“Ye of little faith,” she scoffed.
He wondered what Miss Ashton would have to say. She had denied anything was wrong. But it hadn’t been a forceful denial.Would she wish to continue as before? Or was she prepared to be honest and work with him to end it? Her parents must take into consideration her chance for a happy future, as well as his.
Hugh gritted his teeth. It had never been his wish to enter into an arranged marriage. While he must produce an heir at some point, love was the only reason to tie oneself down for life to one woman. And he’d prefer the freedom to choose her himself.
Chapter Seven
“We shall attendthe Williams’ card party,” Aunt Mary declared after Lucy had mentioned Lady Sarah would be there. “I’ll send our acceptance.” She rose from the morning room sofa and, ordering her skirts, strode toward the door.
Lucy doubted it was her aunt’s first choice for tomorrow evening’s entertainment.
“You must encourage your friendship with Lady Sarah,” her aunt said. “Jane and Anabel will accompany us. It is advantageous for your cousins to have such important connections.”
Her association with Lady Sarah had certainly raised Lucy from a disappointing niece to one with good prospects. She hoped her aunt wouldn’t be too disappointed when their friendship waned, because once Sarah became betrothed to a titled gentleman, their lives would go in different directions, although it made Lucy sad to think it. She liked Lady Sarah a good deal.
“Mr. Rattray might accompany us. I’m sure he has received an invitation. No one shuts the door on that gentleman,” her aunt cooed. “I shall write to him.”
Aunt Mary left Lucy alone with her thoughts. When she’d failed to supply any answers to her problem that satisfied her, Lucy picked up the book she was currently reading, and taking up her shawl, opened the glass-paned doors to the garden. Acherry tree laden with pink blossoms grew in the center of the small lawn.
Breathing in the bloom’s delicate scent, Lucy sat on the nearby garden seat. She delighted in the few occasions she could sit in the sun and read, and that was precisely what she intended to do. She opened her library book and was soon absorbed in the story. Lucy heard the door behind her open but didn’t turn to see who it was. She was enthralled when Marianne fell down and sprained her ankle and the dashing Willoughby carried her home on his horse.
“Well, what a picture you make beneath the flowering tree,” came a jocular voice. “May I join you?”
She reluctantly closed her book and gazed up at Mr. Rattray. “My aunt is upstairs writing a letter to you,” she said. “Has the maid informed her you are here, sir?”
“No. A footman let me in. When I saw you through the glass doors, I thought to myself,How lonely and troubled she looks. So I’ve come to cheer you.”
Lucy squirmed. “I am neither of those things, sir. I enjoy reading.”
He smiled, undaunted by the snub, and held out his hand. “May I see?”
She could do nothing other than hand the book to him.
“Ah.Sense and Sensibility. ‘By a lady,’ it says here.” He looked up. “A romantic tale? Young women are invariably romantic.”
“I am told I am quite practical.” Lucy held out her hand. He closed the book and handed it to her.
He moistened his lips with his tongue. “My, not only lovely, but also intelligent.”
Lucy stood abruptly and gathered up her shawl and book. “I’ll go in. My aunt must be wondering where I am.”
His hand on her arm made her skin crawl. “You don’t like me, Miss Kershaw. Have I done something to deserve this coldness?”
Lucy’s conscience pricked. She had no reason to be so abrupt except for her instincts. She forced a smile. “Of course not. I do beg your pardon if that is how it appeared.” She turned toward the house, forcing him to drop his hand. “We must go in search of my aunt. I know she will want to see you.”
“Of course,” he said flatly.
Aunt Mary must have spied them walking across to the terrace, for she opened the door. “Well. I have just written you a note, Mr. Rattray. You saved me the trouble of sending it.” She stepped aside to allow them to enter, and with a sharp glance at Lucy, invited him to tea.
“I shan’t have tea, Aunt,” Lucy said hastily. “I must write a letter to Papa.”
Lucy scurried upstairs holding her book defensively against her chest. With a gasp, she closed the door behind her. Flinging herself on the bed, she stared up at the ceiling. Surely, her aunt didn’t think Lucy had set her cap at Mr. Rattray? It would cause a great deal of trouble. She quaked at the thought.
She remained in her room until she heard the front door shut and a carriage pull away down the road.
Lucy ventured downstairs. In the morning room, her aunt sat embroidering a handkerchief.
Aunt Mary looked up. “One might think you were avoiding Mr. Rattray.”