Текст книги "Once Upon a Tartan"

Автор книги: Grace Burrowes

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Eight

“Neville said you were in a taking about something.” Earnest Abingdon, Lord Rutherford, let his observation hang in the air while Deirdre considered bashing him over the head with her teapot.

The Spode was so pretty, though.

“You’re fishing, Earnest. Neville probably passed my every confidence to you under circumstances I do not want to contemplate.”

“You are missing your children and in want of grandchildren, my dear.”

She set the teapot down with an unceremonious thunk. “That is unkind, Rutherford. Has Neville said something to make you jealous?”

“We regularly do things to make each other jealous.” He shot his cuffs, looking like a perfectly unruffled, lanky specimen of blond, blue-eyed English aristocracy. “It is part of the dubious charm of our circumstances. When was the last time you saw your daughters?”

“None of your business. Have a tea cake, and I hope you strangle on it. I am not old enough to have grandchildren.”

She was more than old enough, which was why they took tea, not by the windows where the fresh morning light would reveal her age written plain on her face, but to the side of the room. By rights she should have a half dozen of the little dears, and be spending all her days flitting from one child’s happy household to another.

“Deirdre, I like women. I like them rather a lot, and happen to be married to one I can love, after my fashion. You are nursing a broken heart, my dear. I suggest you mend it before you do something rash.”

“I am doing no such thing, Rutherford, though more of this talk, and you will be nursing broken parts of your own.”

“Violent passions in a woman can be so arousing.” He let his lids droop, the scoundrel, as if he meant what he said. He was trying to cheer her up though, trying very hard in fact.

“What on earth makes you think I’m missing grown children who haven’t needed their mama for years?”

He eyed the teacup she held a few inches above the saucer—the teacup that trembled slightly in her grasp. “When you hold your salons, my lady, you are the soul of graciousness, turning your signature smile on each guest who walks through your door. I watch while that smile fades into something very pretty but a shade less warm. You are waiting for your family to come ransom you from your pride, and you are disappointed that they do not. I’ll have a word with Spathfoy, if you like.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” She set the tea down untasted and dropped the pretense that Rutherford was wrong. “Tye is all Hale has left. I try to leave the boy in peace. The girls ride roughshod over their father, and I’m very much concerned Hale is the one plotting something rash.”

“Such as?”

“Among our set, marriages are still primarily a matter of business. His lordship has the authority and the”—she searched for a word that wasn’t unduly disrespectful—“the consequence to contract marriages for his daughters.”

“The ballocks, you mean. He’d risk the scandal of his daughters crying off though—which might send them running to their mama.”

Intriguing notion—but what of her poor daughters? The Daniels girl had cried off for reasons Deirdre suspected were all too understandable. The last Deirdre had heard, the young lady had been packed off to distant relations on some Scottish grouse moor, probably never to be seen again.

But Rutherford raised an interesting scenario. “If the girls came running to Mama, then Hale would be sending Tye around to retrieve them, and I cannot place my son in such a position.”

Her only surviving son.

A silence began to spread, sad on her part. From the look in Rutherford’s eyes, impatient on his. “Deirdre, I’d take you to bed if I thought it would help.”

“Your idea of flattery can leave a woman feeling less than intrigued. Wouldn’t Neville take exception?”

“Neville is the one who suggested we make the offer—you will note the plural. He doesn’t share his toys often, and neither do I.” He sipped his tea, as if they were discussing whose coach to take on an outing. But God in heaven, what did it say about her that she was considering taking them up on their questionable generosity out of sheer boredom?

She picked up her teacup and wondered what bad behavior her husband was permitting himself because he was bored. He was, and always would be, a handsome man to whom many a buxom diversion would come easily to hand—or to bed.

“You see?” Rutherford set his cup down. “I lay all manner of scandalous offers at your slippered feet, and you merely stare at your tea. I would be insulted if I didn’t know this isn’t mere coyness.”

Coyness. How long had it been since Deirdre had felt coy—had felt anything but tired and lonely?

“I’m speechless at your generosity, Rutherford, though I fear I must decline. When did you say you had to meet Neville?”

“Apparently not soon enough for you.” He rose and drew her to her feet. “Do you know why I love my wife?”

“She’s the soul of tolerance, for one thing. She’s also very discreet, and she looks marvelous on your arm.”

He slipped Deirdre’s hand into the crook of his elbow and led her toward the front of the house.

“My wife is my friend. She is the mother of my children—and they aremy children, despite what you and all the other gossips might think—but first and foremost, she is my friend. I have her loyalty, her understanding, her moral support, and every other indicator of firm friendship, and she has mine. I think dear Hale would offer you friendship, Deirdre, if you’d give the man one more chance.”

Despite the footman hovering in the hall, Deirdre turned and leaned against her guest—let the help gawk and report what they would to titillate Hale’s ears. “I’m not like you, Rutherford. I can’t run my life like a traveling circus, with all manner of sophisticated relationships in unexpected locations. The problem is”—she looked around and lowered her voice to a near whisper—“I do love my husband, but I sincerely doubt he loves me. He won’t come ransom me from my pride, as you say, and this leaves me nothing but pride.”

Rutherford, for all his business acumen, was an essentially kind man. He wrapped Deirdre in his arms, holding her closer than a mere friend, not as close as a lover might.

Deirdre could take only limited comfort from the embrace. Rutherford was not quite tall enough. He was too angular. His scent was a proprietary blend ordered from Paris, not the solid aroma of bay rum Deirdre preferred. Worse than all this, of course, was the fact that he pitied the woman he held in his arms.

Deirdre closed her eyes, swallowed back tears, and tried not to pity her as well.

* * *

Fellatio.

Hester stared at the little scrap of paper that had been neatly folded under her hairbrush. The bold, back-slashing letters were in the same hand as the letters Spathfoy had addressed to his family.

She was fairly certain of the term’s meaning, but on her way to breakfast, she stopped off in the library to make sure. The enormous, musty English dictionary was of no assistance, but the French dictionary defined a close cognate with sufficient clarity to confirm Hester’s hunch.

Married life would be interesting, if she accepted the earl’s offer, though she was unnerved to think he’d ride off come Monday morning, regardless of her acceptance or rejection of his proposal. She wasn’t to be given time to consider her new boots; she was to try them on and skip away in them to married life.

Such calculation in a prospective husband gave her pause.

And yet, she was a trifle disappointed to find Spathfoy had ridden into Ballater at first light, most likely to make arrangements for his return journey to England.

Fiona looked up from a bowl of porridge liberally topped with raisins, and beamed a smile at Hester. “It isn’t raining anymore!”

“Good morning to you, too, Fee. Did you leave any raisins in all of Scotland?”

“I like them, and Uncle Ian says anything that comes from the grape is good for us. Can we take a picnic to the oak tree this morning? She’ll wonder where I’ve been.”

Hester exchanged a smile with Aunt Ariadne and brushed a hand over Fee’s crown. “The oak doesn’t expect you to visit when it’s pouring, Fiona, but yes, we can take a blanket and a snack and pay a call on your friend. Any excuse to enjoy the fine weather will suit.”

She served herself eggs and bacon and two slices of toast, while Fiona chattered on about a letter she’d gotten from her parents.

“Do you have the letter, Fee?”

“I have it in my pocket. I’m going to keep it until they come home.” She passed over a single piece of paper, her expression slightly anxious. “Mama says she misses me.”

“And we miss them, too.” Hester turned the missive over and passed it to Aunt Ariadne. “Your mother has a very pretty hand, Fiona. You must strive to emulate her.”

“To what?”

A masculine voice replied, “Copy.” Spathfoy stood in the doorway, looking windblown and handsome. Hester sipped her tea lest she gaze too long at his mouth. “To emulate is to copy or follow the style of. For example”—he ambled into the room—“if I wanted to emulate you and cover my porridge with raisins, I’d likely find the kitchen’s supply has been raided into next week. Lady Ariadne, Miss Daniels, good morning.”

He took the place to the right of Aunt Ariadne, the same place he’d taken every morning, which put him directly beside Hester and across from Fiona.

Fiona grinned at him over a spoonful of porridge. “Did Rowan jump everything between here and town?”

“He jumped every fence and ditch and even a few shadows, some sunbeams, and a brace of invisible rabbits. May I have the teapot, Miss Daniels?”

She slid it down to him, and their hands brushed as if by accident– as if.

Marriage to him wouldn’t be boring, not sexually, but then what? When she’d presented him with an heir and a spare, and a few daughters to fire off for politically expedient purposes, then what?

Then he’d still be handsome and wealthy, and he’d probably have his papa’s title as well. She’d be… consoling herself with her children’s company, only to watch each child grow up and leave home, as children were wont to do.

That wasn’t going to be enough. Even Jasper would have given her that much.

And friendship wasn’t enough either, though it certainly added lovely potential to an otherwise fascinating bargain.

As Hester sat beside the man who might become her husband, she decided that regardless of what the future held for them, she was not going to buy her marital boots without thoroughly trying them on.

Beneath the table, she shifted her leg so her thigh was pressed up against Spathfoy’s more muscular limb.

“Might I have the butter, my lord? The prospect of fresh air and sunshine seems to be reviving my appetites.”

He turned to regard her, something like caution lurking in his gaze. When he slid the butter dish close to her hand, this time he did not touch her.

* * *

The damned day had taken for-bloody-ever to plod past. Tye had sat under the treaty oak and tried not to stare at Hester’s hands, her mouth, her ankles, her hair, her anything. Contemplation of those prizes so threatened his composure he’d climbed into the tree himself and had a protracted conversation with Fiona about her father’s years at school.

Gordie had been one for playing pranks. Whereas Tye had been a proper little scholar, Gordie had made friends before the first meal in the commons. Tye had tried year after year for firsts and often gotten them; Gordie had barely attended his studies and had a grand time.

“But he did enjoy languages, for which you also seem to have an aptitude.” He was resting his back against the trunk of the oak, while Fiona made a clover necklace several feet away.

“What’s an aptitude?”

“An ability. It will serve you well when you take your place in society.”

Hester glanced over at him, her expression difficult to decipher. When she looked at him of late, there was a measuring quality to her gaze, as if she were trying to reconcile the clothed, articulate man with the naked, incoherent heathen she’d had in her bed.

Tye himself was finding that a challenge.

Dinner passed with excruciating slowness, only Lady Ariadne’s benevolent presence making a civilized meal possible. By the time they got to dessert, Tye was envisioning trifle spread on various parts of Hester’s body, or—God save him—on his body, while the lady showed no sign any inconvenient thoughts were plaguing her whatsoever.

Lady Ariadne folded her serviette by her plate and sent Tye a smile that had no doubt felled princes in her youth. “That was a delightful meal, but now I must retire. Spathfoy, I wish you’d consider prolonging your stay with us. Fiona delights in your company, and I do as well.”

“I wish I might stay longer, but my father’s business waits for no man.” He assisted her to her feet, handed her the length of carved oak she used as her cane, and watched while she made her deliberate progress out the door.

“She’s slowing down.” Hester made this comment from her place at the table. “She keeps up appearances for my sake and Fee’s—we could hardly bide here without her to chaperone—but Ian said they were afraid she would not make it through last winter.”

“You’ll miss her when she’s gone?”

She turned her wine glass by the stem. “Of course. I’ve wondered how my life might have been different if I’d had an aunt like that, somebody wise and kind to love me when I felt most unlovable.”

Tye did not resume his seat. He stood a few feet away, studying the way the candlelight cast her pretty features into shadows. That she would speak of feeling unlovable no longer surprised him; it was indicative of the kind of courage she had in such abundance.

“Shall we take a turn in the garden, Hester?”

“Please.” She aimed a smile at him, and maybe it was the candlelight playing tricks, but it seemed a sad smile. He assisted her to her feet and resisted the urge to lace his fingers through hers.

As they made their way through the house, it occurred to Tye that Balfour likely held hands with his countess, regardless of who was looking on, or who wasn’t looking on. Tye hadn’t seen his own parents hold hands since Gordie’s death, or possibly even before that.

“What are you thinking, Spathfoy, to grow so silent?”

Hester twined her arm through his as they wandered among the roses, her stature not striking him as short or tall or anything, but the perfect complement to his.

“I’m recalling the day of my brother’s funeral.” With someone else—with anyone else—he would have offered a polite prevarication. “It’s the last time I recall my parents holding hands.”

She said nothing but slipped her arm around his waist—a posture more familiar than holding hands. He settled an arm over her shoulders and sent up a prayer that this woman might be his to escort through the roses for all the rest of his days.

He had not known Hester Daniels long, he had not acquainted himself with her immediate family, he had no idea if she had a penny to her name, but he did not question the depth of his regard for her. He wanted her honesty and her courage, he wanted her trust, and he wanted her body, all for his very own.

But that list, impressive and greedy though it was, was not complete, for he wanted her heart too.

“I am going to come to you tonight, Hester, unless you tell me not to.”

“If you did not come to me, Tiberius, I would surely be coming to you. Shall we sit for a bit?”

Relief swept through him, making him admit that all her considering glances and subdued smiles had caused him to doubt. The doubt did not disappear—she had not accepted his proposal overtly—but it ebbed the longer they sat side by side holding hands in the gathering darkness.

When the stars were starting to come out, Tye rose. “May I escort you to your room?”

She placed her hand in his and let him lead her into the house, up the stairs, and to her door. “Give me a few minutes, Tiberius.” She kissed his cheek and disappeared into her room.

What was a few minutes? Was it five or thirty? Tye decided it was however long it took him to prepare for bed, which was not long at all. His clothes were neatly folded in the wardrobe, his body as clean as soap and water could render it, his teeth scrubbed, and—only because he’d caught sight of himself in the cheval mirror as he’d charged toward the door—his hair brushed.

His first cotillion hadn’t rendered him as unsettled as he was standing outside Hester’s door.

She opened the door without him even having to knock, leaving Tye for one instant to fear he was about to be rejected, so solemn was her expression.

And then she smiled. At him.

She smiled the secret, pleased female smile that had been driving men beyond reason since time began, a smile of promise and mystery, of blessings bestowed and blessings withheld. He smiled back, a man in contemplation of bestowing a few blessings himself.

“Come in.” She stepped aside while Tye crossed the threshold then closed and locked the door behind him. A survey of the room revealed that she’d banked the fire, drawn the drapes, and turned down the covers on the bed.

And yet, tossing her onto her back and gratifying his lust would not do for Tye’s prospective marchioness.

“Shall I braid your hair, Hester? It’s lovely down, but I would enjoy being your lady’s maid.” He’d also enjoy undoing her braid once he got her in bed.

“I haven’t had a lady’s maid since I shared one with Genie during my one London Season. Here.” She handed him her brush and took a seat before her vanity. “This will be a new experience.”

“For myself as well.” He’d brushed Dora’s hair when she was small, Dora being the youngest, but that had been ages ago. “How is it your hair bears the fragrance of flowers?”

“It’s the shampoo I use. That feels good.”

He was making long, slow strokes down the length of it, watching light dance along each strand. She’d brushed out her hair earlier, for he’d yet to encounter a single tangle. “One braid or two?”

“One down the middle will do.” She leaned forward, so her forehead was resting on her crossed arms. “We’re going to be intimate tonight, aren’t we?”

“Most would say we’ve been intimate already.” He brushed her hair to the side and planted a kiss on her nape. The scent of her, the feel of her soft, silky skin made his pulse leap in low, heathen places.

“We’re going to copulate.” She said the word carefully, as if she might have seen it in print but not heard it spoken.

“From the Latin copulare, to join together.” The last of his doubt drained away. If he’d held to one glimmer of reason in his dealings with her—one hint of honor—it was that only her intended ought to share such a pleasure with her. “I will enjoy very much joining together with you, Hester.”

Joining his body, his life, his heart. He finished up a loose braid and scooped her into his arms, wanting the conversation and dallying and dithering to be over. She was willing; he was ready. More than ready.

And yet… for his bride, for the woman into whose keeping his heart had apparently strayed, that was not enough. He kissed her nose, laid her on the bed, and unknotted the sash to his robe.

“My goodness, Tiberius. You demonstrate an impressive enthusiasm for this intimacy.” She reached between the folds of his robe and drew a finger up the hard length of his erection.

“And if I acquit myself in the manner you deserve, my lady, your enthusiasm will soon eclipse my own.” He leaned down, and while she caressed his testes, he undid the ties of her robe and nightgown, though—in aid of his own sanity—he did not push the material aside.

“Come here, Tiberius.” She held out her arms, as if she were inviting him to mount her directly. When he hesitated, she spread her legs. “Come to me.”

“I don’t want to rush—”

She captured his wrist and gave him a stout pull toward her body. “I do want to rush. I want to gallop and soar and feel the wind in my hair, Tiberius. We can hack around the park some other night.”

Because, he concluded, they had many other nights—a lifetime of other nights—to test each other’s paces. He tossed away his robe and covered her body with his own.

“At least permit me some kisses, Hester.”

He gathered she was not inclined to argue. She got a grip on his hair that was coming to feel familiar and fused her mouth to his.

“If you ever cut your hair, Tiberius—” She’d broken off the kiss to take his earlobe into her mouth.

“If you ever cut yours—” The feel of her body beneath him, so very nearly joined to his, had Tye’s voice sounding harsh to his own ears. He got a hand over her breast, teasing her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Tiberius Lamartine Flynn.” Her nails dug into his backside, sending a gratifying jolt of lust to his vitals.

“What’s your middle name?” The question created a pause in the lady’s attempts to wrestle her lover into submission and into her body.

“You want to know that now?” She hooked her ankles at the small of his back and arched her hips into him. “Now, you want to discuss names?”

“I want to know the name of the woman attempting to ravish me.” He scooted his hips back. “The complete name.” The name she’d say when they spoke their vows to each other.

“Wretched, awful man.” She subsided beneath him, going quiet on a sigh. Her hand brushed slowly over his back, then moved down to pet his buttocks. “My complete name—and I am not trying to ravish you, but merely to effect the purpose for which you have arrived to my bed—is Hester Willamette Daniels.”

“Willamette is pretty.”

“It’s odd.” She sighed against his shoulder then closed her teeth gently over his collarbone. “I’m rushing, aren’t I?”

“Trying to; I’m trying not to let you.” He slipped a palm around the back of her head and cradled her face to his shoulder. “You don’t need to get this over with, Hester, like your first jump after a bad fall.”

“What if I don’t like it?”

He was tempted to tell her she’d like it, then show her she’d like it, and hope she did like it. He kissed her cheek, hitched himself up around her, and started making a mental list of the ways Jasper Merrihell was going to regret treating Hester Willamette Daniels Flynn badly.

“I am going to impart to you now a truth, Hester. Attend me closely, please, because in about two minutes, I will be incapable of speech.”

She undulated beneath him, her intimate curls brushing against him low on his belly. “I’m attending you closely, and I cannot imagine you being rendered incapable of speech. Not ever.”

If she kept that up…“Becoming intimate with another this way takes time, Hester. It’s like learning a language shared with only one other person. You must instruct me regarding what pleases you, and I will offer you the same insights regarding myself.”

“This is the trust part, isn’t it?” She punctuated her question with a glancing caress to his nipples.

“It’s trust and pleasure, served together to both of us. And if you don’t like what I’m doing, you tell me to desist.”

“I told Jasper to desist.” She said this very quietly, her face pressed to his throat. “He kept saying ‘in a minute.’ It was a very long minute. He did not hurt me, but he did disappoint me.”

Merriman hadhurt her, and when Tye could muster the mental focus, he’d determine a way to hold the man accountable. “If I don’t desist when you ask, you simply grab my testes, and you’ll have my undivided attention.”

“Grab your… your command of Latin has me agog, Spathfoy.”

She was talking vocabulary when what was wanted was reassurance. Tye focused on where their bodies were close but not joined. “What about this? Does this leave you agog?”

He pressed forward, not even an inch, and she went still. “Oh, Tiberius.” She gave a luxurious roll of her spine, as if she’d take him into her body all at once. “Yes, please. That leaves me quite, quite…”

He did it again, not enough to penetrate her sex but enough to tantalize. Her legs closed around his flanks, a snug hold embodying reassurances of its own.

The moment of joining his body to a woman’s was a little interval of tedium, usually. It bridged the gap between preliminaries and escalating pleasure, and yet it required focus and patience.

With Hester sighing and moving beneath him, Tye wanted to prolong their joining in all its aspects. He moved slowly, slowly in the advance-and-retreat rhythm of coitus. He offered her kisses; he offered her an embrace that cradled her close and cherished that closeness at the same time. He shoved his own gratification as far from his awareness as he could, listening instead for the signs that her arousal was gathering steam.

“Tiberius?”

“Here.”

“This is… Oh, God.” She convulsed around him with no more warning than that, bowing up to clutch at him while he resisted the temptation to drive into her faster and harder. When her pleasure subsided, he stilled.

“Are you all right?”

“Uhn.” She drew her foot up the back of his leg.

“When you plan your trousseau, you must add a number of pairs of wool socks, Hester.”

“I’m not planning anything at the moment.” She sounded dreamy and sated, poor dear.

“ I’mplanning something.”

Against his chest, Tye felt her eyelashes flutter open. “You are the sort of fellow who’s frequently planning something. Maybe you’re planning your journey south.”

“My journey to points south on your body, perhaps.” He started moving again, slowly, but with purpose. “Shall you gallop again, Hester, and feel the wind in your hair?”

“ Again?” She lifted her face to peer at him by the waning firelight. “Isn’t it time you sprang your own horses, so to speak?”

“Soon.”

For form’s sake, he pleasured her once more without permitting himself to spend; and because he was a gentleman, he did not labor the point any further. Because he was human and male, he in fact could notlabor the point any further.

“Tiberius, can we do this all night?”

The wonder in her tone did his heart good. “Eventually, but because you are inexperienced, to persist much longer would leave you sore.”

And himself dead or committed to an asylum for men who’d suffered excesses of self-restraint.

“Sore?”

“You’re going to want a soaking bath in the morning.”

“I see.”

“Hester?”

She nuzzled his neck, which he took for as much answer as he was going to get. He shifted so his mouth was right near her ear. “ Hold me.”

She’d long since caught the knack of moving with him, and closed her arms and legs around him. “You’ll fly with me, Tiberius? Take the last fence with me?”

He’d meant to pull out. Coitus interruptuswas a term even the scholars failing their Latin knew before they left public school. The sweet, snug heat of her removed this useful phrase from his vocabulary, though, flung it right out of his mind, tossed it far from his heart.

He thrust steadily, hard and deep, and within moments felt her sex fisting around his cock in great, clutching spasms.

“Tiberius, please.”

She sank her nails into his arse, bit his shoulder, and obliterated his awareness of anything save the soul-deep pleasure of joining her in a shared moment of ecstasy. He gave up his seed into the welcoming depths of her body, gave up his self-restraint, his heart, his all in the act of loving her.

* * *

“Aunt Ariadne, what are these trunks doing here?”

Hester examined the brass hasps on three large valises airing out in the hallway of the family wing.

“One never knows when one might go on an extended journey.” Ariadne thumped past at a stately gait. “Perhaps I’ll head south soon and avoid the coming cold weather.”

“Cold weather is still months off.” Weeks, anyway. Hester gave the trunks one more puzzled glance, then followed the older woman to the head of the stairs. “I can’t believe you braved the steps merely on a whim, Aunt. What is going on?”

Ariadne did not have to look up very far to face Hester, but rather than do that, she laid one hand on top of the other on the knob of her cane. “I do believe dear Ian has come to call again, and with more rain threatening by the moment. Go greet him, Hester, I’ll be along directly.”

Something was afoot, something wild horses and handsome Cossacks could not pry loose from Ariadne This puzzle added another touch of unease to a day that was already unsettled, probably because Spathfoy would be leaving in less than twenty-four hours.

While Hester would be remaining behind. She wasn’t going to tell him “no,” she was going to give him a “maybe”—an encouraging maybe, an almost-certainly-yes maybe, but a maybe nonetheless. She could not leave Fiona and Ariadne alone, for one thing, particularly not when the child had been through so much upheaval already.

And she needed time to sort out her feelings, to parse infatuation from deeper attachment, to test her own judgment. How she would convey these things to Tiberius had yet eluded her, but she hoped on the strength of their growing friendship that he would listen and give her the time she requested.

“Ian, welcome!” She accepted the earl’s green-eyed scrutiny and his kiss to her cheek. “You’ve come alone?”

“Aye, my countess says His Bairnship might be coming down with a wee cold, so I’m left to wander the heather all on my lonesome. Has Fee been running you ragged, Hester Daniels? You look a touch fatigued.”

“I’ve been up late reading old journals.” Not a lie, but Ian’s steady scrutiny suggested he understood it for a half-truth. He patted her hand and laid it on his arm. “We’ll feed you some scones and tea, flirt with you a bit, and you’ll perk up in no time. Ariadne MacGregor, are you scampering about unescorted again?”

Ian did flirt, and charm, and yet all the while, Hester had the sense he was masking an alert watchfulness, and then it occurred to her Tye was not yet in evidence. Hester had seen him cantering up the drive—yes, she’d watched out her window like the veriest schoolgirl—which meant he was likely in the stables, fussing his horse.

“If you’re looking for Spathfoy,” Hester said, “he’s not yet back from making arrangements to ship Flying Rowan down to Aberdeen on the train. Tea, Ian?”

“Of course. Where’s my little Fiona, then? Did she cadge a ride with her bonny new uncle?”

Ariadne glanced up from the tray. “The child is in the library, reading and drawing pictures. She’s taken to drawing lions and is getting quite good at them.”