stumble around, with Benjamin’s tender guidance to see her through—Benjamin, who forgets that butter goes with scones, if I recall aright. You’re running away from home, Avis.”
There it was, the pity Avis detested more than she detested the scorn that had come her way—though Hadrian served up pity with an edge of challenge.
“I’m running to a home, or as close to my own home as I’m likely to find in this life. Besides, Lily and I are having great fun refurbishing the place.”
Lily was having great fun.
“You look like a lady anticipating great fun,” Hadrian countered dryly. “About like I’d look, if you told me we had five more days of shearing.”
“It will be fun,” Avis said as they arrived to the front door.
Hadrian glanced around, though his staff was nowhere in evidence.
“This is fun.” He kissed her on the mouth, lingeringly, his fingers trailing over her cheek, but not the lavish undertaking of the previous night.
“Shame on you.” Avis stepped back—when she was sure he had finished.
“You have the right of it, Avis. Shame on me, not on you. I kissed you—again.”
“So you did.” She couldn’t help but smile.
“And I enjoyed it again,” he whispered, leaning closer, “and I will enjoy it next time too, and the time after that, and the time after that, and the time after—”
“Good-bye, Henry.”
She swept out the door, knowing that however much fun it might be to select drapery fabric with Lily and the mercer, flirting with Hadrian had been more fun still.
Much more fun.
* * *
“Read this.”
Harold passed Hadrian’s first letter to Finch, then handed over his reading spectacles. He and Finch lounged on deck chairs at their berth in the Copenhagen harbor, and though they were on the lee side of the yacht, a cool breeze stirred the air.
Finch squinted against the brilliant sunshine bouncing off the water. “Your vicar brother misses you. This surprises you?”
“It does not. Now read this.” Harold passed along the second letter, for both had been waiting for him when they’d docked.
Finch scanned the letter, his eyebrows—blonder than they’d been upon leaving England—rising.
“You introduced me to this Lady Avis. She was pretty, quick, and going to waste in the wilds of Cumberland every bit as much as you were.”
“She has an unfortunate past.” A pair of gulls wheeled overhead, the sun sparkled on the water, and old scandals in Cumberland seemed lifetimes away.
“A failed elopement? A child out of wedlock?”
“A rape,” Harold said flatly. “She was engaged to Hart Collins, but at the point of breaking things off, and Collins decided if he forced matters, crying off would be removed from consideration, for no one else would have her.”
Finch stretched out long legs encased in the loose white trousers sailors favored. His feet were bare, and for the twentieth time, Harold fell in love with the look of him, lounging in the Danish sun.
“Rape isn’t something anybody forgets,” Finch said. “Would the malefactor be the Baron Collins?”
“One and the same.”
“Hence your inquiries in Amsterdam and Calais. This misbehavior had to be some time ago. The man hasn’t set foot in England for years.”
Finch was a treasure trove of gossip, one of his many endearing traits.
“Collins slips in, harasses his solicitors for money, then slips out. Vim and Ben promised him a slow, painful death if they caught him underfoot.” As had Harold.
“Why not provide him a quick, painful death over pistols or swords?”
Finch also had a protective streak Harold quite simply adored.
“Avis begged them not to make a greater scandal.” Harold fell silent a moment as the gulls rose higher on the brisk shore breeze. “Her brothers felt guilty enough without putting her through the ordeal of a duel.”
Finch propped his bare feet on the railing, the way Harold often propped his feet on the corner of his desk. “There’s another
There it was, the pity Avis detested more than she detested the scorn that had come her way—though Hadrian served up pity with an edge of challenge.
“I’m running to a home, or as close to my own home as I’m likely to find in this life. Besides, Lily and I are having great fun refurbishing the place.”
Lily was having great fun.
“You look like a lady anticipating great fun,” Hadrian countered dryly. “About like I’d look, if you told me we had five more days of shearing.”
“It will be fun,” Avis said as they arrived to the front door.
Hadrian glanced around, though his staff was nowhere in evidence.
“This is fun.” He kissed her on the mouth, lingeringly, his fingers trailing over her cheek, but not the lavish undertaking of the previous night.
“Shame on you.” Avis stepped back—when she was sure he had finished.
“You have the right of it, Avis. Shame on me, not on you. I kissed you—again.”
“So you did.” She couldn’t help but smile.
“And I enjoyed it again,” he whispered, leaning closer, “and I will enjoy it next time too, and the time after that, and the time after that, and the time after—”
“Good-bye, Henry.”
She swept out the door, knowing that however much fun it might be to select drapery fabric with Lily and the mercer, flirting with Hadrian had been more fun still.
Much more fun.
* * *
“Read this.”
Harold passed Hadrian’s first letter to Finch, then handed over his reading spectacles. He and Finch lounged on deck chairs at their berth in the Copenhagen harbor, and though they were on the lee side of the yacht, a cool breeze stirred the air.
Finch squinted against the brilliant sunshine bouncing off the water. “Your vicar brother misses you. This surprises you?”
“It does not. Now read this.” Harold passed along the second letter, for both had been waiting for him when they’d docked.
Finch scanned the letter, his eyebrows—blonder than they’d been upon leaving England—rising.
“You introduced me to this Lady Avis. She was pretty, quick, and going to waste in the wilds of Cumberland every bit as much as you were.”
“She has an unfortunate past.” A pair of gulls wheeled overhead, the sun sparkled on the water, and old scandals in Cumberland seemed lifetimes away.
“A failed elopement? A child out of wedlock?”
“A rape,” Harold said flatly. “She was engaged to Hart Collins, but at the point of breaking things off, and Collins decided if he forced matters, crying off would be removed from consideration, for no one else would have her.”
Finch stretched out long legs encased in the loose white trousers sailors favored. His feet were bare, and for the twentieth time, Harold fell in love with the look of him, lounging in the Danish sun.
“Rape isn’t something anybody forgets,” Finch said. “Would the malefactor be the Baron Collins?”
“One and the same.”
“Hence your inquiries in Amsterdam and Calais. This misbehavior had to be some time ago. The man hasn’t set foot in England for years.”
Finch was a treasure trove of gossip, one of his many endearing traits.
“Collins slips in, harasses his solicitors for money, then slips out. Vim and Ben promised him a slow, painful death if they caught him underfoot.” As had Harold.
“Why not provide him a quick, painful death over pistols or swords?”
Finch also had a protective streak Harold quite simply adored.
“Avis begged them not to make a greater scandal.” Harold fell silent a moment as the gulls rose higher on the brisk shore breeze. “Her brothers felt guilty enough without putting her through the ordeal of a duel.”
Finch propped his bare feet on the railing, the way Harold often propped his feet on the corner of his desk. “There’s another
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