The Homecoming by M. C. Beaton, Marion Chesney

gentlemen like stupid ladies, I have noticed that Miss Charter’s prattle bores you.”
    “So why Lady Verity?”
    “She is rich and haughty.”
    “And I am rich and haughty?”
    “Well…yes.”
    “Miss Lizzie, if I were all that high in the instep, I would hardly be sitting in a common inn garden with you.”
    “Nasty!” said Lizzie, her green eyes flashing.
    “But oh, so true.”
    “Then why
are
you sitting in what you call a common inn garden with such as I?”
    “Because you are beautiful.”
    “You are cruel,” said Lizzie angrily. “You are mocking me!”
    “Not I. Your hair gleams in the sunlight and you have a fascinating elfin charm.”
    Lizzie hung her head. “Now what have I done?” he teased. “Nonplussed the well-educated, direct-speaking Miss Lizzie Beverley?”
    “I am all that you must dislike,” said Lizzie. “I am not stately enough. Not grand enough. Not rich enough.”
    “If I had known a compliment was going to distress you so much, I would have kept silent. But did not, what I must continue to call Miss Trumble, teach you how to accept compliments?”
    “Oh, yes. I must raise my fan so, and lower my eyelashes, and say, ‘You do flatter me,’ and then I should titter.”
    “Now it is you who mocks me. I cannot envisage my aunt telling anyone to titter.”
    “Miss Trumble has a quite wicked sense of humour. But she has great good sense and I must talk to her again about Peter.”
    “My secretary?”
    “Yes, Miss Walters is not for him. He is too fine a gentleman to be saddled with such a mad girl.”
    “You worry so much about my servant that I begin to fear you have formed a tendre for him.”
    “Not I! We are friends.”
    Those odd silver eyes of his suddenly looked directly into her own. “No, it is the handsome Gerald who quickens your senses, is it not?”
    “I barely know the man.”
    “So you do not believe in love at first sight?”
    “I know nothing of love, Your Grace. I am too young.”
    “What? You who have lectured me on the existence of the beast.”
    Lizzie felt suddenly tearful. She felt he was mocking her and she wished he would return to his old indifferent manner.
    “You are talking
at
me,” she said crossly. “Let us talk of something else. Why did you really buy Mannerling?”
    “It seemed to me a good property, that is all. When my stay here is over, I shall lease it until such time as I want it back.”
    Lizzie gave a little sigh. “At least Mannerling to you is only a house. You do not seem to have been overcome by any strong desire to possess it.”
    “No, and I am not sure I want to live there much longer,” said the duke, uneasily remembering that reflection in the mirror again. “We have been away some time, and I am neglecting my guests. What should I do with them today?”
    “We could play croquet.”
    “So that you can beat me again?”
    “So that your guests will have some gentle and healthy exercise.”
    “Very well. Croquet it is.”
    Tiffin sat by her aunt’s bedside. The window was open and she could hear laughter and cries from outside as the guests played croquet. The door opened and an elderly lady came in. Tiffin rose and curtsied low.
    “My name is Miss Trumble,” said the lady with a warm smile. “I am so sorry to hear of your accident.”
    “Thank you,” said Tiffin shyly.
    “And let me see your poor aunt.” Miss Trumble crossed to the bed and felt Aunt Bertha’s forehead. “No fever, that is good. From my experience, she will shortly recover consciousness.” She sat down on a chair next to the bed and looked brightly at Tiffin. “I am chaperone to a Miss Lizzie Beverley. Tell me about yourself.”
    So Tiffin talked, and although she was not as frank as she had been with Peter, Miss Trumble quickly summed up the situation: ambitious farmer father, cross and bullying aunt, girl made lonely by the ambitions of her parent. Tiffin then went on to describe her rescue by Peter Bond in glowing terms.
    “Yes,