Captain Durant's Countess(39)

He’d ridden out again that morning and heard the horses, suddenly paralyzed by hope and fear. Phantom was alert, too, and whickered at the sight of a palfrey that was just missing a unicorn horn.

Maris—for it was she, ink-black against the white horse—waved.

Reyn’s throat dried and his wits deserted him completely. All the things he’d planned to say to her when he bumped into her “accidentally” flew from him like scalded birds.

She was as pale as her horse, looking every bit as stunned at the sight of him as he felt at the sight of her. A sudden drop of rain in his eye obscured her for a moment, and then her companion came into view.

Reyn had seen the man before in Shere. He was hard to miss, taller than Reyn and much broader. Some sort of laborer. Good. At least she wasn’t accompanied by a swain, or riding alone like a ninny. Anything could happen to an unprotected woman.

He kicked Phantom forward when it was clear Maris was immobile. He watched as the man bent to the countess and said something. Maris shook her head.

When he was just a few feet away, Reyn stopped. “Good morning. I didn’t mean to startle you. I collect we are neighbors.” The words sounded unsuspicious. Normal. There must be a God.

But she didn’t leap from her horse and into his arms and declare he was her long-lost love. In fact she looked at him as if she’d never seen him before.

“N-neighbors?” The shock in her voice was pure.

So, she didn’t know. Hadn’t been hiding from him. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Reynold Durant. My property borders this dogleg end of yours. My sister and I make our home at Merrywood Farm.”

“Cap—Mr. Durant. I am p-pleased to meet you.” She was playing it as he laid it for the benefit of her hulking companion. They were total strangers to each other—which was fundamentally true.

“I bought Merrywood in January. I understand you have recently come to Hazel Grange, Lady Kelby.” It wouldn’t seem odd that he knew her name. It was probably on everyone’s lips in the village, only he’d been too oblivious to listen.

“Y-yes.”

The rain was falling with some determination, and Maris’s servant shifted uncomfortably.

“Do forgive me for holding up your ride. Filthy weather, isn’t it? You must be on your way before you catch a chill. Good day to you then, Lady Kelby. I look forward to meeting you again under more clement skies.” Reyn wheeled Phantom away before she could respond.

His heart hammered. He could have reached across the horses and touched her skin. She was so very pale, just as she’d been when she’d found him at the Reining Monarchs Society. He’d shocked her then; he’d shocked her now.

How was it possible they were neighbors? Would she think he was stalking her? Nonsense. He’d come to the neighborhood first, had no idea that Hazel Grange belonged to the relict of the Earl of Kelby. When he first looked in the area, he was told a young family had leased the Grange, but that it was vacant. He’d been much too busy to worry about neighbors and let Ginny deal with visits and so forth.

Maris’s surprise had been so intense Reyn couldn’t tell if she’d been pleased to see him. Didn’t know if she would be pleased to see him again in a meeting that wasn’t by chance or rain-soaked. Swift had said she was not receiving. Would she make an exception for him?

She had to. He needed her to. His need was a palpable thing, preventing him from thinking clearly.

But there was one thing he had seen clearly. She’d been wearing his butterfly pin in the crown of her ugly black bonnet. It had twinkled amidst the raindrops. Totally unsuitable for a widow. If hope had wings—

He squelched his hope. Likely it was the first thing that came to hand when she fastened that monstrosity to her head. The woman needed him to help her shop, even for mourning clothes. Perhaps he should write to Madame Bernard.

His lips curled. By God, he was smiling. He imagined Maris’s face when she opened boxes at Hazel Grange and found the most exquisite mourning dresses straight from London. She might have reason to leave her house then. Pretty dresses were always a boost to a woman’s confidence.

She’d know at once who’d sent them. Reyn pictured her thank-you note. He’d work especially hard to interpret her loops and curlicues. She would invite him to the Grange, perhaps for tea, that huge servant nowhere around. She’d tell him she couldn’t possibly accept his gifts and then fall into his arms and kiss him.

Kiss him with all the ardor and innocence she possessed. It had been far too long since Reyn had experienced a kiss from his countess. He got hard simply thinking of her blush-pink mouth trembling beneath his . . . until a sluice of cold rain slithered down his neck.

Why couldn’t they engage in a discreet affair? It would not cause too much comment if he paid her a few visits. They were neighbors, after all. He might be there to advise her on draining her fields or her horse’s fetlock or the price of spring lambs. In a year—in less than a year—she might look to marry again, and there he would be, a respectable gentleman with a prosperous enterprise just next door.

He set to whistling. He wouldn’t leave Madame Bernard’s instructions to a letter. He’d go to London—why not leave in an hour? He was used to traveling light. He might visit Tattersall’s while he was there for a day or two and combine business with pleasure. Ginny would be fine. The young stable boy Jack would be elevated in consequence to think Reyn trusted him enough to be left alone with “the girls” for a few days.

Reyn’s whistling grew ever more cheerful as he entered the warped entryway of his home. During the winter, he’d planed the front door himself so it would shut properly, but the wood floor still bore evidence of years of incoming rain despite Ginny covering it with a moth-eaten Turkish rug she’d found in the attics. He tossed his riding gloves in a dented but polished copper bowl on the hall table and shook the rest of the rain off like a wet mastiff. “Ho, little sister! I’m home, but not for long,” he shouted. “Where are you?”

“In the parlor with Mrs. Beecham.”

Reyn found the two women industriously bent over lengths of curtain material. Ginny looked up, cheeks pink. “You foolish man, you are soaked through! And before you lecture me, these are for the vicarage, Reyn, so don’t think I’ve spent your coin on stuff we don’t need.”

Actually most of Merrywood’s windows could use new drapes, but he smiled down at his sister, not caring that his lawn shirt was stuck to his chest. “Moving in already? May I remind you, the man has not formally asked you—or me—yet?”

Ginny bit off some thread. “He will. The parish sewing circle is refurbishing the vicarage. It’s long overdue. I thought if I helped too I’d get some say in the decoration. You need to get out of those wet clothes.”

“You are a cagey one. Poor Mr. Swift.”

“He likes me just as I am,” Ginny replied.

“He must not know you at all,” Reyn teased. “Gin, I’ve some business in London and will be gone for a few days. You can hold down the fort without me, I know.” To his eternal shame, Ginny had gotten along most of her life without his care.

“London? Can’t I go with you?”

Reyn considered for perhaps a second. “You’ve been doing so well. Why risk it? It’s raining, too, in case you want to yell at me some more. I’m not taking the mailcoach. Old Phantom will earn his oats tonight.”

“Oh. You’re probably right.”

“It must have cost you to say that, little sister. I know I’m right. Have you forgotten the filthy air? The smells?” Reyn didn’t mind them a bit. They were the scent of civilization. Of industry. Of money.

And now that he had some, he was going to spend it on the countess he wanted to woo.





Chapter 22


Maris could not stop shaking once she got indoors. The house was warm enough. The fires were lit against the rain and chill, even in her bedroom. Betsy seemed to think pregnancy was some sort of disease and would have wrapped Maris in fur blankets and hot water bottles all day if she could.

Once out of her wet clothes, Betsy clucking and “I told you so-ing” all the while as she divested Maris of her habit, Maris headed straight for her bed and flopped down into it. She was not tired, but simply confounded.

Captain Reynold Durant was her neighbor.

How could she have not known?

Well, that was easy. She’d met no one but Mr. Prall, his sons, and Reverend Swift. She’d deliberately shut herself in—there was even a black wreath on her door—and spread the word she was not to be disturbed.

That had been liberating. She wasn’t in charge of a legion of servants or responsible for making small talk with people to whom she was totally indifferent. Henry had ignored his neighbors for the most part, but Maris had felt obligated to receive them when they dared come to call. And it was remarkable how daring some of them had been, anxious to get a look inside Kelby Hall to examine all its treasures.