The Proposal (14 page)

She did not feel like reading.

Oh dear, Lord Trentham was so dreadfully
attractive
. She had been aware of him with every nerve ending in her body all evening. If she was being strictly honest with herself, she would be forced to admit that she had chosen her favorite apricot evening gown with him in mind. She had played the pianoforte aware only of him in the small audience. She had looked everywhere in the room except at him. Her conversation had seemed too bright, too trivial because she had known he was listening. Her laughter had seemed too loud and too forced. It was so unlike her to be self-conscious when in company.

She had hated every moment of an evening that on the surface had been very pleasant indeed. She had behaved like a very young girl dealing with her first infatuation—her first very
foolish
infatuation.

She could not possibly be infatuated with Lord Trentham. A few kisses and a physical attraction did not equate love or even being
in
love. Good heavens, she was supposed to be a mature woman.

She had rarely spent a more uncomfortable evening in her life.

And even now, alone in her own room, she was not immune—at least to the physical attraction.

What
would
it be like,
she found herself wondering,
to go to bed with him?

She shook off the thought and reached for the book she had taken from the library. Perhaps she would feel more like reading once she started.

If only Neville’s carriage could appear, like some miracle, tomorrow. Early.

She felt suddenly almost ill with homesickness.

Chapter 8

The last two days had been sunny and springlike in all but temperature. Today that deficiency had more than corrected itself. The sky was a clear blue, the sun shone, the air was warm, and—that rarest of all weather phenomena at the coast—there was almost no wind.

It felt more like summer than spring.

Hugo stood alone outside the front doors, undecided what he would do for the afternoon. George, Ralph, and Flavian had gone riding. He had decided not to accompany them. Although he could ride, of course, it was not something he did for pleasure. Imogen and Vincent had gone for a stroll in the park. For no specific reason, Hugo had declined the invitation to join them. Ben was in the old schoolroom upstairs, a space George had set aside for him for the punishing exercises to which he subjected his body several times a week.

Ben had assured George that he would look in upon Lady Muir when he was finished and make sure she was not left alone for too long after the departure of her friend.

Hugo had agreed to see Mrs. Parkinson on her way in George’s carriage, and that was what he had just done. She had looked archly up at him and simpered and commented that any lady fortunate to have
him
beside her in a carriage would never feel nervous—not about the hazards of the road at least, she had added. Hugo had not taken the hint to play the gallant and accompany her to the village. He had drawn her attention instead to the burly coachman up on the box and assured her that he had never heard of any highwaymen being active in this part of the country.

What he really ought to do, he thought now, since he had almost deliberately isolated himself for the afternoon, was go down onto the beach, his favorite old haunt. The tide was on the way in. He loved to be close to the water, and he liked being alone.

He had not looked at Lady Muir just now when he had stepped into the morning room to escort her friend to the carriage. He had merely inclined his head vaguely in her direction.

It was really quite disconcerting how much two reasonably chaste kisses could discompose a man. And probably a woman too. She had not spoken to him before he escorted her friend from the room, and though he had not looked at her, he was almost certain that she had not looked at him either.

Ach, this was ridiculous. They were behaving like two gauche schoolchildren.

He turned and stalked back into the house. He tapped on the morning room door, opened it, and stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. She was standing at the window, propped on her crutches, gazing out. At least, he assumed she had been gazing out. She was now looking at him over her shoulder, her eyebrows raised.

“Vera has gone?” she asked him.

“She has.” He took a few steps closer to her. “How is your ankle?”

“The swelling has gone down considerably today,” she said, “and it is far less painful than it was. Even so, I cannot set the foot to the ground and would probably be unwise even to try. Dr. Jones was very specific in his instructions. I am annoyed with myself for allowing the accident to happen, and I am annoyed with myself for being so impatient to heal. I am annoyed with myself for being in a cross mood.”

She smiled suddenly.

“It is a lovely day,” he said.

“As I see.” She looked back out through the window. “I have been standing here trying to decide whether I will take my book and sit in the flower garden for a while. I can walk that far unassisted.”

“When the tide is coming in,” he said, “it cuts one part of the long beach off from the rest and makes a secluded, picturesque cove out of it. I have been there often when I simply want to sit and think or dream, or sometimes when I want to swim. It is a couple of miles along the coast but is still a part of George’s land. It is quite private. I thought I might go over there this afternoon.”

Actually he had not given a thought to the cove until he started to speak to her.

“It can be approached by gig,” he added, “and the cliff is not high there. The sands are quite easy to reach. Would you care to come with me?”

She maneuvered the crutches and turned to face him. She was just a little thing, he thought. He doubted the top of her head reached his shoulder. She was going to say no, he thought, half in relief. What the devil had prompted him to make such an offer anyway?

“Oh, I
would,
” she said softly.

“In half an hour?” he suggested. “You will need to go upstairs to get ready, I daresay.”

“I can go up alone,” she said. “I have my crutches.”

But he strode forward, relieved her of them, and swung her up into his arms before striding off in the direction of the stairs. He waited for a tirade that did not come. Though she did sigh.

He went back for her half an hour later, after informing Ben that he was taking her out for a drive and gathering the things they would need to take with them—a blanket for her to sit on, cushions for her back and her foot, and, as an afterthought, a large towel. He had also gone to the stables and carriage house and hitched a horse to the gig and brought it around to the front doors.

This, he thought, was
not
a good idea. But he was committed now. And he could not feel quite as sorry as he knew he ought. It was a lovely day. A man needed company when the sun shone and there was warmth in the air. Not that he had ever before entertained such a daft thought. Why would a sunny day make a man feel lonelier than he felt on a cloudy day?

He carried Lady Muir back downstairs and settled her in the gig before taking his place beside her. He gathered the ribbons in his hands and gave the horse the signal to start.

Spring was her favorite season, she had told him two days ago, full of newness and hope. Somehow today he could understand what she meant.

It was one of those perfect days in early spring that felt more like summer except for a certain indefinable quality of light that proclaimed an earlier season. And the green of the grass and leaves still held all the freshness of a new year.

It was the kind of day to make one rejoice just to be alive.

And it was the kind of day on which one could wish for nothing better than to be driving out in the air with an attractive man beside one. For some reason she could not quite fathom, and despite the nuisance of her sore ankle, Gwen felt ten years younger this afternoon than she had felt in a long while.

She ought
not
to be feeling any such thing. But, on the other hand, why not? She was a widow and owed allegiance to no man. Lord Trentham was unmarried and, at present at least, unattached. Why should they
not
spend the afternoon in each other’s company? Whom were they likely to harm?

There was nothing wrong with a little romance.

If she had brought a parasol with her, she would have twirled it exuberantly above her head. Instead, she played a sprightly tune on an invisible keyboard across her thighs before clasping her hands more quietly in her lap.

The gig proceeded a short way along the driveway in the direction of the village, but then it looped back behind the house along a narrower lane, which then ran parallel to the cliffs, in the opposite direction from the village. There was a patchwork quilt of brown, yellow, and green fields and meadows on the one side, the cultivated park of Penderris on the other. The sea, several shades deeper blue than the sky, was visible beyond the park. The air was fragrant with the smells of new vegetation and turned soil and the salty tang of the sea.

And with the faint musky odor of Lord Trentham’s soap or cologne.

It was impossible to keep her shoulder and arm from brushing against his on the narrow seat of the gig, Gwen discovered. It was impossible not to be aware at every moment of his powerful thighs alongside hers, encased in tight pantaloons, and of his large hands plying the ribbons.

He was wearing a tall hat today. It hid most of his hair and shaded his eyes. He looked less fierce, less military. He looked more attractive than ever.

Her physical response to his presence was a little unnerving since she had never really experienced it with any other man. Not even with Vernon. She had thought him gorgeously handsome and wondrously charming when they had first met, and she had tumbled very quickly and willingly into love with him. She had liked his kisses before they married, and she had often enjoyed the marriage bed after.

But she had never felt like
this
with Vernon or anyone else.

Breathless.

Filled with an exuberant energy.

Aware of every small detail with her senses. Aware that
he
was aware, though neither of them spoke during the journey. At first, she could not think of anything to talk about. Then she realized that she did not really need to talk at all and that the silence between them did not matter. It was not uncomfortable.

After a mile or two the lane sloped downward, and almost at the bottom of a long hill they turned onto an even narrower track in the direction of the sea. Soon even the track disappeared, and the gig bounced over coarse grass to the edge of the low cliff.

Lord Trentham got out to unhitch the horse and tether it to a sturdy bush nearby. He allowed it enough room to graze while they were gone.

He draped a blanket over his arm and handed her some cushions, as he had done when he took her into the garden two days ago, and he lifted her out and carried her down to the cove below along a narrow zigzagging path, across a gentle slope of pebbles, and onto flat golden sand. Long outcroppings of rock stretched out to the sea on either side of the small beach. It was indeed a private little haven.

“The coastline constantly surprises, does it not?” she said, breaking the long silence at last. “There are long, breathtakingly lovely stretches of beach. And sometimes there are little pieces of paradise, like this. And they are equally beautiful.”

He did not answer. Had she expected him to?

He carried her in the direction of a large rock planted firmly in the middle of the little beach. He took her around to the sea side of it and set her down on one foot, her back against the rock, while he spread the blanket over the sand. He took the cushions from her arms and tossed them down before helping her to sit on the blanket. He propped one cushion behind her back, plumped one beneath her right ankle, and folded the other beneath her knee. He frowned the whole while, as though his task required great concentration.

Was he regretting this? Had his invitation been impulsive?

“Thank you,” she said, smiling at him. “You make an excellent nursemaid.”

He looked briefly into her eyes before standing up and gazing out to sea.

There was not a breath of wind down here, she noticed. And the rock attracted the heat of the sun. It felt more than ever like a summer day. She undid the fastenings of her cloak and pushed it back over her shoulders. She was wearing just a muslin dress beneath it, but the air felt pleasantly warm against her bare arms.

Lord Trentham hesitated for a few moments and then sat down beside her, his back against the rock, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent at the knee, his booted foot flat on the blanket, one arm draped over his knee. His shoulder was a careful few inches away from her own, but she could feel his body heat anyway.

“You play well,” he said abruptly.

For a moment she did not understand what he was talking about.

“The pianoforte?” She turned her head to look at him. His hat had tipped forward slightly on his head. It almost hid his eyes and made him look inexplicably gorgeous. “Thank you. I am competent, I believe, but I have no real talent. And I am
not
angling for further compliments. I have heard talented pianists and know I could practice ten hours a day for ten years and not come close to matching them.”

“I suppose,” he said, “you are competent in everything you do. Ladies generally are, are they not?”

“The implication being that we are competent in much but truly accomplished in little and talented in even less?” She laughed. “You are undoubtedly right in nine cases out of ten, Lord Trentham. But better that than be utterly helpless and useless in everything except perhaps in looking decorative.”

“Hmm,” he said.

She waited for him to be the next to speak.

“What do you do for
fun
?” he asked.