Again, My Lord: A Twist Series Novel (17 page)

Shoulders squared and back straight,
she stood before the ford and the rain beat upon her umbrella. But her gown was sodden from the knee down. She did not wear a cloak or coat. From his table in the taproom as he watched her progress up the high street, Tacitus had wondered why. So he took an umbrella and followed her to discover her now, motionless, studying the water that passed along the creek-bed like a river.

He had no business following her or speaking with her like this. But today—this—her, here at this place, in the rain—he could not resist.

“Have you come here with the hope that the rain has made the river disappear rather than the opposite?” he said across the rushing sounds of the rain and creek as he joined her at the edge of the ford. “Or are you considering building a boat to sail to the other side?”

“I came here to remember an experience I enjoyed.” She turned her face to him. “My husband died three weeks ago. I married him three weeks after you left Dashbourne. Isn’t it a peculiar coincidence that I should meet you again now for the first time since then, just on the other side of my marriage?”

Oh. God.

“I am terribly sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. I am sorry that I spoke of you to my son last night in the manner that I did. It was unpardonably rude.”

“And yet I must pardon you for it, nevertheless.” His cravat was three knots too tight. “I almost ran him over.”

Astonishingly, she laughed. “So you did. But, as Lord Mallory said, he was well. He is a very sweet boy.” She returned her attention to the river.

“Lady Holland.” He did not know how to say this, or whether he should say it at all. It was foolishness. But the water gurgled and the rain droned and it felt so real. “I wonder if you would care to take a stroll with me.”

“Now?” Her gaze jumped to his. “In the rain?”

“If you prefer to wait until—”

“No, thank you. I don’t mind the rain. But I don’t think I will stroll with you, my lord. It seems that reliving enjoyable memories is not as satisfying as I had hoped. But thank you for the invitation.” She offered him a smile that had something more than gratitude in it. Something warmer.

“I should return to the inn now,” she said. “I must have a word with my coachman, and I would like to finish a book before the end of the day. Good day.”

He watched her go, her stride swift and even along the edge of the muddy street.

A
widow
. And so recently. He was the worst sort of scoundrel to feel positively buoyed by the news. It mattered nothing anyway. She was in mourning. And, apologies notwithstanding, she had attached the word “peculiar” to him too often in the past twenty-four hours. She thought him a bookend on either side of her marriage. A curiosity.

After a lone walk through the rain in an attempt to clear his head, he returned to the inn as well. In the foyer he met Mr. George Smythe, who invited him to dine with his family that evening. When Smythe added that Lady Holland was to join their party as well, the surge of anticipation he felt was so acute that he could not ignore it. The bookend coincidence was too much. And the other … the thing he felt compelled to tell her, despite how inappropriate it would be … At the very least he could not let this opportunity to know her again pass.

“Did you finish your book?” he asked later, after she entered the private parlor and their host offered her a glass of wine.

“I did not. It’s a very exciting story. But I am not a particularly quick reader. Perhaps I will finish it tomorrow.”

“I don’t care much for reading myself, my lady,” Smythe’s card-sharper brother said with a toothy grin. “Too taxing on the brain, I say.”

She chuckled. “I know you must prefer fashion, sir. The arrangement of your neckcloth is superb.”

“I arranged it in your honor, madam.” He made a flourishing bow.

Flirtatious coxcomb.

Tacitus suppressed a scowl. But her eyes sparkled and he could not blame the coxcomb for making that happen. He wanted to do that to her. He wanted to make her sparkle.

“That is a fine muslin, Lady Holland,” Mr. George Smythe said with an eye on her skirts. “Where did you come by it?”

“Mr. Smythe,” his wife said in a dampening tone. “I’m sure she doesn’t have any idea. Do forgive my husband, Lady Holland. His mind is unfortunately always in the shop.”

“That shop is the reason you’ve got those baubles hanging off your ears, m’dear!” Smythe chortled.

“This gown came from a clever dressmaker here in Swinly,” Lady Holland said. “Her name is Mrs. Cooke.” She turned to his brother again. “I daresay even you would find her fashions au courant, sir.”

“With such a recommendation, I shall have to pay a call on clever Mrs. Cooke before we depart tomorrow. But I’ve no doubt the lady wearing the gown is the principal reason it is so taking. Don’t you agree, my lord?”

He wanted to say something charming, something mildly flirtatious that would make her smile and show her pretty white teeth. He said, “Of course.”

She turned to the Smythes’ daughter. “I saw you with a sketchbook earlier today. Would you show me your drawings?”

“Penny is a splendid artist,” Mr. Smythe said as his daughter reluctantly passed the book to Lady Holland. “Just like all the grand ladies. Do you have sisters, Lord Dare?”

“I’m afraid not, or I am certain I would be a better man.”

With her head bent to the sketchbook, Lady Holland said, “I don’t know how anyone could make you a better man than you already are, my lord.” And then, without pause, “Oh, Miss Smythe, this is breathtaking. It is the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, is it not? How talented you are.”

“Do you draw too, my lady?” Miss Smythe said.

“Only portraits. Why, look at this. St. George’s, I think? What a fine eye you have for detail. And a fondness for church architecture, it seems?”

Tacitus gave half an ear to Mrs. Smythe extolling the virtues of the elite finishing school to which they had sent their daughter to achieve the airs and skills of a lady. He had long since become accustomed to hopeful parents cataloguing the assets of their marriageable daughters. He knew when to nod and smile and insert an appreciative “How impressive” when appropriate. But the only woman he had ever actually cared anything about now sat across the parlor, eyes lit with pleasure as she paged through the sketchbook.

People did not change dramatically. Perhaps over a lifetime, yes. But not in six years. He had no reason to believe she was anything other than what she had been then. He only knew that her beauty still captivated him, that her smile now mingled sweetness and contemplation, and that once again he was in danger of losing his head in a single day.

~o0o~

Penelope’s book was filled with landscapes and architectural structures: the high street from the viewpoint of the inn, a posting house on the road, and many images of London—the park, several prominent greens, grand buildings, and thoroughfares.

“You are very good.”

“Thank you,” Penelope said, but her face remained bland.

Calista paused on a drawing of a doorway sketched with such great care that it seemed real wood and stone.

“What is this?”

“Oh.” Penelope reached out to cover her sketchbook. “That is nothing.”

Calista drew it from the girl’s grasp. “You have captured the destitution of this alleyway perfectly, even in so few strokes.” She turned the page and discovered another drawing of the doorway, from a different angle. The next image was of the entire building: a church rendered so clearly in simple pencil that Calista could nearly hear its bell ringing. There were at least a dozen drawings of the church, each done with care, and a number of interiors as well. “What a remarkable talent you have, Miss Smythe. You must be so proud.”

“I suppose I am,” she said dully.

“Don’t you like drawing?”

Penelope shook her head, her eyes darting to Mrs. Smythe. “Don’t tell Mother, please. She says that every lady must draw, and also paint watercolors. She says that men of worth expect it of a wife.”

“Hm. My experience is that men care about two things: beauty and money. The rest is window dressing. But I suppose your parents intend a grand match for you.”

“At least I have one of the two,” Penelope said glumly.

Calista laid her hand on the girl’s and squeezed it. “A good man cares about a woman’s character more than her face or her purse.”

“Does he really?”

“Yes.” The man sitting across the room was proof of it. She paged through the images of the church. “What is this place? You seem to know it well.”

“It is in Leeds, where we live. Mother and Father send me to church each week to learn French from the rector. During the war he was a chaplain with the army for several years. But …”

“You don’t like French either?”

“I don’t mind it, especially because after my lessons Reverend Greer allows me to assist him at the orphanage. Sometimes I serve lunch, and I read to the children. He has allowed me to take them to the park, too.” She was actually smiling. “It is the most fun I have ever had, Lady Holland.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, yes. Reverend Greer knows how happy I am with the children, and he says I am very gifted with them. But he insists that I must be a dutiful daughter and do as my parents wish and marry, and then I can have children of my own. But how I wish I could spend every hour of every day of the week exactly as I do at the orphanage.”

Calista closed the sketchbook. “I know something of entering into a marriage against one’s will. I don’t wish that on any woman. You should tell your parents.”

The light faded from the girl’s eyes. “I cannot.”

“You must do as you will, of course.” She glanced over at the marquess in conversation with the others. His gaze came immediately to hers.

“Do you admire Lord Dare?” Penelope whispered.

Calista snatched her attention away from him.

“What lady wouldn’t?” she said.

“Mother told me that I must capture his interest. But I believe he admires you.”

“I don’t know why you would think so.”

“The entire time you have been looking at my pictures he has been looking at you.”

A tiny thread of pleasure wound through her. It didn’t make any difference, of course. She already knew he desired her. His interest now changed nothing.

“You mustn’t make anything of it. He and I have been acquainted for some time, Miss Smythe.”

“Do call me Penny. But don’t tell Mother. She would scold if she knew I asked. But you don’t seem at all like the grand ladies I met in London.”

“Don’t I?”

“You haven’t snubbed me. You are very kind to speak to me and to admire my drawings.”

Kind
. She had not always been kind to Penelope. She had ruined her cloak several times, and in three weeks had not bothered learning anything about her.

“Did I hear that you draw portraits, my lady?” Mr. George Smythe said from across the room.

“Years ago,” she said.

“Years? Why, you’re no more than a girl now! It couldn’t have been long ago. You must do a portrait of my Penelope.”

“Father.”
Penny’s face flamed.

“Why did the Almighty give us talents if not to share them with the world?” he said with a broad smile. “Lady Holland, I insist.”

She chanced a glance at Lord Dare. He was quite obviously biting back a smile. The silk merchant was presumptuous, but he was sincere and honest.

“I will be glad to draw your daughter, Mr. Smythe. May I borrow your sketchbook?” she asked Penny.

“I would be honored, my lady.”

“If I am to call you Penny,” she said quietly as she took up the pencil and turned to a blank page, “Then you must call me Calista.”

“I couldn’t!”

“Then ‘Miss Smythe’ it will have to be.” She set the pencil to the page.

“Yes … Calista.”

Penny’s face was simple in its lines, with a small nose and slightly protruding eyes. Calista had not drawn anything since before her wedding, and now she found the pencil fresh and pleasing between her fingers.

When she finished Penelope’s portrait, Mr. Smythe insisted on showing it to everyone.

“A remarkable likeness! Extraordinary!”

“I beg of you, Lady Holland, allow me to be your next subject,” Alan Smythe said.

“Whyever do you want a portrait of yourself, Uncle Alan?”

“I don’t. While I appreciate the lady’s skill, Penny, I admit that the request is entirely to ensure her attention for the minutes she draws me.”

“You are making her blush, Uncle. You mustn’t.”

“Attractive women are accustomed to flattery,” he said with a grin. “Aren’t they, my lady?”

“I cannot say, Mr. Smythe.” Calista sketched the curve of his brow on a fresh page. “I was married for six years to a man who, I suspect, never flattered anyone in his life. You must find an answer to your question elsewhere.”

“But he could not have kept you locked in a closet.” He laughed. “You must have had ample opportunity to be flattered by other men.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Her pencil moved swiftly. His neckcloth was a delight to fashion, as well as the curling lock over his brow and the crease in his cheek. “You mustn’t turn your head like that, sir, or I will accidentally give you jowls.”

He chuckled.

After she finished the picture, Mr. George Smythe demanded a portrait of his wife, and then of himself, and then of Lord Dare as well.

“Of all the subjects in this room, I suspect his lordship is the most accustomed to having his likeness made,” Mr. Smythe said.

“Only once, when I was at university,” he said, his eyes on her as she drew the angle of his jaw and her stomach tingled with foolishly girlish nerves. It felt intimate drawing him now when he did not know that she had spent weeks admiring his features. As her pencil shaped the curve of his lips and his eyes—eyes that masked passion she knew was there—she drew slowly. She did not want to finish this portrait. Ever. But their host stood behind her shoulder, making appreciative, impatient noises. When she could delay no longer, she carefully tore the picture from the book and gave it to Mr. Smythe.