“I’m so happy for you,
Meg,
” she murmured, grinning.
“Another niece or a nephew for us! How perfectly lovely.” Jessica seemed to have forgotten her annoyance at Margie’s demands upon Phoebe.
Jessica, Phoebe, and Olivia gathered around Serena, embracing her as one, kissing her cheeks and pressing their hands over her still-flat stomach.
“Are you happy?” they asked her.
“Are you excited?”
“Are you afraid?” Jessica asked.
“Yes, I’m excited and happy, and no, of course I’m not afraid.”
Phoebe kissed Serena’s cheek and rose. “I really must go feed Margie,” she said softly. With a special smile at Serena, she took her leave.
Olivia spent most afternoons walking the grounds of Jonathan’s vast estate. Some might say that Jonathan’s lands were overgrown and dilapidated, but the area was so full of delights and treasures, Olivia found her new home to be utterly marvelous.
Jonathan had only recently moved back to Sussex and begun taking care of the property again, and he and Serena had just begun the work of refurbishing the house and grounds. Serena always laughed when she said that after having lived in Sussex for less than a year, she was glad she could walk from the front door to the carriage door without getting pricked by thorns or tripping over a fallen branch.
Some afternoons Olivia walked with Jonathan’s mother, the dowager countess, a lovely, cheerful woman, and others she walked with her sisters. But she was diligent about taking the time to walk daily, and most of the time she ended up on her own.
In Antigua, Mother had rarely allowed her to step foot outside, because Olivia’s doctor had always said that taking outdoor exercise would be detrimental to her weak constitution. But Mother wasn’t here. This wasn’t Antigua, this was England, and the climate, flora, and fauna were very different. If anyone objected to her walks, Olivia would simply say she was certain she was safer here.
Today, wearing her usual plain brown wool walking dress and sunbonnet, she ventured into the woods deep within Jonathan’s properties. The terrain was more uneven out here than it was nearer to the house, but paths wound through the trees, one of them leading to a natural spring wedged between two rock outcroppings.
Olivia breathed in the fresh autumn air and gloried in the crackle of dry leaves and brush beneath her boots. Before she’d left the house, she’d tucked a loaf of stale bread beneath her arm—she came in this direction every few days to feed a gaggle of gray geese that had made its home by the spring.
Humming under her breath, she descended the curve in the path that led to the spring. Glancing up from her feet, where she’d been looking to prevent herself from tripping over the rocks, she jerked to a stop, leaving a broken note hanging in the air.
A man—a man surrounded by eager geese—was crouched by the water.
He looked back over his shoulder at her. Obviously he’d heard her crackling and humming her way toward him. She hadn’t been attempting stealth.
Her pulse throbbed in her chest at a sudden realization. She was alone in the forest with a stranger. A
man
.
She licked her lips nervously, watching him rise to his feet. Trying not to watch the way his black Wellingtons encased his strong calves and his leather breeches clung to his muscular thighs.
It wasn’t polite to stare at a strange man’s thighs, she reminded herself sternly. Forcibly, she yanked her gaze upward.
He wore black gloves, and he gripped a small round burlap bag, likely food for the geese, one of which was pecking hungrily at it, trying to open it to spill out its contents. The bag hung at the man’s side, and he didn’t seem to notice the goose at all.
Olivia dragged her gaze farther upward. A richly tailored coat—like something made by a fine London
clothier rather than the shabby homespun most men wore in Antigua—clung to broad shoulders.
A firm, square jaw, dusted with the growth of afternoon whiskers. Lush but stern lips. A strong nose. Dark hair that swooped across his forehead in a soft curl.
And… oh, those eyes. Penetrating, startling green. Staring at her.
Olivia managed to stifle her gasp. She
recognized
this man. This
gentleman,
she corrected. She’d seen him before, at the last ball she’d attended in London before coming to Stratford House. How could she forget?
“I’m sorry.” Her voice emerged in little more than a breathy whisper. “I didn’t realize the spring was… occupied.”
Those stern lips tilted upward. Was he smiling? Was he laughing at her?
Heat rushed over her cheeks, followed by annoyance. She turned to leave.
“Wait.”
Goodness, that voice! It was a low baritone, smooth as honey. She stopped midstep. Leaves crackled as he moved closer to her.
“There’s room for two.”
When she didn’t respond, he added, “I can’t possibly satisfy these greedy fiends. Look, they’re already after your bread.”
It was true. One of the geese had seen her bread and was warily walking closer, a hungry glint in her eye. “That’s Henrietta,” Olivia said softly. “She’s always the first to want her dinner.”
“Henrietta,” the man said, “already ate half my bag of grain. She needs to give her brothers and sisters a chance.”
Obviously, the man didn’t know these geese very well. “Here, now.” She broke off a chunk of bread and waved it at Henrietta. “It’s the end. Your favorite part.”
When the goose made a lunge for the piece of bread, she threw it directly into a cluster of haw bushes. Henrietta, who wasn’t the smartest goose, waddled after it and began rooting around in the brush.
Olivia smiled at the stranger. “That’s how you get her to leave the others alone. Otherwise, she’ll bite them and scare them off and take the entire loaf for herself.”
“Or the entire bag of grain, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” Olivia agreed.
His eyes twinkling, he opened his bag, took out a handful of grain, and scattered it over the ground around him. The geese partook happily.
“Poor Henrietta,” Olivia said. The silly goose hadn’t found her chunk of bread yet, and was unaware of her siblings feasting not three yards away from her.
“You’re Miss Olivia Donovan, aren’t you?” the stranger said.
His use of her name made Olivia freeze again. Trying to infuse some moisture into her dry throat, she said, “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir.”
“I’m Max.”
She stared at him dumbly. Max? Just… Max? Surely that wasn’t right!
He must have recognized the confusion in her eyes, because he corrected himself hastily. “Maxwell Buchanan.” He bowed slightly, took her hand, and squeezed. She could feel the strength of his fingers through the layers of the leather of their gloves as her own fingers slipped from his.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Buchanan.” She tilted her head at him. “I’m certain I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”
“You remember?” His emerald eyes held steady on her face.
“It was in London, at Lord Hertford’s ball.”
He smiled, showing deep dimples, a startling contrast to his rugged features. And so handsome.
Olivia mentally swatted herself. She’d been startled by the sight of him at the ball, and she’d thought of him a few times since, because it was quite possible that she had never in her life seen anyone quite as physically commanding as this man. Men like this were an uncommon sight in her sheltered world, but she couldn’t forget that he was still just a man. A human being, just like her.
Honestly, her reactions were utterly foolish. Next, she’d probably slap the back of her hand to her forehead and swoon.
“I remember,” he said softly, and his voice stroked down her spine, licked across her chest—for heaven’s sake, it felt like his voice
caressed
her.
She took a deep breath. “It’s… good to see you again,” she said. “But why are you here? Are you a neighbor?”
He chuckled. “Oh, no. I’m a guest of Stratford’s.”
Her brows shot upward. “You are?”
“Indeed. I just arrived this afternoon. Thought I’d go for a walk before dinner.”
“And you just happened to bring some food along for any geese you might encounter?”
“The stable boy gave me the bag. Said there were loads of geese and ducks out here this time of year. Turkeys, too. He said I might lure them and perhaps shoot one.”
Only then did she notice the rifle lying across a flat stone that lay near the water. She looked back at Mr. Buchanan, eyes wide. “You planned to
shoot
my geese?”
He laughed easily. “
Your
geese?”
“I’ve been feeding them for a month.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t say I’ve fattened them up just for you.”
He looked like he was fighting another laugh. “Very well. I won’t say it, then.”
The geese had finished the grain and were eyeing both Mr. Buchanan and Olivia, waiting for their next course. Even Henrietta had consumed her bread and was now shifting assessing looks between Olivia and Mr. Buchanan, apparently wondering which of them would be a better target to accost for more food.
Mr. Buchanan solved the dilemma, first by distracting Henrietta with a small handful tossed into the deep patch of grass nearest her, then scattering a larger handful nearby for the other geese.
“You do know,” he said, “that the reason Stratford invited us here was to hunt with him?”
She blew out a breath through her lips. “I know,” she said softly, and looked down at her bread. She tore it into small pieces, slowly and deliberately tossing them to the insatiable geese.
“You don’t approve of hunting?”
“I just…” She shrugged. “I don’t like killing God’s creatures. That’s all.”
Mr. Buchanan’s features softened. “Ah.”
“But I understand that it’s a necessity for human nourishment and survival. I can’t say I approve of it as a sport, however.”
“I’ll tell you a secret.” Mr. Buchanan leaned forward conspiratorially. “I am not an avid hunter. In fact, I’ve never shot at any living thing in my life.”
She frowned at him. “Really?”
He nodded.
“Then why are you here?”
He shrugged. “I thought I’d give it a try. I might learn something. And…” He paused, then gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m in need of a new diversion.”
“Are you lacking in pleasurable diversions?” she asked, throwing the last of the bread toward the geese and brushing the crumbs from her hands.
“I am.” A shadow passed behind his eyes, but when she blinked, it was gone.
“I’ve heard that’s a common problem in England amongst gentlemen of a certain class.”
“Have you?”
When Olivia and Jessica had spent the month at their aunt Geraldine’s London house this summer, their aunt had gone on and on about the canker on society that was young men of their class. “Yes. You see, my sisters and I were all raised on the island of Antigua. It’s a very different place from England.”
“I’d heard your family was from the West Indies. I imagine it’s very different there, indeed.” Mr. Buchanan turned over the burlap bag and scattered his remaining grain. Then he brushed off his own hands and collected the rifle, which he slung across his back. He raised his brows at her and held out his arm. “May I accompany you back to your brother-in-law’s house, Miss Donovan?”
She nodded. She’d cut her walk shorter than usual, but she was intrigued by this gentleman. In any case, it was
time to leave the spring and the geese, which were finishing up the bread crumbs and within moments would be pestering them for more.
Side by side, they turned and walked down the unkempt path from which Olivia had come. Mr. Buchanan held Olivia’s arm firmly tucked within his own, his flesh solid—hard, even—against hers. It was… disconcerting.
Men had held her arm before in her life, of course. Her brother-in-law, for one, was very sweet with her, and even though no one ever brought up her frail constitution to her face, he always put great effort into ensuring she was taken care of.
But this was different. This wasn’t a family relation, this was a man she’d only just met, and in rather odd circumstances. If this had happened in London and someone who didn’t know her had seen them, it would have been enough to spark gossip—probably even talk of an engagement. Of course, her sisters wouldn’t blink twice when they saw her coming out of the woods on the arm of a stranger—they
knew
her.
But anyone else in the world probably
would
blink. Several times over.
“So tell me about them,” Mr. Buchanan said.
She gave him a blank stare.
“The differences between Antigua and England,” he clarified.
“Oh, goodness. There are so many.”
“Well, let’s start with the obvious. The visual. How is Antigua different from England in the autumn?”
“There are no colors,” Olivia said softly.
He raised his brows. “No colors?”
“Well, there are colors,” she amended. “The blues of
the sky and of the ocean, for one. The sky is only subtly different from the English sky. A shade crisper, I’d say. But the ocean is very different. It’s such a bright, shimmering blue. Utterly clear and fathomless.”
“Hm.” Mr. Buchanan slid her a glance, opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, and then seemed to think better of it.
She took a breath and continued. “All in all, quite different from the grayish color of the English waters I’ve seen so far.”
“I imagine so,” Mr. Buchanan said. “I’ve heard much about the seas of the West Indies. I’ve heard the waters are clear. Are they warm, too, like they say?”
“Oh yes, much, much warmer than English oceans.”
They rounded a copse of trees and stepped onto the ragged lawn. Olivia tensed. Now was the time they would be seen.
Still, she couldn’t bring herself to pull her arm out from his. The afternoon had turned chilly, but her arm was warm where his flesh pressed on hers, and that warmth seemed to radiate up to her shoulder and through her body.
Nevertheless, when she saw a figure walking toward them from the direction of the house, she did slip her arm from his. She smiled up at him—goodness, he was tall. Probably a foot taller than herself. “Thank you for walking home with me.”