Captain Durant's Countess(38)

He would not be distracted by her beauty rituals. “That means he has, the cur.”

“Reyn, I am not a little girl. I just turned three and twenty. At my age, you’d been in the army for seven years. Think of the things you did miles away from home and then tell me I have no right to marry where I please.”

“Damn it, Ginny! I’m not saying you can’t get married!”

“Good. Then it’s settled. Summer weddings are lovely, I’m told.”

By God, she’d outmaneuvered him. “Are you sure?”

Ginny nodded. “I want to make good use of the time I have.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense. Everyone should seize the day, even those whose health is good.”

“Carpe diem.”

“See? And you’re always saying school was a waste of time for you. You are much smarter than you think you are.”

He didn’t bother to disabuse her of her misconception. He knew exactly how smart he was. Not very, if his little sister had been carrying on with Arthur Swift right under his nose.

Oh, he’d known something was going on. But marriage? “Has he asked you to marry him?”

“Sort of, but not precisely. There has been nothing of the dropping to one knee, etcetera. We have talked around it, as it were, agreeing to most of the details. I believe he wants to ask your permission first and is working his courage up before dropping down formally. You do have quite a reputation, you know. War hero and all that.”

Lord. He hoped the vicar never found out about Reyn’s brief stint as a Reining Monarch. “Will you be happy, Gin?”

“The vicarage is quite lovely, you know. Arthur says I might bring Mrs. Beecham and Molly with me. He already has a housekeeper-cook, so Mrs. Clark is happy to stay with you.”

Mrs. Clark knew all this? Napoleon could have used his sister’s ability to strategize. Reyn’s entire household was privy to his sister’s marital plans, but Reyn had been so preoccupied getting his business up and running, he’d been oblivious.

She grinned up at him, looking all of six years old.

“I’m not talking about a house,” he scolded. “After getting us settled at Merrywood, I know you can work wonders. I mean, is he a good man? Does he treat you well? Do you care for him? Does he make you—”

Honestly, what was wrong with him? He was about to ask if Ginny burned to bed the man. He devoutly hoped she had not gone that far yet. He would shoot Swift and then himself. “Laugh?” he amended.

Her color had nothing to do with the fresh spring breeze. “I like him very well, Reyn. And yes, he is a good man, but not so good a man that he doesn’t know how to kiss.”

“Goddamn it, Gin!”

“Not on Sunday.” She giggled, then she turned to him, much more sober. “Please be glad for me. I did not think to ever be so happy.”

“Your happiness is all I’ve ever wanted.” Well, almost all. “If you have fallen in love with him, I suppose I shall have to like him.”

In her unthinking joy, Ginny squeezed his bad shoulder. “You will love him too, I know it!”

Reyn envisioned proper Sunday lunches—years of them, if his sister was blessed to live long enough. He would have to reassure himself by speaking with her doctor, though he hadn’t thought much of the man when they met earlier. If she was not strong enough for her marital duties, Reyn would forbid the match.

Gah. It was deuced unpleasant to think of his little sister in such a state, with the earnest Mr. Swift so very far from the pulpit. Reyn yearned for some strong soap to scrub his brain clean. He listened with half an ear as Ginny enumerated Swift’s many alleged virtues, and was never so happy to see Merrywood at the end of the lane.

The mares were outdoors enjoying the newly fenced pasture, their coats shining in the sunlight. Smoke rose gently from the kitchen chimney. Mrs. Clark, the cook-conspirator, was no doubt within, roasting a plump chicken for their luncheon. The sky was blue, the clouds were puffy.

And the Countess of Kelby was right next door.





Chapter 21


“I believe it’s going to rain, Lady Kelby. You’re not still going out?”

“Pooh. Betsy, you are too much of a worrywart for someone your age.” Maris adjusted the rather forbidding black bonnet and wished she didn’t look quite so crowlike. She would not be able to wear any of Madame Bernard’s creations for ages, and by then her figure might be very different. She might not even have a figure.

It shouldn’t matter. Maris had never cared about what she’d worn, but it did seem a shame those beautiful new clothes might never be used.

“Dr. Crandall said—”

“Dr. Crandall is no longer involved, is he? The new man doesn’t seem to be troubled by my riding, if I’m careful.”

“The new man is a drunk,” Betsy reminded her. “I wouldn’t trust him with a litter of kittens.”

It was true Dr. Sherman had seemed a bit under the weather when she’d sent for him. So many doctors seemed to have an unfortunate tendency to imbibe. It must be escape from all the grim things they saw in their practices. But babies weren’t grim things. Maris had met the local midwife Mrs. Lynch, a calm, grandmotherly woman who’d delivered babies in and around Shere for more than thirty years. Maris was perfectly satisfied with her current arrangements.

She expected David wouldn’t be. She fully expected him to haunt her until the child was born. He’d ridden over the day before yesterday, though he was prevented from trying to completely terrorize her by the presence of that shy young clergyman Mr. Swift. She did not have much use for most men of the cloth, but had been glad of the vicar’s unscheduled company. He must have sensed her uneasiness, for he outlasted the usual twenty-minute courtesy call and bored David to tears with his random biblical platitudes. Maris had finally pleaded a headache and left both men to their own devices.

Before Mr. Swift turned up, David had been insisting he be present for the birth, so he wouldn’t be cheated. “For who knows?” he’d said. “You might get rid of a girl and slip a gypsy brat into the cradle.”

If only Henry had thought of that first, she thought with a sour smile. She would not find herself in such straits, yearning for what she couldn’t have.

She knew she was remiss about notifying Reyn of the surprising news. She’d picked up her pen a dozen times in as many days, but somehow the words hadn’t come. She, who had no difficulty writing about ancient Etruscan society, seemed incapable of describing the simple current event to the man who’d made it happen.

Perhaps when she got back from her ride—her rainy ride if Betsy was right—she’d make herself do it. A letter might not even reach him. Reynold Durant could be anywhere in the world.

She shivered. He might even be standing naked over someone with a whip.

The sky was indeed leaden and damp hung in the air. Stephen Prall waited for her on the drive with her pretty white mare Pearl. The horse was almost too showy. She was a countess’s horse, purchased by Henry for her amusement. Maris had neglected her for the last few years, hardly leaving the house as Henry’s health had worsened and his work had become paramount. Pearl seemed glad of her new circumstances and the exercise. She tossed her mane and pranced in greeting.

“Good morning, Stephen! Good morning, Pearl!”

“Are you sure you want to ride today, my lady? It’s going to rain.” He was prepared, in an oilskin jacket and battered cap. If she had those, she’d be wearing them, too. Her black riding habit had been let out at the seams and stretched as far as Betsy’s clumsy fingers could make it go, and the hat really was a disaster.

“So Betsy tells me. I’m sure. You won’t mind getting a little wet if we don’t get back in time, will you? We won’t be out long, I promise.”

“I don’t mind, my lady. You’re the boss.”

He didn’t sound thrilled, but Maris smiled at his words. She’d never really felt like anyone’s boss at Kelby Hall.

He helped her mount. To his credit, she didn’t feel like a sack of potatoes slung onto the saddle. She took a lungful of heavy air and wondered how long the rain would hold off. Not very, she’d wager. They’d ride to that pretty copse of trees that bordered one dog-leg of her property, then turn back. She hadn’t ridden out that way in a week or more.

Maris was too busy watching the darkening clouds to see the man beyond the leafy oaks at first. She raised an arm in a friendly gesture, then froze. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. The first splash of rain fell on her cheeks and into her open mouth.





Reyn had come to the edge of his property yesterday when the gnawing urge could not be ignored. Twice, actually. Once in the morning, estimating when a gentlewoman might be persuaded to ride, then again near dusk, when he was near to exhaustion. He’d sat atop Phantom like a lovesick schoolboy staring at the empty green space on the other side of a clump of ancient oaks, listening as if he expected a band of Indians to drop from the trees and attack any second.