Love Affairs. Louise AllenЧитать онлайн книгу.
However, will you ask her to arrange the same thing at the Berkeley Square house immediately?’
Miss Blackstock stared at him. ‘You are taking Miss Alice to London, my lord?’
‘I am. I intend staying there for the remainder of the Season.’ There was no reason why he should explain himself, even to an old retainer, but it would help if she understood. ‘I plan to marry.’
‘But, my lord...’ Miss Blackstock hesitated, then opted for frankness. ‘Might Miss Alice perhaps...discourage some of the ladies?’
‘Her existence, you mean?’ Avery shrugged. ‘I would not wish to marry a woman who thought less of me because of one, much-loved, child. Anyone who will not accept Alice is simply unacceptable themselves.’
‘It will certainly winnow the wheat from the chaff,’ the nurse murmured. ‘When will you go up to town, my lord?’
‘In two weeks. Late April.’ Wheat from the chaff, indeed. Avery’s lips twitched as the nurse shut the door behind her. It was a long time since he had been in London for the Season, it would be interesting to see what the quality of this year’s crop of young ladies was like.
‘April in England. Can’t be bettered.’ The spaniel stopped and looked enquiringly at Avery. ‘You agree, Bet, I can tell. Go and flush a rabbit or two.’
The shotgun, broken open for safety, was snug in the crook of his arm, just in case he did spot one of the furry menaces heading for the kitchen garden, but it was really only an excuse for a walk while the sun was shining and the breeze was soft.
I’m getting middle-aged, he thought with a self-mocking grin. Thirty this year and enjoying the peace and quiet of the country. If I’m not careful I’ll turn into a country squire with a placid wife, a quiverful of children and the prospect of the annual sheep shearing for excitement.
After an adulthood spent in the capitals of Europe, in the midst of the cut and thrust of international diplomacy, he had thought he would be bored here, or that country life would bring back unpleasant memories of his childhood, but so far all he felt was relaxed. The parkland was in good order, the Home Farm and the tenant farms thrived, as his regular rides around the surrounding acres showed him. Piers would have been pleased, not that he had been much interested in farming. Army-mad, he had been since boyhood.
Relaxed but randy, he amended. It was easy to maintain a mistress in the city and keep his home life separate, but a remote country manor and a small child were a combination guaranteed to impose chastity. And decency told him that setting up a London mistress at the same time as hunting for a wife was cynical.
Still thinking vaguely about sex, Avery rounded a group of four beeches and stopped dead. A dry branch cracked under his booted foot.
‘Oh!’ The woman in black sitting on the fallen trunk of the fifth tree jumped to her feet, turned and recoiled at the sight of him, her eyes wide in her pale face. He had an impression of fragility, as much of spirit as of form, although she was slender, perhaps too slender. Her eyes flickered down to the gun and then back to his face and her hands, ungloved and white against the dull sheen of her walking dress, clenched together at her waist.
‘I beg your pardon, madam. I had no intention of frightening you.’
‘I suspect I am trespassing.’ Her voice was attractive, despite her alarm, but there was a huskiness in it that made him think of tears. She was in mourning, he realised, not simply soberly clad, and there was a wedding ring on her finger. A widow. ‘I was told in the village that there was a public path across the estate, but I saw a deer and went closer and then I lost sight of the path... If you will direct me, I will take myself back and cease my illegality, my lord.’ Now she had recovered from the shock her tone was cool and steady.
‘You know who I am?’
The spaniel ran up, ears flapping, and sat at her feet. She bent to run her hand over its head with the confidence of a woman used to dogs, but her dark eyes were still on Avery. ‘They described you in the village, Lord Wykeham.’ There was nothing bold or flirtatious in her study of him, she might as well have been assessing the tree behind him, but heat jolted though him like a sudden lightning flash and was gone, leaving him oddly wary. His thoughts had been sensual, but this was as if a fellow duellist had lifted a sword in warning.
‘You have the advantage of me, madam,’ he said, and knew his diplomatic mask was firmly in place.
‘Caroline Jordan. Mrs Jordan. I have taken Croft Cottage for a few months.’ She seemed quite composed, but then she was not a young girl to be flustered by a chance meeting with a stranger. She was a young matron, twenty-four perhaps, he hazarded. And a lady of breeding, to judge by her accent, her poise and the expensive sheen and cut of the black cloth. Standing there under the trees in her elegant blacks, she looked as much out of place as a polished jet necklace on a coal heap.
‘Then welcome to Westerwood, Mrs Jordan. You are indeed off the path, but I believe I can trust you not to kill my game or break down my fences. You are welcome to roam.’ Now what had possessed him to offer that?
‘Thank you, Lord Wykeham. Perhaps you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of the path back towards my cottage.’ She moved and again he was conscious of a stab of awareness, and this time it was most certainly sensual, even though she had done nothing flirtatious. A disturbing woman, one who was aware of her feminine allure and confident in it to the point where she felt no need to exert it, he surmised. Yet her eyes held a chill that was more than aloofness. Perhaps she was completely unaware of the impact that she made.
‘It falls along my own route, if you care to walk with me.’ He kept his voice as polite and reserved as her own as he skirted the fallen trunk, whistled to the dog and walked towards the path, trodden down by his own horse. He did not offer his arm.
‘Is it you who jumps this?’ she asked, with a gesture to the hoofprints dug deep in the turf in front of the trunk she had been sitting on. ‘Not an easy obstacle, I would judge.’
‘I have a hunter that takes it easily. You ride, ma’am?’ She kept pace with him, her stride long and free with something about it that suggested she would be athletic on horseback. And in other places, his inconvenient imagination whispered.
‘Before I was in mourning, yes.’ She did not glance at him as she spoke and Avery found himself wishing he could see the expression in her eyes, the movement of her mouth as she spoke, and not merely the profile presented to him, framed by the edge of her bonnet. Her nose, he decided, was slightly over-long, but her chin and cheekbones were delicately sculpted. Her cheek, pink with exercise, showed the only colour in her face beside the dark arch of her brow and the fringe of her lashes.
‘Was it long ago, your bereavement?’ he ventured.
‘Some time, yes,’ she said in a tone of finality that defied him to question further.
Well, madam, if that is how you wish to play it, I will not trouble you further! He was not used to being snubbed by ladies, but perhaps it was shyness or grief. He was more used to diplomatic circles than London society and the ladies who inhabited those foreign outposts were no shrinking violets.
‘This is where our ways part.’ The path had converged with the ha-ha where the stone slabs set into its side provided a crude set of steps up to the lawn. Bet, the spaniel, was already scrambling up them. ‘If you take that path there...’ he pointed away towards the edge of the woods ‘...it will take you back to the lane that leads to the church.’
‘Thank you, my lord. Good day to you.’ She turned away as Bet gave a sharp yap of welcome. It made her start and stumble and Avery put out a hand to steady her.
‘Papa! There you are! You will be late for tea and we are having it on the lawn.’
Mrs Jordan turned to look at Alice as she stood on the brink of the drop