Fran Baker by Miss Roseand the Rakehell

lordship was scowling in earnest, so she too stopped, adding with a laugh, “My cat has had kittens! And though Whiskers is a very protective mother, she kindly allowed me to pay them a call.”
    Stratford’s brow cleared, and he came to her side with a roguish laugh.
    “Whatever can you have been thinking, my lord?” Rose asked, widening her large eyes in pretended innocence. As they had come upon the rest of the party on these words, the viscount had no opportunity to answer, but displayed a broad smile.
    Seeing it, both Daniel and Helen sighed with relief. His lordship had left them in such ill humor that the two had despaired of the picnic ever coming to pass.
    When she saw Stratford’s cheerful mien, Helen was able to say quite happily, “Thank you, my lord, for finding Rose. Our picnic would never have been the same without her.”
    “I’m much inclined, my love, to agree with you,” he responded as he handed her up into the phaeton.
    Though this ancient vehicle appeared to be not too well sprung, it was of a generous size and could easily have accommodated the four on their airing, but the gentlemen elected to ride beside the carriage. As they spent the journey exchanging bantering compliments, each trying to outdo the other, the party arrived in a mood of convivial companionship. They chose a gentle slope which fanned beneath a small grove of trees. They were soon settled upon the grass, enjoying the fine, warm spring day and the sumptuous luncheon extracted from the wicker basket.
    The auspicious beginning seemed destined to blossom into an agreeable time for all. Congenial conversation flowed easily throughout the meal. Rose described the stable loft’s new residents; the cousins reminisced about childhood picnics on the manicured grounds of the Keep; Helen contributed the secret of the dandelion wine she had prepared for the party.
    By meal’s end, the viscount’s engaging good humor had nearly relaxed his bride-to-be. In turn, her simple manner, free of the overshy missishness that so annoyed him, had Stratford thinking they would suit well enough after all. It was unfortunate Daniel chose to remark that he hoped they should have a day as fine as this for their wedding day. Color swept instantly over Helen and as instantly fled. In a scarce whisper, she stuttered that she hoped so, too.
    A look of wearied irritation passed over Stratford’s face, though he made no comment. Rose then had the happy notion of sending her sister off to pick a bouquet for their mama. Daniel attempted to mitigate his previous error by offering to accompany her. Once left alone with the viscount, Rose rummaged through the basket, pulling a slim volume from its depths.
    “This is Lord Byron’s latest work and though Esmond will hold that it’s not worth reading—e favors the classics of antiquity, you know, and anything not at least two hundred years old is too modern for him—I count myself fortunate to have procured this copy,” she explained as she braced her back against a tree. “Shall I read aloud, sir?”
    “By all means, Miss Lawrence, do so if you wish,” he answered, stretching out over the grassy knoll. He lay on his side, propped upon one elbow, watching her expressive face as she read the verse. He decided her voice lacked the musical quality which made Helen’s so unique, but its mellow tone had a soothing effect that he quite liked. Studying her face, he found much to admire, though she was clearly not a beauty. He was particularly taken, he decided, with her ever-changing, oversized gray eyes.
    “Do you know,” he interrupted her, “your eyes are like a misty morn? As mysterious and as enticing.”
    Her voice paused for the merest instant, then Rose continued to read with all the placid air of one who had not just received her first flowery compliment.
    “Miss Lawrence, you are not listening!” he complained.
    “No, of course not,” she concurred calmly, looking up from her book. “If you