A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(63)

Lambs.

Honestly, lambs. White, fluffy, innocent lambs frolicking on a sloping green. They even made adorable little bleating noises to one another.

As if Wynterhall weren’t idyllic enough already—as if Bel hadn’t just spent the morning touring what was now her very own enchanted castle and made the acquaintance of a benevolent house staff surely taken from the pages of some fairy story—now Toby had swept her out onto the terrace to see the well-tended gardens.

And greet the lambs.

Really. Even for her, this was a bit much. And it felt so incongruously innocent, after the torrid night of passion they’d shared. She could scarcely look at Toby this morning without blushing.

“Are they pets?” she asked, as one of the bleating creatures nosed her skirts. “Some sort of pastoral decoration, like park deer?”

Toby chuckled. “No, they’re a nuisance. We’re overrun with the creatures. Our steward increased the flock last autumn—with the new stocking factory down the river, wool is a good investment. And then it was a particularly fruitful spring for lambing, I gather. Now we’re drowning in the things.”

Together they walked across the green. The grass was still damp with the last touch of morning dew.

“They were meant to have the north fields for pasture,” Toby continued. “But those plans met with a bit of a snag when the north fields flooded last month, and now… now, they’re rather everywhere. It’s positively biblical, isn’t it?” He tugged sharply on her hand. “Watch your step, darling. Their leavings are everywhere, too.”

“Oh!” Bel hopped, narrowly missing the offense to her slippers.

Toby gave her a sheepish grin. “This is rural life, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be concerned on my account. I grew up on a plantation. I spent my childhood tossing grain to the chickens and gathering eggs.”

“Truly? You were made to tend chickens?”

“Oh, no one made me. I wanted to do it.” Bel bit back a laugh. “I’ll tell you a secret, if you like.”

“I would like.”

“I used to redistribute their eggs, depending on how well I liked the hens. My favorites, I tallied as good layers—whether or not it was the truth. If one pecked my fingers, however, she would be …” Bel shrugged.

“Dinner.” He gave her an exaggerated look of reproach. “You scheming thing, you. I tell you, my entire opinion of you has changed. I’ll never look at you the same again.”

Bel made a show of laughing, because she knew him to be in jest. She knew it in her mind, but still, some anxious twist of her belly argued otherwise.

“What confessions you make,” he said. “I shall make you wait years to hear mine, until you are old and feeble and mostly deaf. Even then, I’ll have to surround you with pillows in the event you fall over with shock.”

“I think I’d just as soon never know.”

“Yes, that’s probably best.” They had crossed the green now and entered a wooded glen. Toby turned them onto a narrow, root-scored path. “This is the way to Yorke Manor.”

“Then why would we wish to follow it?” she asked.

“Why, to visit Mr. Yorke.”

“Truly? But you’re opponents.” Wouldn’t it be awkward for the two of them to meet, socially?

Bel would find it awkward, at any rate.

“Yes, we’re opponents since yesterday. But we’ve been friends for years, and neighbors since I was born. None of that is negated by the election.”

“You’re right, of course.” Bel sighed. It hadn’t been very gracious of her to object. She felt so on edge with Toby this morning, as though he would disapprove of her every remark. Perhaps it was the pressure of entering this grand estate as its mistress.

No, of course not. She knew her anxieties stemmed from their lovemaking yesterday. And last night. And very early this morning.

By all evidence, Toby had been well pleased with their use of the ancestral bed—as had she—

but Bel worried that he would regard her differently, now that she’d been so bold with him. Had any of his respect for her survived the night?

“Do you know, your little chickens tale started me thinking.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Me, thinking.” He gave her a self-effacing look. “Hard to credit, I know.”

“Oh, that’s not what I meant.”

“I know it.” Smiling, he took her hand in his. “But I was thinking, about what a supremely fortunate fellow I am. I get along with most everyone, Isabel. There are many people I like, many people I call friend—but in all my life, I’ve met few individuals I can honestly say I admire. Do you know what I mean?”

“Perhaps,” she answered carefully, worried about where she now fell in that divide. “But we each have a measure of goodness. Surely one can find something—some act or personal quality—to admire in any person.”

“Surely you can do so—but you are better than me. No, I can count only a small number of my acquaintances that I deem worthy of unequivocal admiration. Can you guess who they might be?”

“Your mother?” That was an easy guess. Isabel admired her mother-in-law, too, for her sharp wit and easy grace.