“What I would do,” Mr. Wrayburn said testily, “is have my home back to myself, Montford. I like you. You stood up to my fool of a nephew all through your boyhood though some of your exploits almost made even my hair stand on end. And you are no namby-pamby, sniveling idiot. It always seemed markedly unjust to me that you were not my relative instead of all the others. But like it or not-and I do not like it, I assure you-I am one of Charlotte’s guardians. And when I am called upon to assert my third of the guardianship, I shall do so according to what I consider to be her best interests, even if those are only a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea. Go away now. I have a sore throat from doing so much talking.”
Jasper went.
With much food for thought to digest.
10
KATHERINE was at a garden party in Richmond the next time she encountered Baron Montford. It was two days after she and Margaret and Stephen had accepted their invitation to Miss Wrayburn’s birthday celebrations.
It was a crowded event. A large number of guests were in attendance, taking tea on the wide paved terrace before the house or moving about the lawns that stretched between the terrace and the River Thames or boating on the river. This was the home of Mr. and Mrs. Adams, who were renowned for their lavish entertainments-and for the beauty of their gardens, which at this particular time of the year were laden with flowers, all in varying shades of purple, magenta, and pink. Flowers of the same shades hung from baskets across the front of the house and bloomed in large pots along the terrace.
It was a dazzling and glorious display-and a quite irresistible one to Katherine, who was always alternately drawn to crowded social events and pulled toward solitude, preferably in a setting of natural beauty. She mingled happily with the crowds for well over an hour. But then she was assailed with the familiar need to get away from it all, to be by herself even if only for a short while.
Margaret had been borne off to one of the boats by the Marquess of Allingham, Stephen was in the midst of an animated group that consisted largely of young ladies and their twirling parasols, Vanessa and Elliott had stepped inside the house with Mrs. Adams, and Katherine was free to make her way to a pretty little glass pavilion that faced onto a rose garden.
It was a warm day when the sun was out. But there were some clouds too and a noticeable breeze, and it was during a particularly lengthy cloudy period that Katherine stepped inside, goose bumps pebbling her bare arms. The glass walls and roof had trapped the heat of the sun, and she sat down gratefully on a wrought iron seat and prepared to enjoy the roses and the warmth for a while before conscience inevitably drove her back outside to be sociable.
She was immediately aware of the heady scent of the roses, and peace seeped into her soul as she breathed in their fragrance.
Her solitude did not last long, though.
After what could have been no more than a scant five minutes, she became aware of someone striding away from the crowds on the terrace and moving in her direction. When she turned her head to look, she could see that it was Lord Montford, dressed elegantly in a dark green coat, which molded the muscles of his chest and arms, with buff pantaloons, which did the like for his legs, and shiny Hessian boots. No gentleman ought to be allowed to be so handsome-especially when he was someone of whom one could only disapprove, to say the least.
He had not been at Lady Cranford’s concert last evening. And he had not been here so far this afternoon. She had been glad of it on both occasions. There was something about him that never failed to ruffle her calm.
And she had so wanted to be alone for a little while longer.
It was not to be. His eyes met hers through the glass, and it was clear that she was indeed his destination. A glass pavilion did not, alas, provide an effective hiding place. Not that one ought to be looking for one at a garden party.
She resented the way her heartbeat quickened.
He stopped when he was in the wide doorway and propped one shoulder against the wooden frame. He crossed his arms over his chest and one booted ankle over the other. It was the way she would always remember him, she realized, apparently indolent, his eyes alert but half hidden beneath lowered lids, one eyebrow half cocked, one lock of dark hair down across his forehead.
“This has to be deliberate,” he said. “The dress to match the flowers, the straw hat to add a delicate rustic touch, the glass-walled retreat to suggest both the desire for solitude and the subtle invitation to have that solitude interrupted, the relaxed, graceful posture-it has to be deliberate.”
Only he could be so outrageous as to suggest such a thing-even if it were true.
“But of course it is deliberate,” she said. “You do not think I would attend a garden party, do you, without first consulting with the hostess to discover the color of the flowers in her garden and the existence of a glass pavilion within full sight of the terrace and lawns in which I might arrange myself for full pictorial effect. Of course it is deliberate.”
Her dress was a deep rose pink muslin. Paler pink rosebuds adorned the crown of her wide-brimmed hat.
He chuckled-a lazy, seductive sound.
“Then you have succeeded beyond your fondest hopes,” he said. “I am only surprised that gentlemen are not queued up outside for the pleasure of spending a few moments paying homage to you. But I have only just arrived. Perhaps they have been paying court to you since the party began and are only now all finished. May I?”
He advanced inside the pavilion and indicated the empty half of the seat beside her. He did not wait for her permission. He sat down, and she was instantly aware that the seat was not very wide at all. She could feel his body heat even though he was not touching her. She could smell his musky cologne.
“Do have a seat, Lord Montford,” she said crossly. “There is no need to feel that you must remain standing in my presence.”
He chuckled again.
“Prickly, Miss Huxtable?” he said. “Have I done something to offend you? Or said something?”
“You?” she said. “The soul of propriety? Tell me, was the idea of inviting me to Cedarhurst Park for two weeks in August yours or Miss Wrayburn’s?”
“Good Lord!” he said. “The day I plan the guest list for an eighteenth birthday party, Miss Huxtable, is the day someone really ought to put a bullet in my brain. It would save me from the misery and ignominy of being hauled off to Bedlam.”
Which did not really answer her question, did it? But it was not worth pursuing.
“This is a lovely garden,” she said. “It makes me miss Warren Hall. And Throckbridge too. There is nothing more desirable than being in the country, is there? Do you miss Cedarhurst Park?”
“I hated it with a passion for at least the first twenty-five years of my life,” he told her.
“Oh, why?” she asked in surprise, turning her head to look at him.
“I suppose,” he said, “because it was the visible symbol of my captivity.”
“Captivity?” She frowned at him. “I would say very few people are freer than you, Lord Montford. You must have everything you could possibly need or want.”
He smiled that lazy smile of his.
“Your brother is a fortunate man, Miss Huxtable,” he said. “Not because he unexpectedly inherited the earldom of Merton at the age of… what?”
“Seventeen,” she said.
“… at the age of seventeen,” he said, “but because he had all those years before it in which to be free to live his life as he chose.”
“We lived in a small cottage after our father’s death,” she said indignantly. “Meg had to use all her ingenuity to make ends meet so that we could eat and clothe ourselves.”