Amanda Scott (13 page)

“He was very angry with you.”

She nodded. “So were you.” When he didn’t say anything, she looked up at him to discover that his thoughts seemed to have taken him far away. “Greyfalcon?”

He blinked, turned to face her, then gave his head a little shake as though to clear it. “Sorry, I was thinking only that you have not changed much since the old days.”

“That is nearly as unhandsome as what you said about Miss Mayfield, my lord. I am quite grown up now, no longer have braids flying when I ride or teeth missing when I smile. Indeed, I am very nearly a spinster lady.”

He made a rude noise. “That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve said to me yet. You cannot be above one-and-twenty, if that. In fact, if I am not very much mistaken, the anniversary of your birthday is not long past.”

“I turned one-and-twenty last month, actually,” she said, exceedingly pleased that he should remember. “But truly, sir, there is not much scope for husband-hunting in Oxfordshire. What little social life there is revolves around Mrs. Mayfield’s supper parties or Lady Milford’s receptions now that your mama no longer entertains. Oh, there are occasional invitations to house parties during the hunting season, but I rarely go to those anymore. I expect I shall remain at home to be a prop to Papa. He certainly expects me to do so.”

“Well, I think that would be a dreadful waste. Why do you not go to London, have another Season?”

“Papa would think it a disgraceful waste of money,” she told him, smiling. “He feels I had quite enough exposure in one Season. I did not take then, so why attempt it again?”

“But—” He stopped, looking at her with compassion in his eyes. “Pardon me if I speak out of turn, but I thought—”

“Yes, indeed, there was Christopher. I kept thinking he would come home, you know, that he would get tired of fighting and come home to marry me, so I paid little heed to any suitors I might have had. Without encouragement they simply faded away. I don’t even remember most of their names. I had a wonderful time, though, even lived through a storybook romance of sorts—vicariously, you know, through Joan.”

“Ah, yes, the Lady Joan Whitely. You did say she married Reston? Somehow I don’t think of him in connection with storybook romance. Rather a dull fellow, actually.”

“Well, he is not a rake, in any event,” Sylvia said with a provocative smile. “No actresses, or opera dancers.”

“No, I said that—dull. She loves him?”

“Yes, is it not unfashionable of her?”

“Indeed.” He lay back upon the blanket and looked up through the trees. “Why do you not go to Lady Joan?”

“I told you, no money. And Papa would not like it. He truly thinks I have already had my chance and merely failed to take advantage of it. And to tell the truth, I agree with him. Can you not see me now, going among all the young maidens in their first or even their second Seasons? It would not answer, sir. I should merely make a fool of myself.”

“I don’t agree,” he murmured. His eyes were closed. At any moment, she thought, he will fall asleep. He looked so young like that, so vulnerable. These past minutes he had seemed very unlike the angry man she had met in London. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to smooth the lock of hair from his forehead.

His eyes opened, and she found herself looking directly into their depths. What she saw there brought color back to her face and made her turn away, made her remember his reputation. Suddenly, she felt isolated, far from help, but surely he would not treat her in any but a gentlemanly fashion, especially here on his own property.

That thought brought a memory upon its heels that made her chuckle, and his eyebrows shot upward. “Something amuses you?”

She could scarcely tell him what she had been thinking, that his behavior toward her in London had been anything but gentlemanly. At least, she could tell him that much. She already had done so more than once. But she could not tell him about the string of thoughts that had just raced through her mind. Accordingly, she shook her head. “It was nothing, sir.” She got to her knees and put the book back into her satchel. “I really must be getting back to the manor house. I had not intended to give myself an entire day of freedom, but that is very nearly what I have done. May I impose upon you to fold the blanket for me?”

“Yes, of course, but look here, Sylvia,” he protested, sitting up, “you are running away. We were just having a comfortable conversation, and now here you are leaping up and haring off. Did I say something?”

“No, of course not,” she assured him,” but I do have duties at home, and you probably have things you ought to be doing, so I must not keep you here longer.”

“But you are not keeping me.” He stood then and looked at her, but she could not meet his gaze for fear that the thoughts she had had but a moment before would show in her eyes. She had not mistaken the expression in his. She knew she had not, and though she was able to convince herself that she was safe in his company, she had heard about rakes and how they behaved with young women, and she had no wish to be the focus of such thoughts for a man like Greyfalcon, even if they remained only thoughts that could be read in his eyes. The very idea sent flashes of heat through her body.

She began gathering up her belongings, and Greyfalcon helped her to tie her satchel and blanket to her saddle. Then walking together, leading Sunshine, they crossed the island and passed over the arched stone bridge to the place where he had left his horse. When he had mounted, he bade her adieu, for he intended to ride across the little gated plank bridge that crossed the ha-ha, while she would return the way she had come. She told him it was because she could not spare the time to visit the countess and did not wish to offend her if her ladyship chanced to glance out a window and saw them riding together.

If Greyfalcon thought the chance of his mother’s doing such a thing was remote, he did not say so. He merely tipped his hat to her and told her to be careful riding through the woods.

“I have ridden here all my life, sir. I daresay I shall manage again today without incident.”

“Don’t be rude, Miss Jensen-Graham. It don’t become you.”

His attitude then was more familiar to her, the old aloof, manner that she had come to expect. She merely tilted her nose a little higher in the air, bade him good afternoon, and rode away from him. But no sooner was she out of his sight than thoughts of their time together flooded into her mind. He had seemed so different today, younger and more approachable than she could remember his ever having been before. Indeed, she had been given some insight into his past life.

What was it he had said about his father? That he had never given him the opportunity to learn from his mistakes. She was seeing another side of Greyfalcon now, one that was more likable than what she had seen before. Not that she had disliked him before. But here her thoughts became more tangled, and she forced herself to think of household chores instead. Somehow, thoughts of sheets and pantry supplies seemed safer than thoughts of Greyfalcon.

In the days that followed she did not see very much of his lordship, although he did pay a call upon Lord Arthur to get his signature on some papers. She visited the countess, who was seen to be in good spirits, making plans for new buildings and condemning the old, changing her mind as often as she made it up, giving orders to her servants for redecorating certain rooms in the great house, then changing her mind capriciously and beginning a whole new plan.

On the Wednesday following her conversation with Greyfalcon on the island, she paid a call at Greyfalcon Park, only to discover other visitors ahead of her. Miss Mayfield and her mother were firmly ensconced in the countess’s saloon when she entered.

“My dear child,” said the countess, holding out her hand in greeting, though the other two had risen from their chairs, “you behold me suffering. Pray forgive me for not rising to greet you properly.”

“Dear ma’am,” Sylvia replied, hiding a smile at her first, quite unacceptable interpretation of the countess’s words and bending to kiss her cheek, “what ails you?”

“Oh, nothing serious, I assure you. Indeed, Greyfalcon insists that it is naught but another of my megrims, but then he never suffers as I do, so he cannot be expected to know.”

“Oh, no, madam,” Miss Mayfield interjected. “I am persuaded that his lordship is all that is kind. Surely, he frets over the state of your health as no one else could do. He is your son, after all.”

“Yes,” agreed the countess dryly, “he is my son.”

Perceiving at once that Greyfalcon had somehow brought his mama’s displeasure upon himself once again, Sylvia attempted to change the topic of conversation in order to prevent her from baring her soul before Mrs. Mayfield and her foolish daughter. It was not so difficult as she might have thought, for she was inadvertently aided by the young woman herself, who expressed a wish to know more about Greyfalcon Park’s history. That she began her request with a glowing description of its present owner and a desire to know all about him was unfortunate, but since she gushed forth without pause until her full intent was known to her hostess, she did little harm.

Lady Greyfalcon was pleased to expound upon the history of the park and of the Conlan family who had inhabited it for some four centuries and more. Sylvia, who had heard the tale before, was well able to take part in the conversation and to keep the topic flowing until Mrs. Mayfield signaled for departure. She waited scarcely two minutes after they had seen the visitor’s backs across the threshold before saying, “Whatever has put you out with Greyfalcon, ma’am? I could scarcely contain my curiosity, and I do hope you won’t snub me, for I can see that you are displeased with him. What has he done now?”

Her ladyship sighed and reached for her salts. “’Tis not what he
has
done, my dearest child, but what he means to do. He is returning to London at the end of the week. And just when he was getting things in hand again, too.”

“But he said nothing of this to me, ma’am. Indeed, he said he meant to stay for a time. Are you certain you have the matter correctly? Surely, he is still needed here.”

“Well, of course he is needed here. How can I possibly achieve all that needs to be done in the house if I am constantly besieged by tenants’ requests and poor MacMusker demanding to know every day what is to be done?” She sniffed strongly at the salts bottle. “I tell you, Sylvia, it isn’t to be borne.”

Certain that her ladyship must have misunderstood something her son had said to her, perhaps at a moment when her whims had irked him, Sylvia rode in search of him on her way home and was fortunate enough to find him one of the water meadows near the river. The grass was growing well and would no doubt be ready to use for pastureland well before the higher fields. It was also beautiful, alight with wild flowers.

Greyfalcon was riding with his steward, but when he saw Sylvia approaching on Sunshine, he waved the man away and rode to greet her.

She wasted no words. “Your mother is in quite a fret, sir. She has somehow got the notion into her head that you mean to leave us.” She had not meant to include herself that way, but she realized that she would feel deserted if he went.

He smiled. “I find I can stick it no longer. If it is not Mama deciding one day she must have ells of red silk for the third-floor parlor and then changing her mind and demanding holland cloth instead to cover everything up because the room has no character, it is supper at the Mayfields’ and being expected to attend and to remain polite and attentive while one is being simpered to death. I miss Brooks’s.”

“But the work here—”

“Is done, or at least well in hand. I have instructed your esteemed parent to give MacMusker as much of a free hand as he can bring himself to give him. Between the two of them, now that MacMusker knows I shall not breathe down his neck as my father did, everything will run smoothly. The household already does, and to tell you the truth, my butler handles Mama far better than I ever could.”

“I see.” There was a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she mustered a smile and asked how soon he meant to depart, remembering even before he said the words that his mother had already told her. He would leave at the end of the week.

The thought saddened her. She had come during the past weeks to think well of him, even to like him. Though she had not spent a great deal of time in his company, there had been a number of good moments, and she had always been very glad to see him and to speak with him. He had stopped seeming angry with her by the end of that first week, and from then on their relationship had been perfectly amicable. She would miss him.

S
YLVIA MISSED GREYFALCON MORE
than she had expected to miss him, and when Miss Mayfield announced the day after Easter that her mama was taking her to London for another Season, she felt unaccountably bereft. Though she tried to tell herself that the feeling was caused by the fact that she had very few friends in the neighborhood, owing to the fact that the families thereabouts had few young people, she soon came to realize that while she would not miss Lavender Mayfield much at all, she really did miss Greyfalcon.

Another letter from Lady Reston—including, besides her usual invitations, another demand to know the whole story about Sylvia’s sudden departure from London—stirred that young lady’s restlessness nearly to breaking point. She attempted on several occasions to broach the subject to Lord Arthur, but her attempts came to naught, for he persisted in his belief that a second Season, at her advanced age, would be a pointless waste of money.

She continued to visit at Greyfalcon Park and learned that the countess had received only one letter from Greyfalcon, apparently in reply to a complaint sent to him regarding MacMusker’s indifference to her wishes for certain changes within the house.

“Not that Francis has agreed to help in the slightest,” said her ladyship unhappily, languidly waving a hand in the general direction of the tea tray that Thomas had deposited upon the table nearest her chair. “Do help yourself, my dear. I know I need not stand upon ceremony with you.”