wasn’t a bully and a braggart like Jeffery, or a poseur and a fop like Ainsworth, nor was he a doting, if indifferent man, like her father. She thought of kindly Vicar Smythe puttering about in his garden and nearly laughed. No, Lord Joslyn was nothing like Vicar Smythe. She glimpsed the arrogance of Mathew Joslyn in him, but standing next to this man, Mathew would fade into the background. No, heaven help her, Lord Joslyn was like no man she had ever met in her life.
“Miss Townsend? Are you all right?”
His words jolted her and she looked up to realize that both he and Anne were staring at her.
“Emily? Is something wrong?” asked Anne worriedly. “Lord Joslyn has asked you twice if you’re certain there’s nothing else you need.”
Emily flushed. “I’m sorry. I—I—I guess that I’m a trifle wool-headed after today’s events.” With an effort she forced herself to look at him, her heart plunging right to her toes at the narrowed expression in those black eyes. Her gaze dropped to her bowl of oyster stew. “I’m fine,” she said. And picking up her spoon, babbled, “Doesn’t this stew look delicious? I’ve always enjoyed Mrs. Eason’s cooking.”
Barnaby looked surprised. “You know my cook, Mrs. Eason?”
“Oh, yes,” Anne answered. “Your Mrs. Eason and our cook, Mrs. Spalding, are sisters, and our butler, Walker, is your housekeeper, Mrs. Bartlett’s uncle. Bissell, who used to be the butler here, is married to Mrs. Bartlett’s oldest sister.”
He shook his head. “I have had a hard time just remembering everyone’s name, much less that of their relatives.”
“It must be difficult for you,” Anne said sympathetically, “being amongst strangers and in a different country than you were born.”
“Not so different, and I have my man, Lamb, with me.” He smiled at Anne. “I’m adjusting and at least the language is the same.”
Interested, Emily looked at him and asked, “Do you think you’ll like living in England?”
His gaze seemed to reach out and caress her and he said softly, “Since I have met you two charming ladies, I find that I am liking it more and more by the minute.”
“Oh, that was prettily done,” cried Anne, clapping her hands together in delight. “I can hardly wait for you to meet Great-Aunt Cornelia! She is going to flirt outrageously with you.”
“Great-Aunt Cornelia . . . ?” Barnaby asked with a lifted brow.
Despite the flutter in her chest that his look had caused, Emily couldn’t help smiling as she pictured Cornelia’s reaction to Lord Joslyn. “She’ll have you dancing to the tune of her piping in no time,” Emily said, a teasing gleam in her eyes.
“That’s if she doesn’t eat you for dinner,” Anne added, grinning. “At eighty-nine, she is a remarkable woman. She’ll like you—especially if you stand up to her.”
Having helped himself from the sideboard, he took a seat across from the ladies and motioning them to their food, joined them at the table. Conversation was scant and general as everyone concentrated on the food, but Barnaby learned a great deal about the neighborhood during the course of the meal. Vicar Smythe grew the most exceptional roses, Anne informed him. Sir Michael, his house steward’s father, was a dear, dear old man; Mrs. Featherstone, widow of a wealthy landowner, was a darling but a great gossip with a quiver full of daughters to marry off and by all means, Emily warned, never buy a horse from Lord Broadfoot.
“I shall look forward to meeting all of them,” Barnaby said untruthfully as they finished up their meal and settled back to enjoy a final cup of coffee. He looked rueful. “I suspect it will be months before I meet all my neighbors and even longer before I can put faces with names. I am not even familiar with the staff at Windmere—let alone my neighbors.”
Anne smiled kindly at him. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Lord and Lady Broadfoot don’t come to call soon.” Her
“Miss Townsend? Are you all right?”
His words jolted her and she looked up to realize that both he and Anne were staring at her.
“Emily? Is something wrong?” asked Anne worriedly. “Lord Joslyn has asked you twice if you’re certain there’s nothing else you need.”
Emily flushed. “I’m sorry. I—I—I guess that I’m a trifle wool-headed after today’s events.” With an effort she forced herself to look at him, her heart plunging right to her toes at the narrowed expression in those black eyes. Her gaze dropped to her bowl of oyster stew. “I’m fine,” she said. And picking up her spoon, babbled, “Doesn’t this stew look delicious? I’ve always enjoyed Mrs. Eason’s cooking.”
Barnaby looked surprised. “You know my cook, Mrs. Eason?”
“Oh, yes,” Anne answered. “Your Mrs. Eason and our cook, Mrs. Spalding, are sisters, and our butler, Walker, is your housekeeper, Mrs. Bartlett’s uncle. Bissell, who used to be the butler here, is married to Mrs. Bartlett’s oldest sister.”
He shook his head. “I have had a hard time just remembering everyone’s name, much less that of their relatives.”
“It must be difficult for you,” Anne said sympathetically, “being amongst strangers and in a different country than you were born.”
“Not so different, and I have my man, Lamb, with me.” He smiled at Anne. “I’m adjusting and at least the language is the same.”
Interested, Emily looked at him and asked, “Do you think you’ll like living in England?”
His gaze seemed to reach out and caress her and he said softly, “Since I have met you two charming ladies, I find that I am liking it more and more by the minute.”
“Oh, that was prettily done,” cried Anne, clapping her hands together in delight. “I can hardly wait for you to meet Great-Aunt Cornelia! She is going to flirt outrageously with you.”
“Great-Aunt Cornelia . . . ?” Barnaby asked with a lifted brow.
Despite the flutter in her chest that his look had caused, Emily couldn’t help smiling as she pictured Cornelia’s reaction to Lord Joslyn. “She’ll have you dancing to the tune of her piping in no time,” Emily said, a teasing gleam in her eyes.
“That’s if she doesn’t eat you for dinner,” Anne added, grinning. “At eighty-nine, she is a remarkable woman. She’ll like you—especially if you stand up to her.”
Having helped himself from the sideboard, he took a seat across from the ladies and motioning them to their food, joined them at the table. Conversation was scant and general as everyone concentrated on the food, but Barnaby learned a great deal about the neighborhood during the course of the meal. Vicar Smythe grew the most exceptional roses, Anne informed him. Sir Michael, his house steward’s father, was a dear, dear old man; Mrs. Featherstone, widow of a wealthy landowner, was a darling but a great gossip with a quiver full of daughters to marry off and by all means, Emily warned, never buy a horse from Lord Broadfoot.
“I shall look forward to meeting all of them,” Barnaby said untruthfully as they finished up their meal and settled back to enjoy a final cup of coffee. He looked rueful. “I suspect it will be months before I meet all my neighbors and even longer before I can put faces with names. I am not even familiar with the staff at Windmere—let alone my neighbors.”
Anne smiled kindly at him. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Lord and Lady Broadfoot don’t come to call soon.” Her
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