11 #2
“My mother was quite passionate about her work, even when I was in the womb. But shall we meet tomorrow?” The other Widows had been resting and pursuing their separate skills and interests during the day, and Heloise had even returned to London until it was time to prepare for the exhibition, and so she knew they would not miss her.
“Oh yes, please let’s. Perhaps near the stream that runs along Durand Manor’s western border?” She laughed lightly. “And don’t think I have forgotten my promise. I shall be certain to keep our acquaintance a secret from my brother.”
Whatever Iris had been about to say, however, was lost as a very male, very deep, very angry voice interrupted, “It’s too late for that, I’m afraid.”
Oliver had been strangely anxious since yesterday. He, perhaps, should have felt some relief. There had been no sightings of Mrs. Rumford or her widow friends about Durand Manor, no unannounced visits. All had been uneventful, quiet, calm.
He had never been more uneasy in his life.
So that morning, when he couldn’t stand the tension a moment longer, he had gone up to the manor house and questioned several of Durand’s servants, learning just where the widows were staying: Rose House, a small but elegant minor property of some society matron or other.
A bit too convenient, really, that it shared a border with Lord Durand’s land.
He had decided to scout out Rose House and make certain the women were not up to any mischief.
He could let his suspicions of them go, of course.
As it was, he had enough to worry about around Durand Manor and with his own family.
But the person or persons trespassing on Durand Manor’s grounds the other night had shaken him more than he had anticipated.
They had gotten past his guard; if it had occurred while Durand was in residence, he could very well have lost his livelihood.
He could not afford to let it happen again.
And so, asking Mr. Dawson and Mr. Wren, Durand’s resident botanists, to keep an eye on the glasshouses, he had set out for Rose House.
He would scout it out, he had decided, to make certain the women were not causing mischief.
And had immediately felt a spark of something in his gut that he hadn’t felt in over a year.
He had forgotten what this was like, he thought as he crouched in the shadows at the edge of the neat garden, the thrill of investigating, the excitement of searching for answers.
He had declared all this time that he had not cared he’d been ousted from the Runners.
It had just been a job, he had told his mother, to ease her worry for him.
And after saying it enough times, he had begun to believe it himself.
But camouflaging his presence outside Rose House, watching for any suspicious movements from its inhabitants, made him remember, with a sharp ache of regret, that it had not been just a job to him. He had loved the work, had been good at what he’d done. And he would never experience that again.
He could not afford to allow those regrets to take over, however.
So for an hour he watched and waited. And all the while he was disturbingly aware that, as the house woke and the myriad collection of people began to move about the place, doing the most ordinary things, there was one person he had not seen.
Where, he wondered as he made his way back to his post, had Mrs. Rumford been?
The uneasiness that had sat like a vulture on his shoulders all day dug its claws in deeper, propelling his steps faster.
Could she have been still abed, or perhaps somewhere else in the house, out of sight?
Certainly. But something deep inside him, a strange emptiness he could not begin to understand, told him she had not been.
As he hurried back to Durand Manor his mind was filled with her, where she could have been, what she could have been doing.
He half expected the property to be in utter chaos when he arrived, someone having taken advantage of his absence to break into the glasshouses.
But no, everything was as he’d left it. He headed home for the few hours of rest he could claim. Mayhap the woman had gone back to London. Truly, it would be a relief if she had, returning his days to the unending boredom they had been before her arrival.
Even so, the regret that she might have left was unbelievably strong. Why? he silently demanded of himself as he drifted into a fitful sleep. He would not miss her a bit. In fact, if she never showed up in front of him again, he would be only too happy.
Something his subconscious would not acknowledge, his dreams revolving around his running after Mrs. Rumford in a thick, cloying mist, never able to catch up to her.
It fed his frustration, turning his mood sour as he rose just before dusk and set out to start his work.
The moment he opened the front door, however, there she was in the lane, the source of his troubled thoughts, looking much too beautiful in the waning light of the setting sun, as if some fae being had dusted her with lustrous gold.
His heart lurched in his chest with?.? .
.? what, relief? Before he could hope to understand what the hell that traitorous organ was doing, his mind finally caught up and grasped where Mrs. Rumford was—in front of his house—and who she was with—his sister.
He stormed down the path, through the garden gate, anger sizzling along his skin. Which transformed into a conflagration as he heard his sister say, “I shall be certain to keep our acquaintance a secret from my brother.”
“It’s too late for that, I’m afraid,” he growled as he stormed up to them.
Both Verity and Mrs. Rumford gasped, spinning to face him. He might have found some measure of pleasure in the twin expressions of shock that overtook their faces. There was nothing like catching someone in the act, after all.
Only his fury and sense of betrayal overrode everything else.
“Oliver,” Verity stammered, eyes wide in her pale face. She tried for a smile, but it was more grimace than anything—a reaction that was painful proof she knew she was doing something she should not have been. “You haven’t left yet?”
“Clearly.” He narrowed his eyes on Mrs. Rumford. “I certainly never expected to see you here, madam, at my home. With my sister.”
The woman visibly swallowed. “Yes, well, I did not expect either of those things, either.”
“Didn’t you?” he growled.
“No, I didn’t. I had every intention of staying away.”
Which was not an answer he had expected. Nor did he expect the sincerity in her voice. Which, for some reason, only angered him more.
But Verity was watching them with wide eyes, and he had no desire to get into a proper fight with the widow in front of his sister.
“Verity,” he gritted, “go inside.”
Which, with as stubborn as she could be, was a misstep of the first order. Her expression went from shocked to mulish in a moment.
“I won’t,” she declared, jaw jutting. “I’m staying right here, with Iris.”
“Iris?” He gaped at her. “You’re on a first-name basis with her?”
That damned jaw jutted out even farther. “I am, because we are friends.”
“Friends!” But he was growing more incensed by the moment.
He glared at Mrs. Rumford, who was watching the back-and-forth with wide eyes.
“Madam, as my sister will not provide us with the privacy needed to have a proper conversation, would you be so kind”—he nearly choked on the word—“to step aside with me?”
When Verity looked about to protest, Mrs. Rumford laid a hand on her arm.
“It’s all right,” she said. “We’ll just be a moment.”
The effect on Verity was immediate, her jaw relaxing and her shoulders dropping from where they had inched up near her ears. “If you’re certain,” she replied, all sweetness. Which only served to infuriate Oliver more.
At Mrs. Rumford’s soft assurance she shot Oliver one more fiery glare before she nodded regally.
Rolling his eyes, Oliver took hold of Mrs. Rumford’s arm and propelled her a short distance down the lane, beneath an apple tree that was at the tail end of its bloom.
The sweet, clean scent of the flowers pervaded his senses, making him think how Mrs. Rumford would no doubt know exactly what type of apple they would produce, when the best time to harvest would be, and how to prune the branches.
“Mrs. Rumford,” he said low, lest Verity attempt to eavesdrop, “explain your presence here.”
Mrs. Rumford blinked up at him, wide, green eyes as guileless as they came. “Oh. Well, I happened to run into your sister yesterday, and she is so passionate about botany, and we became fast friends.”
There was that damn word again. He glowered at her. “You cannot be friends with my sister.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Don’t you?” he demanded.
She had the decency to blush. “Well, I suppose it does make it a bit difficult, seeing as how you dislike me so much.”
“Dislike?”
“Certainly.” She laughed lightly. “I may be slow when it comes to social interactions, but you’ve been obvious enough that you don’t care for me that I’ve caught on fairly quickly.”
He stared down at her in disbelief, feeling as if he was losing his mind. “I think I’ve a good and proper reason to dislike you.”
“Because you suspect me of nefarious purposes,” she replied. “And really, I don’t blame you. If I had caught someone sneaking about in the early-morning hours, I would have as well.”
How did she do it? How did she completely steal from him any ability to form coherent words? Which was why he said, in a manner that would embarrass him when he thought on it later, “Oh, er, yes.”
She nodded, as if he had confirmed something monumental. Her eyes were grave as she considered him. “I can assure you, however, that my friendship with your sister has no nefarious purpose. We have simply found a common subject of interest.” She smiled. “And I like her, immensely.”
He would also recall later that she had not denied any nefarious purpose in regard to Lord Durand’s property.
But in the moment, with her smiling up at him in that manner, all he could think was how utterly lovely she was.
With her typically pale cheeks flushed in pleasure, her eyes sparkling, her lips curved in a gentle bow, she had the appearance of a woodland fairy come to life.
And then some animal or bird jarred a branch above, dislodging a small cloud of flower petals, which drifted down over them, landing in her hair, completing the transformation.
“So you see,” she said, “with your permission I would very much like to continue to meet with your sister.”
“Meet with her?” he asked faintly, transfixed by one errant blond curl that lay against the long line of her neck.
“Yes, meet with her,” she said, with an encouraging nod of her head.
Which sent that curl dancing against her skin.
His mouth went dry, watching it caress her throat, feeling ridiculously jealous of it.
Quite without meaning to, he reached out and hooked his fingers around that curl, letting them brush, as light as a butterfly’s wing, against her skin.
She stilled, eyes widening, her beautiful, soft pink lips opening in a small oval. His gaze zeroed in on those lips, and his formerly dry mouth watered. What, he thought blearily, would it be like to move closer, to bend his head, to take her lips with his?.? .? .? ?
As if in a trance he took a step, his entire being reveling in the fact that she did not retreat but instead swayed toward him.
Just as he was about to bend low and claim her mouth, however, a voice spoke, crashing through his brain, yanking him back to the present—and reminding him that Mrs. Rumford should not be anywhere near his family.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Rumford,” his mother said from the door, betraying the fact that the woman before him had befriended not only his sister, but his mother, too. “How lovely to see you today. Won’t you come in?”