Louise Allen – Least Likely To Marry A Duke (страница 11)
Will did not make the mistake of looking over his shoulder. When they reached his carriage he saw they were boxed in by the Bishop’s coach behind and a cluster of gigs, barouches and dog carts in front.
As the footman swung open the door Will saw the reflection of the pursuers behind him in the window glass. ‘Basil, sit up with the coachman. Miss Preston, Mr Catford, please take seats in the carriage, should you wish. I intend to walk.’
He strode off without a backwards glance, ignoring Basil’s crow of triumph at being allowed up on the box. There was a stile ahead and a field of cattle on the other side of the fence. No lady was going to pursue him through that, not in her best churchgoing shoes. A strategic retreat, that was what this was. A gentleman could, with propriety, take a dignified country walk on a Sunday morning after church, he told himself. And he would take care to instruct the coachman to have the carriage free and clear to drive off immediately on the next occasion they attended St Mathew’s.
The herd scattered away as he walked diagonally across the pasture and Will tried to bring the map of the parish to mind and to work out whose field this was. His or the Bishop’s? Or perhaps it was part of the Vicar’s glebe lands. No, those lay to the south. There was a gate on the far side and he went through, closing it firmly on the cows who were following him with the usual curiosity of their kind. Beyond, a track meandered away and then cut left through a copse of trees, the green shade and faint damp smell soothing after his earlier irritation. He was heading in the right direction, he thought, glancing up at the sun filtering through the branches, although he could not recall this patch of woodland.
Will emerged after ten minutes, not on to another field as he expected, but into a wide clearing with a pond in the centre. A tree had fallen parallel to the edge and he sat down on it, taking in the clumps of rushes, the lily pads, the dart and hover of dragonflies. It was a lovely spot, crying out for a small summer house for picnics. If it was his he would see about having one built. Nothing intrusive, not some Classical temple, just a simple shelter, he thought, leaning back on the stump of the tree that formed a convenient support.
It was warm now, or perhaps he was overheated after his impulsive escape from the churchyard.
He closed his eyes against the sun dazzle on the water.
* * *
It was very wrong to find amusement in the Duke’s discomfiture, Verity told herself as the carriage finally extricated itself from the tangle of vehicles at the church gate. Her father’s hands moved, catching her attention, and she focused on what he was saying.
‘What are you smiling about, my dear?’ he signed slowly. ‘Something has amused you?’
‘Nothing in particular, Papa.’
‘I think so, yes. I will have a short rest first.’
‘And I will take a walk.’ Essentially she wanted to get away from the Old Palace so she could laugh in private over the hunting of the Duke. At least she could acquit him of being rude to anyone. An aristocrat of high rank could turn and wither the pretensions of the local gentry with just a few well-chosen words, or even a look, and it was to his credit that he had not yielded to the temptation to hit back. And not by a flicker of an eyelash had he revealed that he had met her friends before or had identified poor Prue.
* * *
Really, the Duke of Aylsham might be a very pleasant gentleman if he was not so starched-up and conscious of his position, she concluded ten minutes later as she made her way out of the gardens and into the water meadows.
He was certainly a very fine specimen of manhood to look at, which was not a thought she should be entertaining on a Sunday.
She would call him William in her head, she decided. Too much dwelling on his title would make him assume an importance in her mind he did not deserve. But it was a long time since she had felt the slightest flicker of interest when she looked at a man and the feeling was not, to her surprise, unpleasant.
The ground under her feet gave a warning squelch, a reminder of last week’s rain, but the woodland walk would be dry underfoot and there was the hope that she might spot the peregrine falcon that she had strictly forbidden the keepers to shoot.
Her favourite log was a good spot to sit and the sunlight would be on the clearing at this time of day. If she stayed quite still for a few moments she could see what came down to the pond to drink and Verity walked quietly into the glade to avoid frightening any wild creature.
‘What the devil?’ He had himself under control in a breath, swung his feet down and stood up. ‘I apologise for my language, Miss Wingate. But what—’
‘What the devil was I doing?’ she enquired as she took his hand and allowed herself to be hauled up. It was not very ladylike. She should not care, but it was galling to keep meeting him when she was sprawled on the ground. ‘I did not see you. I had my eyes on a deer that was coming down to drink and I was edging towards the tree trunk to sit down.’ Verity brushed the dried leaves and moss off her skirt and wondered what had possessed her to go for a walk in her Sunday best.
He was fuming, she guessed, although the only outward evidence was a slight flaring of his nostrils and the tightening of his lips. She added a mental rebuke to herself for allowing her gaze to linger on his finely sculpted nose and the sensual curve of his lower lip. It was a very bad mistake to equate good looks with a pleasant character and William Calthorpe appeared to combine outward perfection with a starchy, judgemental interior.
‘I trust I did not hurt you?’ She was not quite certain exactly where on that long body she had sat. She had already been the cause of an injury to his posterior. It hadn’t been his legs this time, he did not appear to be winded, so it was probably not his stomach, which left...
He was not writhing in agony, which was the usual result of hitting a man where it hurt most, as one of her governesses had explained and she had later discovered for herself, so it could not have been too bad.
‘This is a most pleasant spot,’ he said with the air of a man determined to make polite conversation against great odds. ‘I was trying to work out whether it is my or your father’s land.’
‘Papa’s.’ She felt ridiculously flustered because she was beginning to suspect that the tension emanating from him was not anger, or embarrassment alone, but quite a different emotion altogether. One that she was experiencing, too, to judge by the fluttering in the pit of her stomach and the unsteadiness of her breath. ‘Yours begins on the far southern edge of the copse.’ She flapped a hand in the general direction.
Why on earth did she have to keep encountering him in situations that put her at a disadvantage? Clutching a skull at the bottom of an excavation, hosting a female party including one naked model—and now sitting on him.
‘Oh.’ He looked around.
Anything rather than risk making eye contact with her, Verity suspected. Or perhaps her dishevelled appearance offended him.
‘A pity, I was planning to build a small summer house here.’
‘I doubt Papa would wish to sell.’ She realised that she was edging away, poised for flight before she did something obvious like licking her lips or twirling her hair or, for goodness’ sake, batting her eyelashes.
‘Look out!’
She glanced round, then down at the edge of the pond crumbling under her heel. She flailed her arms wildly and was seized by the wrist, then tugged forward to land against William’s chest with a thud that knocked the air from her lungs.