Page 19 of More or Less a Countess
He wasn’t accustomed to being overlooked by ladies, but Nick was getting the distinct impression he might be here or not, and it wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference to Miss Somerset. If a discontented spirit happened to rise from the ground and snatch him away to the underworld, he doubted she’d even notice.
“Do you ever wonder, Lord Dare, if you can determine something about the grave’s occupant by simply touching their headstone? It’s a fancy of mine, that one can sense echoes of the dead.”
Nick pressed his lips together to smother a derisive snort. Next she’d be trying to persuade him to believe in ghosts. “No, but I confess I don’t spend much time in burial grounds.”
By choice.
“Oh, well. I find them quite fascinating. The history, you know. From what I’ve read, the plague pit rumors are unsubstantiated. No one knows what happened to all the bones from St. Paul’s, either.” She shook her head with a regretful sigh.
For God’s sake, he’d never met a lady more preoccupied with bones. “Perhaps we should dig about in the dirt, and see if we can find some.”
Despite his vow to be pleasant and charming, Nick’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.
But Miss Somerset didn’t seem to notice, and she seized on the idea at once. “Can you imagine if we actually found some old bones? How fascinating that would be! But we can’t do it today—we didn’t bring anything to dig with.”
“Yes, because of course that’s the only reason we wouldn’t muck about in the dirt for skeletons—because we neglected to bring a shovel,” Nick muttered.
“I beg your pardon, my lord. Did you say you have a shovel?”
Did he evenowna shovel? “No, I’m afraid not, Miss Somerset. My apologies.”
“Oh.” She looked crestfallen for a moment, but then she brightened. “But perhaps you have something else we could use? Not a shovel, but something else that might serve? A walking stick, perhaps?”
Nick leveled her with a hard stare. Did she truly think he’d allow her to scratch about in the dirt with his silver-handled ebony walking stick? “No, nothing. Had I known I’d be visiting a burial ground when I called on you, I might have brought something, but as it is, I’ve left all my grave digging tools at home.”
“Oh, well. That’s all right. Perhaps next time.”
Next time?He gave her an incredulous look. This was his first and last visit to Bunhill Fields Burial Grounds. “I don’t anticipate a second visit, Miss Somerset, and I think we’d better go back now. Your gown and hat, your hair…” He waved a hand toward her. “You’re already soaked, and you look a—”
Fright. Nick managed to snap his mouth closed before the word could escape, but it was a near thing. Damn it, this wasn’t going at all well. There wasn’t a lady in existence who’d encourage a suitor who called her a fright.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Yes? What were you going to say, Lord Dare?”
“You, ah, you look cold, Miss Somerset. I’d never forgive myself if you should take a chill because of my neglect.”There. At last, an appropriately gallant speech.
Miss Somerset didn’t look the least impressed with his chivalry, however. She shrugged, then turned away from him to wander down a row of headstones, pausing every now and then to peer curiously at the inscriptions. “Yes, all right. As soon as I’ve got my sketch. It won’t take a moment, once I find the right vantage point.”
“Sketch? What sketch?” Good Lord, did she intend to keep him out here all day? Nick shivered as a trickle of cold water dripped from his hat brim down his neck.
“Oh, didn’t I mention that? I wanted to come today so I could take a sketch of the part of the grounds rumored to have been a plague pit, and—oh look, Lord Dare! It’s Susanna Wesley.”
Nick stared at her. “Susanna Wesley? You mean the Mother of Methodism? Susanna Wesley is dead, Miss Somerset. Nearly seventy-three years now, I believe.”
She turned to look at him, her expression something between exasperation and pity. “Yes, I’m aware she’s dead, my lord, and thank goodness for it. Otherwise it would have been a grievous mistake to bury her, wouldn’t it? I meant her gravesite, of course. Her son, Charles Wesley, wrote her epitaph. Did you know? No? Oh, well. I won’t be a moment.”
She sank to her knees in front of a weathered headstone, heedless of the fact her skirt would be ruined with mud, but then she shook her head and rose to her feet again. “No, that won’t do. It’s too low. Perhaps I’ll sit on Mrs. Wesley’s headstone. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, particularly since my purpose is a scholarly one.”
She gathered her soaked skirts around her and, as daintily as if the headstone were a throne, lowered herself until she was perched on the edge. She settled her sketchbook over one arm and moved her pencil over the paper in quick, confident strokes, her back curled over the page to protect it from the rain.
Nick crossed his arms over his chest and watched her, his gaze moving over her slender shoulders, and then lower, over the long locks of her hair lying in heavy tangles down her back. She had fair coloring, but the rain had darkened her hair to a warm chestnut color.
A dark gray cloud had moved directly overhead, and as he’d predicted the rain began to fall in earnest, but she was utterly absorbed in her drawing and paid it no mind. There was something arresting about her small, serious figure half-hidden among the tall headstones, and a strange daze descended on him as he watched her, lost in his thoughts as he listened to the heavy drops of rain fall onto the rough, cold surface of the headstones around him.
Christ, what a dismal place. So gray and cold, just like every other place in London. Everywhere he looked there was nothing but barren trees and knee-deep mounds of mud where there should be acres of soft green grass. How could anyone live in such a place? How could they bear it—
“There. That’s good enough. I can finish it later from memory. I beg your pardon for keeping you standing in the rain, Lord Dare. I’m ready to leave now.”
Nick’s gaze snapped to Miss Somerset, and he was relieved to see she’d closed her sketchbook at last. He shook off the sudden melancholy that had descended on him and produced his usual charming smile. “No need to apologize, Miss Somerset. I’m pleased to be of service.”
