Мэри Бэлоу - Someone to Romance

“You must tell me, Mr. Rochford,” she said, “what it feels like to be out on such a broad expanse of water in such a frail craft.”

“But it is not frail at all,” he told her. “And I have some skill at the oars. Lady Jessica was perfectly safe with me, I assure you. If this gentleman is planning to take you out—”

“Lady Jessica,” Gabriel said, turning to her. “I have been told on no account to miss the hothouses while I am here. Have you been inside them yet?”

“I have not,” she said, twirling her primrose parasol like an extra little sun behind her straw bonnet. “Am I about to?”

“Yes,” he said, offering his arm. “We will see you all later on the terrace for tea,” he told the others.

For a moment it looked as though Rochford was going to come with them, but Lady Estelle had not finished with him. Her feet firmly planted on the riverbank, she asked him a further question about the boats. At the same time, she threw Gabriel a blatantly mischievous glance and waggled her fingers at him in farewell.

That was one very interesting young lady, he thought.

He could feel the heat of Lady Jessica’s hand through his sleeve. He could smell her perfume, or was it soap? It was a warm, pleasant scent, whatever it was. He had noticed it last evening too when he had sat beside her on the pianoforte bench.

“Can you swim?” he asked her.

She looked at him in apparent surprise. “Well enough to keep myself afloat if a boat I am in should capsize within sight of land,” she said. “If that was what you were asking.”

“It was,” he told her. “All too many people think it wondrously picturesque and romantic to be rowed about on a lake or river without even considering the very real danger of drowning.”

“Is this your roundabout way of saying I looked both romantic and picturesque out on the water just now?” she asked. She was playing the haughty grand lady again. Or perhaps there was no playacting involved. This outer demeanor seemed to come naturally to her.

“No,” he said. “It is my way of saying I am glad you are able to swim.”

“My safety matters to you, then, does it?” she asked him.

“Since I intend to marry you,” he told her, “of course. I can hardly marry a dead bride.”

“Ah. That is still your intention, then, is it?” she said. “But are you not afraid Mr. Rochford will snatch me from under your very nose?”

“No,” he said.

“He is very attentive,” she said, “and very charming. Not to mention handsome.”

“I have a higher opinion of your intelligence,” he said.

“But he will be an earl one day,” she said.

“Perhaps.”

There was a brief silence before she spoke again. “And you, Mr. Gabriel Thorne,” she said. “What do you have to offer the daughter and sister of a duke? Will you be an earl one day?”

Was he mistaken or had she put a slight emphasis upon his first name?

They met Boris Wayne, one of Lord Molenor’s sons, and Adrian Sawyer, Viscount Dirkson’s son, at that moment. Each had a young lady on his arm—the very two with whom Gabriel had tried and failed to make conversation earlier. There was a merry exchange of greetings. The four of them were on their way down to the river to see if there were any boats free.

“We are going to see the hothouses,” Lady Jessica told them.

“I would not bother if I were you, Jess,” Boris Wayne advised. “We were just there and they are very hot inside and very full of people. Who wants to be jostled by the multitudes just for the pleasure of cooking as one gazes at row upon row of orange trees? We stayed for three minutes total.”

“Two,” the young lady on his arm said. And giggled.

“And a half,” her sister added—and giggled.

“There is a floral clock through there,” Adrian Sawyer told them, pointing to a high privet hedge to his right, “and an impressive fountain. And there is the rose arbor up beside the house. Someone told me there are a thousand blooms there, but I did not stop to count.”

The sisters thought that deserved another burst of glee.

“The air is cooler out on the river,” Lady Jessica said. “Enjoy the boats.”

The four of them went on their way, chatting and laughing.

“They were mute when I met them earlier with their mother and eldest sister,” Gabriel said. “Giggling, but otherwise mute.”

“Doubtless they were intimidated by your solemn grandeur,” Lady Jessica said. “And your advanced age.”

“Do you think?” he asked.

“I think,” she said.

“I suppose,” he said, “I ought to have realized that if the hothouses were recommended to me, they would be recommended to multitudes of others too. Shall we forget about them? Go to the rose arbor instead?”

“To see a thousand roses?” she said. “By all means. It will make a change from gazing upon a single one.”

“Are you offended by those?” he asked her.

She turned her head to look at him again. Her parasol made a lacy pattern of sunshine and shade across her face beneath the brim of her bonnet. She was very beautiful. It was not an original observation, but her good looks were a constant source of wonder to him.

“No.” She hesitated. “Quite the contrary.”

Crowds seemed to be gathering on the terrace and the reason became obvious as they drew closer. Tea was being set out on long tables covered with white cloths, and it did indeed look like the veritable feast Lady Vickers had predicted. Servants were setting up small tables and chairs on what was left of the terrace and on the lawn below.

“Are you hungry?” Gabriel asked.

“I would rather go to the rose arbor,” she said.

Interesting. She might have lost him easily enough among the crowds gathering about the food tables—if she wished to do so, that was. Apparently she did not.

He expected that the rose arbor would be crowded too, and probably it had been until a short while ago. Now there was only one group of people on the lower tier, deep in animated conversation. The second and top tiers appeared to be deserted. Tea had been deemed of more interest than roses.

It was an impressive part of the garden, running along the whole width of the house as it did. There were trellises, archways, hedges, flower beds, low walls, the wall of the house itself, all of them loaded with roses at various stages of blooming. A high hedge, cut with geometric precision, extended all the way down the side of the arbor farthest from the house, giving the impression of deep seclusion and the reality of breathtaking beauty. Even the sounds of voices and laughter seemed muted here.

“I think,” Lady Jessica said, “this is what heaven must smell like.” She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly.

“We will have to be very virtuous for the rest of our lives, then,” he said, “so that we may enjoy it together for eternity.”

“Which might be an embarrassment,” she said, opening her eyes, “if I should end up with a different husband and you with a different wife.”

“Impossible,” he said.

“Do you always get your own way, Mr. Thorne?” she asked, cupping a yellow rose in both hands, though she was not quite touching it, he noticed.

“Only in the important things,” he said.

“And I am important?”

“Yes.”

She looked around until she saw a wrought iron seat close to the wall of the house, with its climbing rose plants, and went to sit on it. She left room for him beside her. The floor of this top tier was paved with pinkish brick. There was a small fountain in the middle, its granite basin shaped like a fully opened rose.

“Is Thorne your real name?” she asked him.

Ah.

“Yes,” he said.