Rhonda Woodward (10 page)

How delicious.

To add to the absurdity of the scene, she noticed Deirdre next to a column staring intently down at her reticule. Marina had to fight even harder to keep the bubble of laughter from escaping her throat. Turning before she gave herself away, she moved to look at a wall she was sure had crumbled even more since last spring.

She moved further down what was once, hundreds of years ago, the center aisle, toward the great granite stone that previously held the altar, now weathered and smooth from time and exposure.

Lydia Hollings came up to her with a pout on her deceptively sweet face.

“She’s going to win before I have a chance to engage him in conversation, just because she is more forward than I,” she whispered fiercely, looking back to where Phoebe still stood next to the Marquis. “It’s dreadfully unfair.”

Considering for a moment, Marina decided she couldn’t ignore this opportunity. “Well, from what I heard there was nothing in the rules the two of you set up that says you can’t try to converse with him for five minutes even if she did it first. All I heard was that whoever engaged him in conversation for five minutes got the other’s favorite bonnet.”

Lydia’s eyes went wide and her mouth made a perfect circle. “Oh, I think you are right, Marina, we never did say the first to do it won, we only said the one who did do it won.”

“See, Lydia, all is not lost. Besides,” Marina said after a quick glance over her shoulder, “Lord Cortland has moved on and by the look in Deirdre’s face, I do not believe she reached the magical five – minute mark.”

Lydia gave a heartfelt gasp. “Oh, thank you.” She hurried off, her large bonnet shifting left and right as she looked for Lord Cortland.

Marina allowed the long stifled laugh to escape.

Over the next twenty minutes, she watched Phoebe and Lydia stalk Lord Cortland through and around the ruin, finding the experience more diverting than she could have imagined.

In tandem, the two young ladies tittered, simpered, and asked him one absurd question after another.

“My lord, what do you think of this?” Lydia asked in a wondering tone.

“I think it is a large brick, Miss Hollings,” the Marquis replied dryly.

“Oh, Lord Cortland, do you think we are in danger of this wall falling down on our heads?” Phoebe spoke breathlessly and gazed up at him with wide eyes.

“I believe if you stand a few feet back you will easily avoid such an occurrence.”

Marina made sure she was within earshot of these exchanges. Now her jaw ached from suppressing her mirth. She owned that he was unfailingly polite in all his responses, but she could easily discern his utter boredom at being the sole object of their passionate focus.

A niggling feeling of sympathy crept over her after he made another escape from one of the girls. Perhaps it was a little mean for her to take such enjoyment at his discomfiture. After all, if he but knew it, all he need do to free himself was to spend five minutes with each ninnyhammer and they would take themselves off to crow in triumph and leave him in peace.

Marina decided she did not feel nearly enough sympathy for the arrogant Marquis to intervene.

Moments later, laughter almost undid her again when she heard Phoebe ask him to explain how such a tall bell tower could be built.

“I think you would find it deadly dull to hear me explain the scientific law of leverage, Miss Tundale,” he replied, looking around for a way of escape.

Marina, so diverted with amusement, forgot herself and was caught staring. She tried to wipe the mischief from her expression, but she was too late. Those golden-hazel eyes, as sharp as a leopard’s, held hers and she couldn’t look away.

First, his eyes narrowed, taking in her delight at his discomfort, then they glittered with suspicion and accusation. To be fair, she couldn’t blame him for suspecting that she was connected with the plague he was currently experiencing—it was her own fault for not being more circumspect in her delight at his predicament.

Fearing she would completely lose her equanimity and laugh aloud, she swiftly turned and moved past the altar stone and out of the ruin.

“Miss Buckleigh.”

She looked beyond part of the collapsed bell tower to see Mr. Penhurst approaching. “What a lovely time we’re all having, Mr. Penhurst.” Except for Lord Cortland. She smiled brightly.

“Good, glad to hear it, but you have probably been here a dozen times at least.”

“I have, but it’s such a beautiful spot. I always enjoy a visit.”

He nodded, looking a little hesitant, and she sensed that he wanted to say something else. She waited, curious about what he would say.

“I say, Miss Buckleigh, are you at all well acquainted with Mrs. Birtwistle?”

So taken aback by this question, Marina stared at him feeling nonplussed. The suspicion came that it had something to do with the awkwardness with his sister the other night.

“We are not just acquainted, she is a dear friend. I have known her all my life.” She knew she sounded defensive but she did not care a whit; she would not allow Mrs. Birtwistle to be disparaged in her presence.

He smiled and his rather bland face was transformed into something nearly handsome. “That is what I thought, I mean, from seeing the two of you at your ball.”

Her confusion grew at this and she didn’t know how to respond or what he could possibly be getting at.

“You see,” he continued, “I had, that is to say, we, m’sister and I sent over an invitation to Fielding Manor, to invite her and the Major to join us today. She, I mean, they declined, quite prettily.”

“Oh? I had no idea. Mrs. Birtwistle called at Buck Hill the other day, but we did not speak of the picnic.”

He looked quite crestfallen and Marina could hardly believe, though it seemed the only possibility, that Mr. Penhurst was expressing interest in the widow. Marina could only hazard a guess at how his sister viewed this development.

“Well, then, perhaps another—”

“
Penhurst
,” they heard his sister call from within the ruin, “do come and see this, I believe we have found the baptismal cistern.”

Good lord
, Marina thought at Lady Darley’s sharp tone, evidently Mrs. Birtwistle’s name wasn’t even to be mentioned in her presence. Obviously, Lady Darley’s outward kindness only extended to her social equals, and Cortland’s public acceptance of the widow had made little difference to her. It truly was disappointing.

Mr. Penhurst hesitated, and Marian smiled encouragingly. “You should see it, Mr. Penhurst. You can still see the ornate workmanship even after all these years.”

With a bow and a wistful look, he went off to join his sister. Marina headed across the winter-dead grass to a great old Elm near the crest of the hill; from there she could see all of Parsley Hay and the surrounding countryside.

Before taking in the view, she watched the others for a few moments. They were obviously enjoying the outing and moved around the old churchyard in loose groups. She sought Sefton’s fair head and found him immediately, standing with Mr. Fairdale and the Vicar examining a fallen, but intact gargoyle that looked like a cross between a dog and a dragon.

Interestingly, she had not seen him speak at all to Miss Brandon today. Shifting her gaze, Marina saw Miss Brandon standing near the front of the church with Jane and Henry Willingham; however, her attention was obviously on Sefton.

Turning away, she looked out to Parsley Hay lying before her. Smoke rose from chimneys and the sky was pure blue for the first time in weeks. Despite the cold day, she sensed winter was losing its grip and felt the promise of warmer days.

From her peripheral vision, she saw Lord Cortland striding toward her and kept her gaze on the distant view until the last second. Chiding herself for feeling nervous, she resisted walking away.

He reached her, and some of her earlier amusement at Lydia and Phoebe’s behavior reasserted itself. Rallying her confidence, she said with gay defiance, “Are you enjoying yourself, Lord Cortland?”

He looked at her closely for a moment with that lazy, faintly mocking assessment she found disturbing. “Not at all, but you certainly are. Would you care to tell me why whenever Miss Hollings or Miss Tundale asks me a ridiculous question your sister is not more than fifteen feet from me staring at her watch?”

Unable to stop herself, Marina began to laugh. “I really shouldn’t betray my own sex, but I cannot lie right to your face. You, Lord Cortland, have been the object of a wager.”

He completely lost his cool, controlled look, and she suspected, by the quirk to his lips, that he was fighting a smile.

“The devil you say.”

Merriment danced in her eyes. “I’m afraid so, my lord.”

“What kind of wager? Who can bore me to death first?”

Unable to hide her laughter she told him, “If you would spend but five whole minutes in conversation, with one or both of them, they get the other’s favorite bonnet.”

Taking an inordinate amount of delight in his disbelieving expression, she added for good measure, “My sister is charged with keeping the time. These things must be fair, you know.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were hoaxing me.”

Their gazes held, and after a moment, Marina became aware of the same odd feeling she had experienced at her mama’s ball. The feeling of shared understanding mixed with something more intense and secret sent a frisson of awareness and alarm chasing down her body.

He really was so dashingly masculine and vital, came the blurred thought. The other girls’ fascination with him was quite understandable, for just being around him added a vibrancy and intensity to everything.

“I’d much rather speak with you for five minutes.”

His voice was low-timbred and intimate, making her feel so uncharacteristically unsettled that she pulled her gaze from his in an attempt to regain her composure.

What was wrong with her? Sefton had her heart. Sefton made her think of romantic waltzes in the moonlight, made her sigh over beautiful posies, and feel pretty. Cortland made her feel . . . quite something else.

“Well, my lord,” she began in a brisk tone, trying to squelch the air of intimacy that had unexpectedly risen between them, “Now that you know, I wish you good luck.”

She started to move away, keeping her pace dignified with some effort.

“Running away again?”

Stopping, she took in his lazy, knowing smile. “In truth, yes.”

His laugh was rich, alluring. “I didn’t take you for a coward, Miss Buckleigh.”

She couldn’t pretend she didn’t know what he meant. The oddest feeling, a new kind of awareness filled her chest, warming her down to her stomach. But a sting of anger accompanied it. Did he really not care what effect he had upon women?

“Why do you like toying with me, my lord?”

His eyes stayed on her face, scanning each feature for a moment. “Am I toying? I rather thought it was more like studying.”

“Studying? Do I seem like some strange bug you’ve pinned?”

“You do a bit, Miss Buckleigh. I haven’t quite figured you out.”

“Well, you will have to pursue your studies without me.”

“Then my studies will come to an end, for I definitely need your presence if I’m ever going to understand you better.”

Caught between an overwhelming mixture of curiosity and alarm, she did not walk away as she knew she should. Feeling daring, she decided to stay, but she wanted to move the conversation to less dangerous grounds.

“I would ask you a question, my lord.”

He cocked an eyebrow and gave a slight inclination of his head. “Anything, Miss Buckleigh.”

The amusement in his tone told her she may ask anything she wished but that didn’t mean he would answer.

“Lady Darley made it very plain that she disapproves of Mrs. Birtwistle, yet Mr. Penhurst informs me that Mrs. Birtwistle and Major Fielding were invited to join us today.”

“And you are wondering why?”

“Yes. I would hate for Mrs. Birtwistle to be subjected to derision. You see, those of us in Parsley Hay who have known her all our lives understand her circumstances.”

“I cannot speak for my friends, except to say that Pen expressed admiration for her elegance and easy conversation after standing up with her at your ball. For myself, I look upon her as a kindred spirit and would welcome her company.”

Startled by this statement, she looked at him closely, suspecting some hidden joke.

He withstood her scrutiny with a brief laugh. “It’s true, Miss Buckleigh. I admire anyone brave enough to do what she has done.”

“A mantua-maker and a marquis? I’m afraid I cannot see the kindred spirits in that.”

He made an expansive gesture with his hands. “I would not insult the good lady by comparing our circumstances. However, when I was faced with an unexpected challenge, I too struck out on my own, and have had to face the censure of my family and friends.”

The lightness was back in his voice, though this time laced with self-deprecation.

She recalled some of the gossip she had heard about him. “I suspect you are speaking of your grandfather cutting you off. One can hardly imagine what horrible thing you did to deserve such a fate.” She said this with a hint of a tease, but owned she was curious.

He pinned her with his golden gaze, and she waited, not attempting to hide her interest in hopes he would continue.

“That’s an old story and well known,” he said in an offhand manner.

“I have not heard it,” she said, feeling almost shy, which was quite out of the ordinary for her.

His glittering gaze held hers and she sensed he was considering something before he spoke. “It was a number of years ago and I was just setting myself up in London after leaving university. My grandfather had gotten wind of some of my . . . pastimes, shall we say, and threatened to cut me off. I ignored him, of course. He came to Town, and discovered that I intended to procure a high-perch phaeton. He vehemently disapproved, considering the vehicle too dangerous, as I am his only direct heir. He informed me that if I proceeded on my defiant path he would cut me off and send me off to rusticate at one of the family’s more rural estates.”