Annie Burrows (16 page)

It shouldn’t have mattered, but Lord Rothersthorpe was rather pleased that he was on the team that was the most likely to win. Michael had ended up with not only Cissy, but also Lord Abergele’s sister, who was not likely to put in any effort at all. It was hard to tell how Lord Abergele himself would fare at any kind of sport. So far he had not observed him doing anything with any enthusiasm apart from eating. He’d started to think of him as the Hungry Baronet, somehow succumbing to the prevailing atmosphere of this house party, where everyone was rapidly acquiring nicknames. Mr Bentley might, possibly, make up for the deficiencies of the other members of his team. But he rather thought Lieutenant Tancred was the only one who posed any real competition. He had the determined jaw of a man who would do whatever it took to win. In any situation.

‘What about Miss Morgan?’ enquired the Hungry Baronet’s haughty sister archly. ‘On which team will she be playing?’

‘Well,’ said Rose, with a rather mischievous smile, ‘since Mama Lyddy always acts as umpire, I cannot possibly play. Or the teams would be unequal. Which would not be at all fair.’

‘You could exchange places with me,’ the girl suggested. ‘If you wish to play.’

‘Oh, no, I could not deprive you of that pleasure,’ Rose insisted. ‘You are my guest,’ she said sweetly.

Poor Lord Abergele. His title was nowhere near grand enough to outweigh the hostility steadily mounting between the two girls. In fact, of Rose’s five suitors, he would hazard a guess that only three were still in the running, Lutterworth having dished his chances the very first day by speaking ill of his own sister, a crime the family-oriented Rose would never forgive.

Marigold ended the potential spat by shepherding the entire party to the orangery, a strange building that was joined to the house, yet not quite a part of it. It was, he supposed, a kind of conservatory, since the walls were almost entirely comprised of glass and the floor of terracotta tiles. Yet the structure did not cling to the rear wall in the accepted fashion. Rather, it curved out like a glittering arm embracing a large, lush lawn. But it did house a stunning collection of exotic plants growing in immense containers, which gave out the typically damp, green scent he would have expected. Dozens of intricately wrought brass lamps were suspended from the ceiling, adding to the oriental feel of the place. These, and the selection of comfortably upholstered chairs which were scattered amidst the towering plants, suggested a room that was frequently used, by day and by night, for anyone wishing to enjoy the magnificent view that could be obtained from this spot.

By some means he hadn’t observed, his own team got to bat first, which meant most of them could sit and watch the game from the chairs set out round a refreshment table, over which Rose presided.

Only Robert strode to the open doorway, possibly so that he could shout encouragement to his fellow batsmen. Or perhaps so that he could maintain some kind of guard over Lydia, for she had taken a seat just inside that doorway, from where she could get an unimpeded view of the entire lawn.

There was an empty chair beside her. In spite of Robert’s proximity, Lord Rothersthorpe decided this was as good an opportunity as he was ever going to get, and made straight for Lydia’s side.

‘May I join you?’ He indicated the vacant chair. He saw Robert stiffen, though he did not turn round. There was nothing wrong with them sitting side by side, talking after all. How could the man possibly voice an objection?

It was only Lydia’s response that mattered.

She lowered her eyes to the slate lying in her lap, which looked as though it had come from the schoolroom.

‘Of course,’ she said crisply, using a stick of chalk to write ‘Marigold’s Team’ to one side of the line she’d already drawn down the centre of the slate.

Robert made a sound like a low growl as Lord Rothersthorpe sat down, before gathering himself up and taking a step forwards on to the flagged area between the orangery and the lawn.

‘Do you think he suspects?’ He kept his voice low. The glass partition, and the open door, provided scant privacy.

‘I doubt it,’ said Lydia, eyeing her stepson’s rigid back. ‘I think his reaction just now is more to do with the fact that since his father’s death, nobody has actually sat in that chair. It was a favourite spot of his, you see. He would sit here, come rain or shine, admiring what he’d achieved...’ She gazed out over the gardens, her eyes misty. ‘I suppose somebody should have removed it. It is not as if he’s ever coming back.’

He gave her a sharp glance. His ears might be deceiving him, but it sounded as though she’d actually been fond of the old man.

Out on the lawn Marigold was marking out a kind of clock face with squares of what looked like old matting. He could hear Michael, in his little-boy treble, attempting to explain the principles of the game to the uniformly bewildered adults gathered round him. And the low hum of conversation taking place at the far end of the orangery round Rose’s tea table.

Nobody was paying him or Lydia the slightest bit of attention.

‘I had no intention of upsetting anyone,’ he said softly. ‘But you have made it so difficult for me to get close to you today.’

‘Yes.’ She nodded, though she did not look at him. Instead she kept her eyes fixed on the team fanning out across the lawn into what he assumed must be strategic positions.

‘I shall go into bat first, to give you an idea what you should be doing,’ he heard Marigold shout, bringing a smile to Lydia’s lips. Something inside him clenched hard when her smile grew fonder, loving. Once upon a time he’d dreamed of having her smile at him like that.

Annoyed with himself for harking back to the days when he’d hoped for so much from her, he tore his eyes from her luscious mouth and turned to see what she was looking at, to make her smile so.

It was her son, solemnly bowling the first ball of the match to his sister, with a great deal more enthusiasm than accuracy.

Nothing daunted, Marigold went to meet the ball and just managed to get her bat to connect with it. Slipper, who had followed Cissy on to the lawn, and taken up a station at her heels, tore off after the ball before any of the others in the fielding team could make a move.

He couldn’t help smiling himself when Slipper took the ball straight back to Michael, who patted his head and told him he was a good dog. Who would have thought an animal could have picked up the principles of the game before his human teammates?

Robert groaned. ‘Those children seem determined to undo all the training that my father put that dog through. Slipper is not a pet!’ He shouted the last to Michael, who grinned, waved, then turned away to concentrate on his next throw.

He looked at Lydia again, who was still smiling in a way that made her look like a total stranger. Not just a warm, loving mother, but a woman totally at ease with herself and her surroundings.

‘The more I see of you,’ he mused, ‘the less I feel as though I know you. Who are you, really, Lydia?’

‘I don’t think I know what you mean,’ she said, with a perplexed frown. ‘I am just...me.’

He gave her a long, steady look.

‘Since I have come here, I have seen quite a new side to you. One which I never would have guessed existed.’

She stiffened and blushed.

‘I did not mean that,’ he continued swiftly, guessing she was still thinking about the night before. ‘Delightful though it was. No, I am speaking now of your relationship to the members of this family.’

At that moment, there was a cry of ‘out!’ from the lawn, swiftly followed by Marigold’s anguished protest that she couldn’t be.

From the corner of his eye he’d seen Marigold hit the ball straight towards Cissy and Slipper leap up to catch the ball in his mouth.

Now the whole fielding team was looking to Lydia to pronounce judgement.

‘I cannot be out,’ Marigold said again. ‘Slipper is not on the fielding team. Or if he is, then we should have another person on our side to make numbers even.’

Lydia got to her feet and went to the doorway to stand beside her stepson, who was looking at her with a mixture of amusement and enquiry.

‘Slipper is not on anyone’s team,’ Lydia said firmly. ‘He is just a dog who cannot resist chasing after a ball. We all know he will be as much danger to whichever side goes into bat.’

‘Then I am not out?’

‘On the contrary, Marigold, you are out.’

Marigold threw down her bat in disgust. ‘That is so unfair!’

‘Mama Lyddy is the umpire,’ said Robert reprovingly. ‘Her word is final.’

‘Pick up your bat, Marigold,’ said Lydia firmly. ‘You need to pass it on to whoever is in next.’

Marigold scowled, but did as she was told, stomping into the orangery and up to the refreshment table, where she thrust the bat at Lieutenant Smollet.

He took it from her as though he had no idea what to do with it.

But then Rose smiled at him and said, ‘I am sure you will pick up the rules in no time.’

Giving her one last smouldering look, he got to his feet, squared his shoulders and marched to the door as though he was about to go into battle.

‘Your stepson appears very fond of you,’ Nicholas said as Robert clapped the hapless lieutenant on the shoulder.

‘Why should he not be?’

Lord Rothersthorpe studied his boots in silence for a few seconds, before continuing. ‘At the time of your marriage to his father, he led me to believe that he was very much against it.’

‘Oh, I see,’ she said, looking at the stiff set of her stepson’s shoulders. ‘Yes, he was. But that was before he even met me.’

‘Before he...’ Rothersthorpe frowned. ‘But he told me you were a greedy, grasping, conniving...’

‘Pray do not stop now,’ she said sweetly when his voice faltered. ‘I am a greedy, grasping, conniving what?’

He shook his head. ‘Never mind. Besides, I am no longer sure you are any of those things.’

‘Then why say it?’

His gaze strayed out of the bank of windows. Michael was handing the ball to Cissy, while Lieutenant Smollet was adopting a protective stance in front of his wicket.

‘I suppose I am trying to explain...well, it is just that, for years, I’ve had this image of you as somebody entirely different from...what you appear to be now, amidst your family, and in your home.’

‘Is that an apology?’

It had been more in the nature of an observation, but if an apology was what she wanted, he didn’t see why he shouldn’t let her think so.

‘What else could it be? If you were the woman I thought you, those girls would not all adore you the way they do. You would not be able to pass messages to your stepchildren with just a look and tease each other the way you do unless you all trusted and respected each other. Nor would you have the close, affectionate bond I can see you have with your son, either. I imagined you making their lives a misery all these years. Instead of which...’ he made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a click of his tongue ‘...I can’t help thinking that the whole lot of them walk all over you. You have earned every penny your colonel bequeathed you, have you not?’

She sucked in a sharp breath.

‘What do you mean?’

His mouth flattened into a grim line.

‘Robert acts more like a gaoler than stepson. Rose is so headstrong I would describe her as being well on the way to being a minx. Marigold is set fair to becoming just the same once she leaves the stage of being a sulky schoolgirl behind her. And as for that Cissy...’ He paused to watch her make an ungainly attempt to bowl for the man who’d finally, stoically, accepted his name was now ‘Left on a Mullet’. ‘She is doomed to perpetual childhood, though her body is that of a woman, is she not?’

‘Yes, she is,’ said Lydia, coldly. ‘What of it?’

‘Your late husband may have had his reasons for wanting to keep her in his own household, but he should not have laid all the burden of her care upon you. He should have hired a professional person to manage her.’

‘I do not regard Cissy as a burden,’ she said vehemently. ‘I love her.’

‘Which only goes to prove you are not the woman I mistakenly thought you were all these years. Instead, I have discovered...’ he half-turned in his chair and gazed at her beautiful face ‘...you are still the gentle, rather easily put-upon girl I met and I...liked so much when I was just plain Mr Hemingford. I only wish...’ He reined himself in. Dear God, he couldn’t
still
be wishing she’d chosen him, rather than Colonel Morgan, could he? Hadn’t he reached the conclusion that he’d had a lucky escape?

Yes, but that had been when he’d been sure she was just a mercenary harpy. When he’d thought she’d made her choice coldly and deliberately. Before he’d recalled how little cause he’d given her to believe his proposal had been made in earnest. Before he recalled how much pressure her chaperon was putting on her to marry well. And God knew, back then he’d been
no
chaperon’s idea of a good match.

And, to make no bones about it, before discovering how sensational she was between the sheets.

‘Yes? What do you wish?’

‘Nothing,’ he grated. It was pathetic to beg for an explanation as to why she’d married Colonel Morgan and in such haste. Nothing could undo the past eight years.

Lydia allowed her eyes to follow the game in progress, as though it was taking all her attention. But in reality, she was struggling to keep her anger in check.

Who would have thought that
he
was one of those people, like her guardian, who thought that the simple-minded ought to be locked away, lest they contaminate the rest of society?

Perhaps he wouldn’t have spoken so freely if he hadn’t somehow got hold of the idea that Cissy was Robert’s sister, rather than her own. But in a way, it was better to know the truth.

In spite of the heat of the sun, a little shiver ran down her spine. He had never done anything but disappoint her, and let her down. But to discover that he was the kind of man who thought it best to consign Cissy to the care of strangers...

And as for saying
he’d
never really known
her!
Well, clearly that cut both ways. They had never really been able to talk to each other, in private. Mrs Westerly might have been extremely keen to arrange a match, but she had never wished to do so at the expense of the proprieties. It had all been hands held across a cotillion, snatched moments on moonlit terraces, the occasional outing to the park, strictly chaperoned by a groom or a maid or both, when conversation had therefore of necessity stayed within very narrow confines.