Chapter Fifteen
Westland had meant only to retrieve some food and continue on their way, as the last thing he desired was to prolong their journey.
Yet, if he had thought the confines of the carriage had been awkward, it was nothing compared to being perched together on a rug, in a picturesque spot, sharing a meal while being surreptitiously studied by a pair of bright blue eyes.
Sylvie, however, was feeling far more relaxed since reading his note, and with her mother’s scheming now totally forgiven, she was beginning to enjoy herself.
Poor Lord Westland, on the other hand, looked as uneasy as a lobster destined for the pot.
‘He is probably just as nervous as you and afraid you do not like him,’ Vivien had said the night before.
‘It all happened so quickly that neither of you knows anything about the other.’
With this in mind, along with her blossoming affection towards her future husband, she ventured, “My lord, would you mind if I ask some questions?”
He regarded her, and for a moment, she feared he might deny her request, but then, he shrugged his agreement.
Delighted, she leaned forward. “Are you partial to lemon cheesecakes?”
“Am I… I beg your pardon?” he stammered.
“Mm, I suppose it’s more of a tart really…
sweet puffy pastry filled with sharp, tangy, lemony cheese curd.
Such a contrast of sweet and sour, yet when combined, they complement each other sublimely.
It’s rather a favourite of mine. And… what is your favourite colour?
Do you enjoy the theatre? Oh, there are so many things I wish to know. ”
Unsettled, he cleared his throat. “Miss Mason, about our arrangement… um… marriage… I….”
“Yes?”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple visibly bobbing up and down. “Miss Mason, our marriage… um, the terms…”
She blinked back at him for a moment before she smiled, shaking her head.
“Oh,” she said brightly, “yes, the terms of our marriage… and my eventual exile. I remember, my lord. Though I had hoped we might at least become friends. Would it not be beneficial if we were to learn something about one another? Society will be near breathless with excitement that you, my lord, are to be married, and I doubt I will get a moment’s peace back in London.
The unmarried young ladies I know love nothing more than trying to untangle the mysteries of gentlemen.
Their questions will be endless. Admittedly, I could make up the answers, but I fear I have rather a fanciful imagination.
Before you know it, you could be a budding artist with a penchant for painting adorable puppies and fluffy kittens…
or an aspiring poet prone to reciting romantic verse to me on bended knee, and oh,” she added with an impish twinkle in her eyes, “perhaps while wearing a very fetching pink smoking jacket. So?”
Westland, looking startled, opened his mouth as if to reprimand, then shook his head slightly and muttered, “Apple pie and custard.”
“Indeed?” she practically sang. “Apple pie and custard, just perfect. I love it too. Papa is not fond of hot pudding, so we normally have ices or fruit, much to Mama’s disappointment. She has an unrivalled sweet tooth. And do you prefer beefsteak or a saddle of lamb?”
“Lamb.”
“Oh, me too, and potatoes?”
“Potatoes?”
“Roasted are my favourites, golden and crunchy… oh and creamy mash, are you partial?”
“Umm …”
“And your favourite colour?”
“Dark green.”
“How lovely. Will you be married in dark green?”
“Umm …”
“Shall I wear a sash in the same colour? Oh, and mayhap we could match the fabric of your waistcoat too. We would look the part perfectly. Have you had sufficient, my lord?”
“Umm …”
“Are we to overnight at The Cat and Fiddle Inn?”
“Yes,” he replied, shaking his head, thoroughly bamboozled, “The Cat and Fiddle.”
“Oh, lovely,” she said happily, brushing crumbs from her skirts. “They serve an excellent pot pie, and their puddings are simply scrumptious. How wonderful it would be if they were to have apple pie and custard?”
* * *
Utterly relieved she wasn’t harbouring any misconceptions, Westland found himself relaxing a little as the carriage sped towards their destination for the night.
He leaned back, eyes closed, yet continued answering her endless stream of questions.
How he took his tea, if he played the piano, the name of his favourite horse, where his shirts were made, the plays he enjoyed, the type of flowers he liked!
He was unaccustomed to sharing such details, yet her questions were innocent enough.
What harm could there be if people were to learn what he ate, so long as it helped Miss Mason navigate her way around the parlour gossip before they were wed and he could bundle her off to Wales?
Then, abruptly, his eyes flew open and his head jerked upright. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, my lord, I have heard they are becoming quite unfashionable.”
“Have you now?”
“Yes, apparently Mrs Porter’s husband is not fond of his long nightshirt, nor is Mrs Glassington’s husband.
I was just wondering your preference for night attire.
Of course, Papa is too old to care for fashion, though I believe it is becoming quite the thing amongst the younger gentlemen, to dispense with long shirts. ”
“Do you now?”
“I do, my Lord. So…?”
“So,” he cut across, “… umm… nothing, Miss Mason.”
“You sleep in nothing! Oh? Golly, I… I simply presumed… well… a refashioned version… Gosh, so no replacement. How interesting… but does it not get a bit chilly?”
In saying “nothing,” he meant only that he had nothing more to say on the subject. Prudish he was not, but to be confronted with such a question from Miss Mason, he could do little but huff and shake his head. “I think that will do for the questions.”
“Of course, my lord,” she said breezily. “I have rather bombarded you, haven’t I? Though it has been most enlightening. Now, when I think of you, I will have a wonderfully vivid picture of you in my head.”
He felt his eyes widen in surprise, and Sylvie, smiling up at him, looked a little perplexed.
“I…” she said hesitantly, then, suddenly blushing to her roots, she gasped, “Oh, I mean… no, no, I mean your likes and dislikes, your… your… oh dear… I could not possibly picture… I have never seen… well, only a line drawing in one of Papa’s medical books, and I do not think you would look…
oh… oh, I think I shall stop talking now,” and, thankfully, clamped her lips tightly shut and turned her face towards the window.
Westland leaned back again, closing his eyes, and hoped to hell they would reach the Inn soon.