crowd.
“You are freezing,” he murmured close to her ear.
“I am well, my lord,” she hissed under her breath.
Aaran ignored her protest. Instead, he shrugged first out of his overcoat and then the tailored supper coat. “Here,” he instructed as he handed the supper coat over to her. “Put it on quickly so it does not lose the heat of my body.”
“I cannot,” Lady Freya insisted. “What would people say?”
“They will say I am the perfect gentleman and you are, as usual, a stubborn Scottish lass.” He shoved the supper coat into her hands and reached for her cape.
“It is you who is stubborn, my lord,” she hissed, but she dropped the cape into his waiting hands, slid her arms through the coat sleeves, and clutched it about her.
Aaran noted the sigh of comfort as it slipped across her lips. Meanwhile, he draped the cape over her shoulders. “It will be your and my secret, my lady.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said with a turn of her head to look up at him. Then, she noted his overcoat on the ground, and before he could prevent her doing so, she bent gracefully and caught it up, flicking off a few dead leaves. “Allow me, Lord Graham.”
“Such a lovely valet you are, my lady,” he teased.
“Shush,” she warned, “or someone will hear you.”
Soon he was standing behind her, both of them watching the bursts of color against the black sky. The crowd ooh’ed and aw’ed with each flurry of color, but he and Lady Freya remained quietly enjoying another memory—another moment to cherish while others around them remained unaware.
As one cylinder after another was lit and sent upward into the night sky, Aaran’s mind was full of only one thing, the red-haired woman who stood equally as still as he did.
Unfortunately, from somewhere off to his right, Aaran heard the shuffle of a footstep in the crunch of leaves outside the cleared circle their party occupied, followed by a distinct click of a gun being cocked.
“Gun!” he yelled barely a heartbeat before the flash of powder. Aaran took Lady Freya down with him.
All around him, people were scurrying for cover or lying flat on the ground as did he. Seconds later, Orson and Beaufort were beside him. “Did you see anyone?” Orson demanded.
“No!” Aaran explained as Beaufort assisted Aaran to his feet.
“Just heard the crunch of leaves while the rest of us were holding our breath in anticipation of another display of colors.” Aaran wanted to slap Beaufort’s hands away as Aaran’s brother easily lifted Lady Freya to her feet.
“Then I heard the click of a gun being cocked.”
Orson called above the melee. “Anyone harmed?”
Mr. Fitzpatrick explained, “The bullet hit that log upon which we were all sitting while we waited for the others to arrive. You can see where the wood broke away.”
“Thank you, Fitzpatrick.” Thompson took command of the situation. “Likely a poacher shooting at a rabbit or other game. Probably thought the fireworks would drive the game right at him, and he did not realize so many of us were here.”
“Beaufort and I will have a quick look around,” Orson said with authority. “Shoot off a few more rounds, Mr. Boone. The light will assist us in the woods.”
“I can go…” Aaran began, but Orson shook off the offer.