Chapter Twelve
Lady Constance broke the top of her boiled egg with a neat, decisive crack. She scooped out the insides with a small spoon, spreading the runny yolk and translucent white over a morsel of bread.
Neil hated eggs. He knew they were a proper and expected staple of the breakfast table, so he had ordered them served, but he despised them all the same: the smell, the taste, the cloying texture.
Aunt Harriet, with her usual tact, confined herself to bacon and kippers, but Lord Farendale and Lady Constance seemed intent on consuming their weight in eggs.
Lady Farendale ate nothing, only sipped tea and stared into space.
“Do you hunt, your Grace?” Lord Farendale blustered when the silence had grown uncomfortably long. “I declare, these woods are thick with deer. Saw them myself as we came along. Rabbits and foxes, too.”
Neil gave a thin smile. “I do not hunt, Lord Farendale. My apologies.”
The man’s face fell, his mouth opening as though to argue. Lady Constance interposed neatly.
“What a pity your sweet little niece could not join us at the table, your Grace. I quite long to make her acquaintance.”
She punctuated the remark with a bright, expectant smile. Neil inclined his head.
“She slept poorly,” he explained. “I instructed her nurse to let her rest a little longer.”
Lord Farendale clicked his tongue. “Careful, your Grace, careful! Spoiling a child never ends well.”
Neil didn’t bother with a smile in response.
What was he supposed to say? There was some truth in that, though he doubted Lord Farendale and he would ever agree on what spoiling meant.
Better, perhaps, to let the matter rest; experience had taught him that debate with such men was seldom worth the breath.
“I had a thought,” Aunt Harriet declared, rescuing the conversation before it froze entirely. “Why do you not take dear Constance to look over the gardens?”
Lady Constance brightened. “Oh, I should love that.”
Neil looked around the table. Every face was turned expectantly towards him.
You’re not asking me at all, he thought darkly. You’ve decided, and I am to acquiesce. To refuse would make me appear unfeeling—the sort of thick-skinned, hard-hearted fellow who won’t dance with a nervous lady when somebody else asks him to.
“Of course,” he said at last, and saw Lady Constance’s shoulders ease. She had plainly decided that he would serve well enough as a husband. She had spent every shared moment attempting to charm him—speaking brightly, smiling sweetly, casting lingering glances when she thought he would not notice.
Neil was not a fool. He recognised courtship when it was thrust upon him. In London, it would have been easy to avoid her—too many ballrooms, too many people. But here at Burenwood, there was no escape.
He pitied her, though not unkindly. Society was rarely gentle to its daughters.
However beautiful, agreeable, or accomplished a young lady might be, if she passed a Season or two without securing a match, whispers began.
Prospects dwindled, invitations lessened, and the comfortable path laid out for her grew narrower with each passing year.
And later, when her parents tired of her or her father died, she would find herself in financial straits, too.
Lord Farendale reached for another egg. Summoning a footman with a jerk of his hand, he handed over the egg and instructed the poor fellow to peel it.
“If we are to go for a walk,” Neil said at last, “we ought to do so now.”
***
Lady Constance’s maid followed them at a respectful distance. Neil could feel eyes upon him from the house—Aunt Harriet’s gaze most of all. He was certain that if he turned, he would see faces pressed to the Blue Room window.
Wonderful.
“Your grounds are beautiful, your Grace,” Lady Constance observed, smiling up at him. “You must be a most dedicated gardener.”
“I’m afraid not, my lady. I only employ dedicated gardeners.”
She rewarded this with a trill of laughter, though it was hardly amusing.
“I do so adore being in the country,” she continued confidentially. “London is so noisy and crowded. I long for a little peace.”
Neil smiled faintly. “In that, we are entirely agreed.”
Her face lit up again, and guilt pricked him. She is wasting her time on me. She would make a fine wife for someone, a suitable duchess—just not his.
His duchess would be—
He cut off the thought sharply. He did not want a duchess. He was not going to marry. And his duchess would certainly not have wry, smiling green eyes, flecked with gold, and a habit of saying the wrong thing. That wasn’t the sort of woman a duke was meant to choose for his wife.
A woman like that would never belong in his world.
“Lady Constance,” he began carefully.
She stopped at once, turning towards him, eyes wide with expectation.
“Yes?” she prompted, her voice breathless.
He hesitated, alarmed by the eagerness in her gaze. Surely, she cannot think I mean to propose here, in the garden?
“I must confess,” he said at last, choosing his words, “that your arrival was… a surprise. My aunt had not informed me of her visit.”
“A happy surprise, I hope?”
The truthful answer was no, but honesty would be brutal.
“A surprise,” he repeated firmly. “I love my aunt dearly, and she means well. But at times, she does not quite understand what I wish for myself. It leads to unfortunate misunderstandings. I’m sure you know how that can be.”
She clearly did not understand. Her face brightened.
“Oh, perfectly! My parents are the same. Mama wished me to marry a thin, bespectacled little second son of an earl—kind enough, but hardly suitable. Papa and I could not make her see reason. She was most vexed when we left London.”
Neil could feel his heart sinking into his stomach.
Oh, dear.
“Quite,” he managed. “Lady Constance, I wonder—”
At that moment, something shot out of the shrubbery and collided with Lady Constance’s leg. There was a rip of fabric and a startled scream.
Not a something. A someone.
Emma.
The little girl went sprawling onto the gravel. She blinked, stunned, then screwed up her face and began to wail.
“Emma!” Neil dropped to his knees beside her.
“My gown!” Lady Constance gasped. “It’s torn—oh, and it was new! The sequins—”
Emma sat up, cradling her hand. Blood welled where a sharp stone had scraped her palm.
Neil looked up at Lady Constance. Their eyes met briefly; remorse flickered across her face.
“Oh, the poor child—I did not mean to push her. It was only reflex—”
“It was an accident, of course,” Neil said flatly, turning back to Emma.
Footsteps pounded through the greenery. He knew who it would be even before she appeared.
Maggie burst into view, her hair coming loose, eyes wide with alarm.
“Oh, you poor thing! She was chasing a butterfly, and I could not catch her—oh, Miss Emma, what have you done?”
“I hurt my hand,” Emma sniffled, holding out the injured palm.
Maggie dropped gracefully to her knees, inspecting the injury. She picked out a few stray bits of gravel, flicking them aside, and withdrew a handkerchief.
“I shall take her inside to have it properly cleaned and bandaged,” she said to Neil, her eyes focused on her task. “For now, though, this will keep it from further harm.”
“When you are finished with that,” Lady Constance said sharply, “you may help me recover the sequins from my gown.”
Her tone was sweet; her meaning was not.
Maggie looked up briefly, astonished, then to Neil. Whatever he was thinking must have shown on his face, for her mouth twitched, half-amused, half-defiant.
“I am a governess, my lady,” she replied coolly. “My first duty is to Miss Emma. I’m sure Mrs Thornton can send someone to collect your sequins.”
Lady Constance’s head jerked, and her eyes bulged. “I beg your pardon? Your Grace, did you hear how insolently she spoke to me?”
“You must forgive Miss Winter,” Neil said mildly. He could not tear his eyes from Maggie’s bent head, from the gleam of hair falling forward as she tied the handkerchief. “She is notoriously impudent, but also the finest governess I have ever hired.”
Maggie’s head jerked up at that, surprise written all over her face. She met his eye, and something crackled between them. The air seemed to grow thicker, making it harder for Neil to draw breath.
Abruptly, he rose to his feet, breaking their gaze. The air seemed cooler and thinner when he stood, as if being in proximity to Maggie had brought him inside some strange new magnetic field.
“Well,” Lady Constance said at last, her voice tight. It was the only word she seemed capable of finding.
With the handkerchief tied tight across Emma’s palm, Maggie sat back on her heels.
“Does it hurt? Have you hurt yourself anywhere else?” Maggie asked, her voice soft.
Emma shook her head. Tearstains streaked her cheeks, but her sobs had subsided.
“It’s sore,” she ventured, then frowned up at Lady Constance.
Lady Constance bent down, all grace and silk ruffles, and pressed a hand to her heart.
“You must be his Grace’s little niece,” she cooed. “What a sweet creature you are! I am so glad to meet you.”
Emma scowled. “You pushed me over.”
Maggie winced. Lady Constance flushed scarlet.
“Accidentally,” she snapped. “I did not mean it.”
“It was an accident, Emma,” Neil said gently. “You must forgive Lady Constance. She is a good friend of Aunt Harriet’s.”
Emma brightened. “Am I to see Aunt Harriet?”
“Very soon. Now, let me see that hand.”
Emma held it up obediently. The bleeding had stopped. Neil lifted it and pressed a gentle kiss to the palm.
“There,” he said. “That will mend soon enough.”
“Generally, your Grace,” Miss Winter said, smiling, “we tell children it will be better in a moment, whether or not we believe it.”
Neil met her gaze. “I prefer to be truthful, Miss Winter.”
Her smile deepened; she pressed her fingers briefly to her lips to hide a laugh. Lady Constance coughed sharply.
“I think I should like to return to the house, your Grace,” she announced.
Neil was about to encourage her to do just that when he remembered that she would expect him to escort her. Smothering a sigh, he nodded.
“Go on,” he told Emma. “Have that tended to properly, and I’ll see you later. Take care of her, Miss Winter.”
He turned to escort Lady Constance, but Emma’s voice stopped him.
“You and Maggie take care of me better than anyone, Uncle. You’re just like a real Mama and Papa.”
A silence fell, heavy and unbroken. Lady Constance’s fingers dug into his arm. Maggie bent her head, hiding her face.
“You mustn’t say that, Miss Emma,” Maggie whispered. “It is a very kind thing, but I am not your Mama.”
“I didn’t say you were,” Emma retorted stoutly. “I said you are like my Mama.”
Lady Constance’s nails bit into his sleeve.
“I really would like to go in, your Grace,” she said tightly, her sweetness gone.
“Of course,” Neil murmured.
He looked back once, long enough to see Maggie watching him, brow furrowed. Then she turned away, taking Emma’s hand.
“Your niece is a charming child,” Lady Constance said coldly, “but that governess—what an impertinent creature. So plain, so insolent. We would never have permitted her kind at Farendale.”
Neil clenched his jaw. “But you are not at Farendale, are you, Lady Constance?”
She swung round, eyes wide. “I beg your pardon?”
“And I would be obliged if you loosened your grip,” he added evenly. “You have claws enough to shame a hawk.”
She snatched her arm free and went striding ahead, hurrying towards the house with her maid in tow.
Aunt Harriet will scold me for this, Neil thought grimly, but could not summon it in himself to care.