murmured. “If she does not take care, she may learn something.”
In unison, his mother and Mrs. Lyndon puffed out their cheeks.
“You must avoid her, Courtland.” Her eyes widened in horror, as if the savage Miss Barrett might rip out his throat. “I can’t understand how Lady Darlington tolerates that girl and her brother under her roof. And to have her name linked to yours! You cannot imagine how humiliated I was when Lady Myra whispered you’d stolen off to the ballroom with her. Can it be true, my son?”
His lips drew into a tight line. “I was showing her a painting. Not that I must give an accounting to you, or to any of the gossips in this house.”
His mother rapped her fan on the table at her side. “Ah, you will turn into that Barrett girl now, disregarding basic manners and acting like an impulsive child.”
He believed he might. He felt the most impulsive urge to upend his mother’s tea cup over her head, an urge he subdued with an iron will. He was glad “that Barrett girl” was likely engrossed in some book, blissfully unaware of the talk about the two of them. He was pleased for her to have that respite.
But for him, the house party lost much of its glow. Above and beyond his mother’s fretting, the daily repetition of activities began to chafe. One could only shoot so much game before one grew bloody tired of the sport. One could only hash over so many political arguments and play so many hands of cards before one nearly lost one’s mind. So when the other gentlemen amassed for their daily foray the fourth day after Miss Barrett’s retirement to the library, Court begged off and donned his town clothes and walking boots instead.
He wasn’t sure where he planned to go. Away. Away from the temptation of visiting her in the library. Away from salons and crowded halls and servants who spied. He wanted to go where he might be a solitary, anonymous man taking the fresh northern air. He strolled down the road from Danbury House into the outskirts of Sedgefield proper, realizing he should have dressed down if he’d sought anonymity. No one bothered him, but some of the children stopped to stare at the well-turned-out gentleman in their midst.
Court decided he would amble about Sedgefield until tea time, perhaps even longer. Perhaps he wouldn’t return to Danbury House until dinner, until he had two great lungs full of fresh air to sustain him through another evening cooped up with irritating ladies and obsequious men. At least he would not have to contend with his mother; she’d set off that morning with Mrs. Lyndon to a nearby manor to visit a friend. With any luck, she would remain there a week or more. Not that he didn’t love his mother—he just preferred her in small doses.
He walked past an inn and down the main thoroughfare of town. Though narrow, it was lined with thriving shops. He glanced in the window of a bookseller’s and thought instantly of Miss Barrett, of her lopsided hats and bookish ways and large blue eyes. He thought of her curled up in one of Darlington’s deep library chairs, her slippered feet drawn up beneath her as she devoured some volume of the Royal Historical Society. He thought of her too much.
Make a wish…
He had made no wish, though. He didn’t believe in them. But he could still picture her dainty gloved fingertip in his mind, his curved lash at the end of it like some treasure she’d found. Make a wish. A wish…
He turned at the end of the street, surprised to see the figure of a well-born lady in the setting of an outdoor marketplace. Pretty dress, lopsided bonnet, fingers twisting in her skirts.
Bloody hell. “Miss Barrett?”
She turned and took a step back, looking as surprised as he. She stood by a rickety wagon, engaged in conversation with some village man. A farmer or tradesman perhaps, none too genteel or clean.
“What on earth are you about?” he asked. “I was only jesting about hiring passage back to London. Where is your
In unison, his mother and Mrs. Lyndon puffed out their cheeks.
“You must avoid her, Courtland.” Her eyes widened in horror, as if the savage Miss Barrett might rip out his throat. “I can’t understand how Lady Darlington tolerates that girl and her brother under her roof. And to have her name linked to yours! You cannot imagine how humiliated I was when Lady Myra whispered you’d stolen off to the ballroom with her. Can it be true, my son?”
His lips drew into a tight line. “I was showing her a painting. Not that I must give an accounting to you, or to any of the gossips in this house.”
His mother rapped her fan on the table at her side. “Ah, you will turn into that Barrett girl now, disregarding basic manners and acting like an impulsive child.”
He believed he might. He felt the most impulsive urge to upend his mother’s tea cup over her head, an urge he subdued with an iron will. He was glad “that Barrett girl” was likely engrossed in some book, blissfully unaware of the talk about the two of them. He was pleased for her to have that respite.
But for him, the house party lost much of its glow. Above and beyond his mother’s fretting, the daily repetition of activities began to chafe. One could only shoot so much game before one grew bloody tired of the sport. One could only hash over so many political arguments and play so many hands of cards before one nearly lost one’s mind. So when the other gentlemen amassed for their daily foray the fourth day after Miss Barrett’s retirement to the library, Court begged off and donned his town clothes and walking boots instead.
He wasn’t sure where he planned to go. Away. Away from the temptation of visiting her in the library. Away from salons and crowded halls and servants who spied. He wanted to go where he might be a solitary, anonymous man taking the fresh northern air. He strolled down the road from Danbury House into the outskirts of Sedgefield proper, realizing he should have dressed down if he’d sought anonymity. No one bothered him, but some of the children stopped to stare at the well-turned-out gentleman in their midst.
Court decided he would amble about Sedgefield until tea time, perhaps even longer. Perhaps he wouldn’t return to Danbury House until dinner, until he had two great lungs full of fresh air to sustain him through another evening cooped up with irritating ladies and obsequious men. At least he would not have to contend with his mother; she’d set off that morning with Mrs. Lyndon to a nearby manor to visit a friend. With any luck, she would remain there a week or more. Not that he didn’t love his mother—he just preferred her in small doses.
He walked past an inn and down the main thoroughfare of town. Though narrow, it was lined with thriving shops. He glanced in the window of a bookseller’s and thought instantly of Miss Barrett, of her lopsided hats and bookish ways and large blue eyes. He thought of her curled up in one of Darlington’s deep library chairs, her slippered feet drawn up beneath her as she devoured some volume of the Royal Historical Society. He thought of her too much.
Make a wish…
He had made no wish, though. He didn’t believe in them. But he could still picture her dainty gloved fingertip in his mind, his curved lash at the end of it like some treasure she’d found. Make a wish. A wish…
He turned at the end of the street, surprised to see the figure of a well-born lady in the setting of an outdoor marketplace. Pretty dress, lopsided bonnet, fingers twisting in her skirts.
Bloody hell. “Miss Barrett?”
She turned and took a step back, looking as surprised as he. She stood by a rickety wagon, engaged in conversation with some village man. A farmer or tradesman perhaps, none too genteel or clean.
“What on earth are you about?” he asked. “I was only jesting about hiring passage back to London. Where is your
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