Chapter Twenty
THIS WAS PAINFUL. WATCHING MURIEL and the baron ride past his and Vivienne’s curricle, Erik gritted his teeth at the prospect of seeing her reunite with the man she had professed to love mere weeks ago. But, at least this way, he didn’t have to keep glancing over his shoulder to ensure her safety. Five miles to the riverside and back had sounded marvelous to him at the time of planning. However, he supposed in his mind he always had Miss Beau at his side, the baron nowhere near her, or her thoughts—much less beside her for so long.
But his time without Muriel had not been all torture. Vivienne proved a wealth of information in regard to Muriel. She never ceased her chatting from the moment she assumed her seat. Apparently, she had known Muriel since her school days in the village, and they had been friends for nearly all their lives.
“I was fortunate, really,” Vivienne continued. “After my father’s passing, I was brought up in my stepbrother’s household just outside the village of Chilham. He, like most gentlemen, had little wish to spend a pound of their inheritance on his mother’s other family, but, as it turned out, I met one of my dearest friends because of attending the village school instead of having my own private tutor.”
“Where did you meet Miss Hale?” he asked, curious about Muriel’s other dearest friend, who seemed as peculiar in society as Muriel.
“At finishing school. That was the one thing my father ensured I had enough funds for upon his death. When Muriel’s mother married, Muriel was sent to the small finishing school I was attending—against my stepbrother’s wife’s wishes, I might add.” She chuckled. “Tess was another ‘wildling,’ as the teacher often called Muriel. Even if Muriel was rather unpolished, she has always been kindhearted, brilliant, and generous to a fault.”
“I have seen this to be true. Nothing makes her happier than to bring a smile to someone who needs it, usually in the form of a baked good.” He snapped the reins, attempting to close some of the distance between his and the baron’s curricle.
“She needs someone who will love her for it and not attempt to mold her into what he thinks a proper lady should be.” She pressed her lips into a thin line, scowling at the couple before them. “Too much change for her could prove detrimental to her sweet spirit.”
They crested the hill, and he was thankful to spy tents dotting the riverside, where boating, picnics, and games awaited them. He fought back a sigh of relief. He had enjoyed his time with Vivienne, but his being fought to be beside Muriel. He shouldn’t give in to his need to be near her. Heaven help him, the urge was impossible. The groomsman awaiting them secured the horses as Erik dismounted the curricle and reached up for Vivienne.
“Thank you, my lord.” She smiled up at him as her feet touched the grass. “Now that I understand your intentions toward my friend, let’s see what we can do to keep Muriel from falling under the baron’s spell once more.”
He jerked his head back. “I beg your pardon?”
“You spent the entirety of the journey here asking leading questions that referred to her, and, from what I have gathered from your character, I’d much prefer her to accept your hand than that man’s.” She shook her head. “There has always been something lurking behind his expressions that I could never quite put my finger on. Despite his winning nature, I do not trust him.”
Erik gritted his teeth. Neither do I. But dare he trust this young lady with his secret, growing admiration for Muriel? If Vivienne was anything like Muriel, he had little choice in the matter if her mind was made up.
Baron Deverell grinned as he hopped down from the curricle and lifted his hand to Muriel. She accepted his help. Unlike the old days, when she couldn’t get enough time with him and every inadvertent brush of her hand against his sent her to perspiring profusely, she found her heartbeat accelerated at the approach of Erik. He looked impossibly dashing in his striking cutaway coat of burgundy, matching neckcloth, and ivory pantaloons. The curricle ride had set his bonny curls to even greater heights, while her hair was no doubt as wild as Grandfather’s sheep.
“Miss Beau!” Erik showed no signs of his trot over in his breathing, his eyes bright as they met hers. “How was the drive? I trust you enjoyed the countryside?”
She glanced sideways to Deverell. “The conversation was interesting, and the country I found enthralling—such splendid meadows and graceful trees. With such views as these, it may hold some temptation over the sea for you?”
“I receive only the compliment of ‘interesting’ while the country is ‘enthralling’?” Deverell thumped his fist over his heart. “My lady, you wound me most egregiously.”
Muriel released a strained laugh, glancing over to Erik at the man’s obvious flirtation.
Erik’s smile did not falter in the slightest as he bowed to her. “Miss Beau, will you assist me as you promised?”
Her heart stumbled. Ah, yes, the promise. Of course that was all. He needed her assistance and nothing more. He certainly did not view Deverell as a rival. Well, if she had no other bachelors in the running to save her reputation, she needed to flirt in return and secure her family’s standing in society. Swallowing her disappointment, she looked to Deverell. She had believed that she loved him once. She might again. “Shall we? I need to oversee the finishing touches, and then perhaps we can begin the festivities with one of the entertainments we have arranged for today.”
Deverell’s shoulders rolled back, and she spied the confidence of old returning to his features at being invited to stay by her side. “I would be delighted. Lead the way, Lord Draycott.”
On the baron’s arm, she followed the earl toward the sprinkling of tents beside the ambling river, where servants circulated on the bank, tempting guests with silver trays of punch and small iced sponges. Ordinarily, she would be tasting them straightaway, but her heavy heart did not even race at the sight.
Erik paused to speak with a footman, gesturing for Muriel to join him as Sir Alexander called to the baron.
Erik touched her elbow. “Miss Beau, the servants are having complications with the finish line of the boat race. Something about the flags I had draped overhead falling into the water. Will you join me in rowing down to the end to help secure them?”
“I thought the point of drawing names was to have a partner of the day?” the baron interjected with a grin that did not quite reach his eyes.
Erik scowled. “And as you were never supposed to be in the drawing in the first place, I do not think you will mind sparing her, as she has already promised to aid me in today’s festivities.”
Deverell’s neck reddened along with his ears. “Of course. As you have been such a gracious host, I shall release Miss Beau to your care.”
Muriel rested her hand in Erik’s, allowing him to guide her to the short dock that appeared to be a few decades old, and sent Deverell an apologetic smile over her shoulder. No matter how she felt about Deverell now, Erik shouldn’t have embarrassed him. “That was unkind, Erik.”
“The man was overstepping. I won’t have him stealing you away for the entirety of the day simply because he feels he has a prior claim to you.” Erik hopped into the rowboat, his stance confident and true. He lifted his hands to her, and she attempted to hop in as he did, sending the boat to listing dangerously to the left. He laughed as she fumbled, his hands steadying her waist, his feet stabilizing the vessel. “We meet like this once more.”
She laughed and lowered herself to the rear bench seat and reached for the oar to steady herself, for, unlike their entrance to Vauxhall, all knew them here. To be caught in such an intimate fashion would not do.
“Do you wish to help me row, or do you prefer to sit?”
She rolled back her shoulders. “I’ll row.”
His brows rose at this, and he took the seat opposite her. “Have you done it before?”
“Your wrist is only just out of its wrappings. I’d hate for you to reinjure it.” Even though it would mean you must stay in England near me. “Besides, how hard could it be?” She grinned.
He settled in his seat across from her, his eyes bright. “Not too difficult.”
She pressed her feet against the hull and, dropping the blades into the river, she pushed the oars away from her, sending the boat into the dock instead of forward.
“Almost,” Erik gently corrected, wrapping his strong hands atop hers, guiding her hands to the end of the oars, and turning the vessel so that the stern pointed away from the riverbank. “Your blades should be moving toward the stern, which will pull us in the direction we need to go.”
She nodded, too breathless from his touch to say much of anything. He didn’t remove his hold and, instead, rowed with her, his calloused hands caressing hers with each pull, gently correcting her movements until they reached the row of colorful flags drifting in the gentle current.
Erik fetched them up, draping the dripping flags over the side of the boat. “Do you think you can direct us to the edge of the bank?”
Muriel laughed. “My arms are quite strong, but rowing has used muscles I did not know I possessed. Please, take charge.”
Erik’s deep laughter filled the air as he expertly maneuvered the rowboat to the bank and lifted the string of flags, pulling it taut so that it hung over the river, and fastened it to an overhead branch. The wind sent the little triangles to fluttering and sprinkling droplets on them both, when she spied something on the flags that had not draped into the water.
“Erik?”
His mirth fell away at her tone. “What is it?”
“Row us to the opposite end. There is something painted on the flags.”
Frowning, he guided the boat to the other side. On each flag there was scrawled a letter.
“C-E-D-E.” Muriel read. “What on earth does this mean? ‘Cede’ what? The game?”
Erik paled and murmured, “My ship.” He turned to her. “Muriel, you are not safe away from the castle.”
“What do you mean? What do I have to do with you giving up your ship?” She shook her head. “This is most likely a lark one of the guests is having, regarding the boat race.” She rested her hand on his arm. “Surely, there is nowhere safer in all of England than Draycott Castle by your side.”
Erik stared at her. “You truly believe that?”
“I have felt it since the moment you rescued me from an inebriated Lord Traneford on the dance floor.”
He dropped his gaze to the oars, adjusting his hold on them as he cleared his throat.
“I’ve done it again, haven’t I?” She laughed, her cheeks warming. “I’ve grown too comfortable in your presence, my lord. Please, do not worry on my behalf. Inquire of the guests which pulled such a jest.”
“I shall,” he fairly growled as he turned the boat, cutting through the water faster than she had known was possible for one man.