Hadrian by Grace Burrowes Page A

back yard.
    “Chadwich knows the only good sermon is a short sermon,” Harold said. “Miss Prentiss, you are blessed with a particularly pretty soprano.”
    The rest of the journey to Blessings continued in that vein, while Hadrian watched the greening countryside go by and wondered if next Sunday, he could skip services without causing a storm of gossip.
    Though—novel thought—what would the gossip matter when Hadrian was no longer a vicar?
    Lunch was a pleasant meal, which Fenwick joined. He queried Harold regarding plans for plowing and planting, the progress made thus far with foaling, lambing and calving, and Harold’s schedule for the rest of the spring and summer.
    Hadrian listened with half an ear, until Fenwick rose. “I’m for a stroll, and you, Landover, have an appointment in the stables. The lads want to make their farewells to you.”
    “Fair enough.” Harold got to his feet. “I’m in need of some movement as well.”
    Fenwick turned his smile on his hostess. “Avie, dearest, you’ll grace my arm?”
    “If I must.”
    “I was such a good boy at table, I think I deserve better than that.”
    “You were a hungry boy,” Avis countered, as she took Fenwick’s arm with easy familiarity.
    “Miss Prentiss.” Hadrian held the lady’s chair, bowing to the inevitable. “Will you oblige me with your company?”
    “I’d be delighted, particularly if we maintain enough distance from Mr. Fenwick that we needn’t overhear his efforts at conversation.”
    “I heard that, Lilith,” Fenwick called as he held the door for Avis. “Your scorn maketh my manly confidence to wither.”
    Lily treated Fen to a scolding silence, and Hadrian to a long-suffering sigh.
    “He means no harm,” Hadrian observed as they gained the back terrace.
    “Men never do, then some unsuspecting young lady can’t distinguish between teasing and worse, and disaster strikes.”
    “You refer to any lady in particular?” A good dozen yards ahead, Fenwick bent close to Avis, all but kissing her cheek.
    Miss Prentiss nodded at the other couple. “You see? He might be stealing a kiss, but Lady Avis won’t realize he’s up to no good until it’s too late.”
    “A kiss stolen under these circumstances is little more than joking between familiars. Do you have an interest in gardening, Miss Prentiss?”
    For she certainly had an interest in digging about in the dirt.
    “The gardens are Lady Avis’s domain, and she does a wonderful job with them.” Miss Prentiss offered this as if she were a mother complimenting a child’s hobby.
    “You have other pastimes, I take it?”
    “I am but a companion, Mr. Bothwell. A friend as well, I hope, but my time is not my own.” Her tone reminded Hadrian of his late wife, and the comparison flattered no one. Rue had tried her best.
    “Shall we enjoy the walk through the birches?” Or perhaps stroll over a bed of hot coals?
    “I’d really rather keep Lady Avis in sight, in case she has need of me.”
    “The daffodils, then.” Hadrian couldn’t criticize devotion to duty, even if Avis was unlikely to recall Miss Prentiss trailed along behind her.
    “How long do you think Lord Landover will be traveling, Mr. Bothwell?”
    “There’s no telling. Harold has been chained to his oar at Landover since early manhood, and he deserves time to ramble and roam.” Nothing less than the truth, damn it.
    The daffodils were in their glory, sending a sweet, sunny scent aloft on the afternoon breeze. Despite the company, the scent soothed Hadrian’s mood.
    “What of you, Mr. Bothwell? Lady Avis says you went from university to your first church post and haven’t taken a holiday since. You could hire a steward and go with your brother.”
    “If the boat were to sink,” Hadrian pointed out, “thus endeth the house of Bothwell.” Then too, Hadrian had not been invited to join his brother, and the notion of sharing a yacht with Harold and Finch held no appeal anyway.
    “My goodness. I