Diane Gaston - Bound By A Scandalous Secret

They came to the stream. The only way to cross was at the bridge, the bridge that had been flooded that fateful night Tess had been caught in the storm.

‘Leave me at the bridge,’ she said. No one was in sight, but if anyone would happen by, it would be on the road to the bridge. ‘I’ll walk the rest of the way.’

‘So we are not seen together?’ he correctly guessed.

She could not help but giggle. ‘Unless you want a forced marriage.’

He raised his hands in mock horror. ‘Anything but that.’

‘Here is fine.’ She slid from the saddle.

He unfastened her satchel and handed it to her. ‘It has been a pleasure, Miss Summerfield.’

‘I am indebted to you, sir,’ she countered. ‘But if you dare say so to anyone, I’ll have to unfurl my wrath.’

He smiled down at her and again she had the sense that she liked him.

‘It will be our secret,’ he murmured.

She nodded a farewell and hurried across the bridge. When she reached the other side, she turned.

He was still there watching her.

She waved to him and turned away, and walked quickly. She was later than she’d planned to be.

She approached the house through the formal garden behind the Hall and entered through the garden door, removing her half-boots which were soaked through and caked with snow. One of the servants would take care of them. She did not dare clean them herself as she’d been accustomed to do at Summerfield. If Lord Tinmore heard of it, she’d have to endure yet another lecture on the proper behaviour of a lady, which did not include cleaning boots.

What an ungrateful wretch she was. Most young ladies would love having a servant clean her boots. Genna simply was used to doing for herself, since her father had cut back on the number of servants at Summerfield House.

She hung her damp cloak on a hook and carried her satchel up to her room. The maid assigned to her helped her change her clothes, but Genna waited until the girl left before unpacking her satchel. She left her painting on a table, unsure whether to work on it more or not.

She covered it with tissue again and put it in a drawer. She would not work on it now. Of that she was certain. Instead she hurried down to the library, opening the door cautiously and peeking in. No one was there, thank goodness, although it would have been quite easy to come up with a plausible excuse for coming to the library.

She searched the shelves until she found the volume she sought—Debrett’s Peerage & Baronetage. She pulled it out and turned first to the title names, riffling the pages until she came to the Rs.

‘Rossdale. Rossdale. Rossdale,’ she murmured as she scanned the pages.

The title name was not there.

She turned to the front of the book again and found the pages listing second titles usually borne by the eldest sons of peers. She ran her finger down the list.

Rossdale.

There it was! And next to the name Rossdale was Kessington d. D for Duke.

She had been in the company of the eldest son of the Duke of Kessington. The heir of the Duke of Kessington. And she had been chatting with him as if he were a mere friend of her brother’s. Worse, she had hung all the family’s dirty laundry out to dry in front of him, her defiant defence over anticipated censure or sympathy. He’d seen her wild painting and witnessed her nonsense about Boadicea.

She turned back to the listing of the Duke of Kessington. There were two pages of accolades and honours bestowed upon the Dukes of Kessington since the sixteen hundreds. She read that Rossdale’s mother was deceased. Rossdale’s given name was John and he had no brothers or sisters. He bore his father’s second title by courtesy—the Marquess of Rossdale.

She groaned.

The heir of the Duke of Kessington.

Chapter Two

Ross sipped claret as he waited for Dell in the drawing room. The dinner hour had passed forty minutes ago, not that he’d worked up any great appetite or even that he was in any great need of company. He was quite content to contemplate his meeting with Miss Summerfield. He’d been charmed by her.

How long had it been since a young woman simply conversed with him, about herself and her family skeletons, no less? Whenever he attended a society entertainment these days all he saw was calculation in marriageable young ladies’ eyes and those of their mamas. All he’d seen in Miss Summerfield’s eyes was friendliness.

Would that change? Obviously she’d not known the name Rossdale or its significance, but he’d guess she’d soon learn it. Would she join the ranks of calculating females then?

He was curious to know.

The door opened.

‘So sorry, Ross.’ Dell came charging in. ‘I had no idea this estate business would take so long. I’ve alerted the kitchen. Dinner should be ready in minutes.’

Ross lifted the decanter of claret. ‘Do you care for some?’

Dell nodded. ‘I’ve a great thirst.’

Ross poured him a glass and handed it to him.

‘First there is the problem of dry rot. Next the cow barn, which seems to be crumbling, but the worst is the condition of the tenant cottages. One after the other have leaking roofs, damaged masonry, broken windows. I could go on.’ He took a swig of his wine.

‘Sounds expensive,’ Ross remarked with genuine sympathy.

How many estates did Ross’s family own? Five, at least, not counting the hunting lodges and the town house in Bath. There were problems enough simply maintaining them. Think of how it would be if any were allowed to go into disrepair. This was all new to Dell, as well. He’d just arrived in Brussels with his regiment when he’d been called back to claim the title. His parents, older brother and younger sister had been killed in a horrific fire. Ross had delivered the news to him and brought him home.

A few weeks later Dell’s regiment fought at Waterloo.

‘A drain on the finances, for certain,’ Dell said. ‘Curse Sir Hollis for neglecting his property.’

‘Do you have sufficient funds?’ Ross asked.

His friends never asked, but when Ross knew they were in need he was happy to offer a loan or a gift.

Dell lifted a hand. ‘I can manage. It simply rankles to see how little has been maintained.’ He shook his head. ‘The poor tenants. They have put up with a great deal and more now with this nasty weather.’

The butler appeared at the door. ‘Dinner is served, sir.’

Dell stood. ‘At least food is plentiful. And I’ve no doubt Cook has made us a feast.’

They walked to the dining room, its long table set for two adjacent to each other to make it easier for conversing and passing food dishes. The cook indeed had not disappointed. There were partridges, squash and parsnips. Ross’s appetite made a resurgence.

‘I hope your day was not a bore,’ Dell said. ‘Did you find some way to amuse yourself?’

‘I did remarkably well,’ Ross answered, spearing a piece of buttered parsnips with his fork. ‘I rode into the village and explored your property.’

‘And that amused you?’ Dell looked sceptical.

‘The villagers were talkative.’ He pointed his fork at Dell. ‘You are considered a prime catch, you know.’

Dell laughed. ‘I take it you did not say who you were.’

Not in the village, he hadn’t. ‘I introduced myself simply as John Gordon.’

‘That explains why there are no matchmaking mamas parked on the entry stairs.’

Ross smiled. ‘I do believe tactics were being discussed to contrive an introduction to you.’

Dell shrugged. ‘They waste their time. How can I marry? These properties of mine are taking up all my time.’

How many did he have? Three?

‘I’m not certain your actual presence was considered important.’ To so many young women, marrying a title was more important than actually being a peer’s wife. ‘In any event, it would not hurt to socialise with some of your more important neighbours, you know.’