Page 23 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

‘You know,’ she said, ‘if you are to stay, Ashford, then will you take Cynthia with you, too? You did say you were feeling fatigued, didn’t you, darling?’

‘Yes,’ Miss Hesse said agreeably. She slid off her horse, the very picture of good health as she sent a sunny smile Ashford’s way.

‘You know I think I am feeling peaky, too!’ Mr Brandon said, throwing the reins of his own horse back to his groom.

‘Truly, Brandon?’ Lady Phoebe bemoaned, looking round at her riding party, halved in size in the work of two minutes.

‘Afraid so – my throat, you know,’ Brandon said. ‘Miss Hesse, may I offer my arm? The ground is a little slippery.’

Ashford suppressed a sigh as the horses filed past them, skittish and fresh in the morning light. Then, taking in a deep breath, he turned back to Miss Hanworth. She looked, for someone who had just ruined his morning, remarkably cheerful, and he added ‘obliviousness’ to his mental list of her flaws. It was growing rather long now. Miss Callow’s overuse of French phrases seemed practically charming, in hindsight.

‘Shall we go inside?’ he said, offering his arm to her and forcing his rising temper down into his boots.

There was no point in succumbing to anger or frustration. What was done could not be undone, and the only thing left was to make the best of it. He had eight days before he had to introduce Miss Hanworth to his father. Whether her strange new turn of behaviour was the result of agonies of nervousness or poor advice from her family, it did not matter. She could conduct herself well, for he had seen her do so with his own eyes. She would do so again.

He would not be felled by this. He refused.

7

‘The central portion of the house is of Tudor origin, while the wings were added later as one can see from the rococo stylings …’

Reeves had pivoted to the role of tour guide rather impressively, escorting them through a rabbit warren of some thirty rooms for Hawkscroft boasted two dining rooms, three drawing rooms, a handful of saloons and parlours and a grand library to boot and had something interesting to say about each of them. Though he must have had a long list of other, more pressing duties to fulfil, not a shadow of exasperation passed across his face, no matter how irritating their band of deserters were, the ever-cheerful Mr Brandon whispering jokes into Miss Hesse’s ear, the ever-yapping Brutus trotting at her heels, while the ever-irritating Lydia peppered the tour with a steady flow of inappropriate questions.

‘Is Sir Waldo the wealthiest man in England?’ she asked. ‘I should think this house fit for several kings.’

It was an impertinence, but not an exaggeration. Even this room, a small parlour that could hardly see daily use, was decorated with finely crafted objects from the workshops of Chippendale and Haig. Lydia’s grandmother would have clucked her tongue and dubbed it obscene, though Grandfather would certainly have been fascinated by the mahogany chests, rosewood tables, and Persian swords that constituted Sir Waldo’s war loot.

‘Of course, old houses have their idiosyncrasies, too,’ Reeves said evenly. ‘This parlour door cannot be closed in summer, for the wood would swell shut permanently.’

Again, Reeves had weathered Lydia’s impertinence with no discernible sign of stress, which was commendable – as did Ashford, which was not. Lydia was not, however, as distressed by Ashford’s implacability as she had been the day prior. She fancied there was a sour cast now to Ashford’s benign expression – after all, one would surely have to be entirely made of stone not to feel some mortification at the scene she had made outside, even if he was able to suppress most signs of it. She just had to push him harder – and, fortunately, she had several weapons in her arsenal still to deploy.

‘Here we have the library,’ Reeves was saying, as they reached the end of the East Wing, and he threw open the doors to reveal a long hall of books that twinned with the West ballroom in size. It was fitted with the same elaborate taste as the rest of the house, with a gilded and painted and chandeliered ceiling, but it was the sheer number of leather-bound volumes standing upon its shelves that caught Lydia’s breath.

‘Goodness,’ Lydia said, impressed into a genuine reaction. There was no shortage of public libraries in London, and some of them were rather beautiful, but this outdid them all. She drew in a great lungful of air, delicately sweetened by the indefinable scent of old books. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ashford do the same.

‘There are just so many books!’ Miss Hesse said with charming naivety.

‘A splendid collection,’ Ashford confirmed.

‘Yes,’ Lydia breathed, forgetting herself for a moment, before adding, hastily, but with all the flourish she could muster: ‘C’est magnifique.’

Despite the very best efforts of two separate language masters, Lydia could only recollect four French phrases, but fortunately, this was quite sufficient to suit the second stage of her attack: pompousness.

Beside her, every muscle in Ashford’s body seemed to have stiffened.

‘I did not know you spoke French, Miss Hanworth,’ Mr Brandon said, a tiny shake of laughter in his voice.

‘Yes,’ Lydia said – for why not overegg her abilities, while she was at it? – ‘I like to practise as much as I can.’

‘How admirable,’ Miss Hesse said.

‘Yes,’ Ashford said woodenly. ‘Admirable is exactly the word I was reaching for, too.’

She watched him, sidelong, as they followed Reeves back up the grand staircase. He was on the precipice; she was sure of it.

‘Here we have the portrait gallery,’ Reeves said, leading them into a broad corridor, bearing a least two dozen portraits of stern gentlemen on its walls.

‘My goodness,’ Miss Hesse said, voice full of admiration.