hear my counsel on the subject, I hope you won't hesitate to call on me."
"I'll keep that in mind," Sebastian said neutrally. Earlier, he'd written the vicar off as too unworldly a soul to understand the designs he had on Rachel Wade. Now he wasn't so sure.
7
"Ah, Mrs. Wade, there you are. I'd like you to go to the village with me."
It was amusing to watch her lose her composure. She'd had her nose in an account book, making notations in it, while one of the maids, on her hands and knees just inside the cavernous linen cupboard, called out to her things like, "Sixteen muslin pillow slips, not embroidered. Twenty-one embroidered, all of 'em white."
"My lord," his housekeeper greeted him, flustered, "do you mean—now?"
"I thought now, yes, inasmuch as I'm meeting the mayor in half an hour or so. That is, if you can tear yourself away from this fascinating inventory-in-progress."
She colored, but whether from his sarcasm or the avid scrutiny of the maid, still kneeling in the closet— Violet, he thought her name was—Sebastian couldn't be sure.
"Yes, of course, my lord, I'll—this can wait. We'll finish later, Violet. You can ... go and help Cora in the kitchen."
Violet scrambled to her feet. "Help Cora," she echoed in an aggrieved tone, and for a second Sebastian thought she was going to refuse the order. She was a parlormaid, he recalled; she must consider helping in the kitchen beneath her. She shifted her black-eyed glance in his direction, then back to Mrs. Wade. "Yes, ma'am," she muttered, half curtsied to him, and flounced off toward the servants' stairs.
"I hope you don't tolerate insolence among your charges, Mrs. Wade," he said seriously—as if it mattered to him.
"I'm still learning, my lord. And—I think I'm improving. Violet can be difficult sometimes, but the fault is mine as much as hers. Giving orders is not something I'm . . . particularly used to."
It was a long answer for her; she must be in a talkative mood. Side by side, they walked down the center staircase. In the foyer, she excused herself— "for two seconds, my lord"—while she went to get her hat, and she was almost as good as her word. That pleased him, if the hat did not. It was a poke bonnet of flat black straw, in the giddy height of fashion about fifteen years ago; its protruding sides, like giant blinders, almost hid her interesting profile. But she looked so enchanted with the bright morning when they stepped out into the courtyard, Sebastian lost interest in saying anything unkind to her about her hat.
"Shall we walk or ride?"
That brought her up. "Whichever you prefer, my lord," she replied dutifully.
"Of course. But in this case I'm asking you."
She looked worried; she feared a trap. "Are you in a hurry?"
"No, are you?"
"No, my lord." Was she smiling? He couldn't be sure because of the damned hat.
He waited.
"Shall we. .. walk, then?"
"Yes, if you like," he said agreeably, and they set off at a leisurely pace, rather like two friends out for a stroll. He thought of taking her arm, but decided against it. He wanted her company today, nothing more. This was a leisurely seduction; he was enjoying the preamble too much to rush the climax.
Knowing there would be no conversation unless he initiated it, he asked presently, "What did you particularly miss in prison, Mrs. Wade?"
After a surprised moment, she answered, "There wasn't one thing, my lord."
"Three things, then. And they needn't be the main things, if that paralyzes you. Just the three you think of first."
"Flowers," she said immediately, glancing at the steep sides of the hard-packed road, where milkwort sprawled in exuberant blue and white tangles. "And . . . light. Long views of the world in natural light."
He frowned. "You were not allowed to go outside at all?"
"On the contrary, we had daily exercise in the prison yard."
"What was daily exercise like?"
She glanced at him, assessing his interest. "We walked, my lord."
"Walked? Where?"
"Nowhere.
"I'll keep that in mind," Sebastian said neutrally. Earlier, he'd written the vicar off as too unworldly a soul to understand the designs he had on Rachel Wade. Now he wasn't so sure.
7
"Ah, Mrs. Wade, there you are. I'd like you to go to the village with me."
It was amusing to watch her lose her composure. She'd had her nose in an account book, making notations in it, while one of the maids, on her hands and knees just inside the cavernous linen cupboard, called out to her things like, "Sixteen muslin pillow slips, not embroidered. Twenty-one embroidered, all of 'em white."
"My lord," his housekeeper greeted him, flustered, "do you mean—now?"
"I thought now, yes, inasmuch as I'm meeting the mayor in half an hour or so. That is, if you can tear yourself away from this fascinating inventory-in-progress."
She colored, but whether from his sarcasm or the avid scrutiny of the maid, still kneeling in the closet— Violet, he thought her name was—Sebastian couldn't be sure.
"Yes, of course, my lord, I'll—this can wait. We'll finish later, Violet. You can ... go and help Cora in the kitchen."
Violet scrambled to her feet. "Help Cora," she echoed in an aggrieved tone, and for a second Sebastian thought she was going to refuse the order. She was a parlormaid, he recalled; she must consider helping in the kitchen beneath her. She shifted her black-eyed glance in his direction, then back to Mrs. Wade. "Yes, ma'am," she muttered, half curtsied to him, and flounced off toward the servants' stairs.
"I hope you don't tolerate insolence among your charges, Mrs. Wade," he said seriously—as if it mattered to him.
"I'm still learning, my lord. And—I think I'm improving. Violet can be difficult sometimes, but the fault is mine as much as hers. Giving orders is not something I'm . . . particularly used to."
It was a long answer for her; she must be in a talkative mood. Side by side, they walked down the center staircase. In the foyer, she excused herself— "for two seconds, my lord"—while she went to get her hat, and she was almost as good as her word. That pleased him, if the hat did not. It was a poke bonnet of flat black straw, in the giddy height of fashion about fifteen years ago; its protruding sides, like giant blinders, almost hid her interesting profile. But she looked so enchanted with the bright morning when they stepped out into the courtyard, Sebastian lost interest in saying anything unkind to her about her hat.
"Shall we walk or ride?"
That brought her up. "Whichever you prefer, my lord," she replied dutifully.
"Of course. But in this case I'm asking you."
She looked worried; she feared a trap. "Are you in a hurry?"
"No, are you?"
"No, my lord." Was she smiling? He couldn't be sure because of the damned hat.
He waited.
"Shall we. .. walk, then?"
"Yes, if you like," he said agreeably, and they set off at a leisurely pace, rather like two friends out for a stroll. He thought of taking her arm, but decided against it. He wanted her company today, nothing more. This was a leisurely seduction; he was enjoying the preamble too much to rush the climax.
Knowing there would be no conversation unless he initiated it, he asked presently, "What did you particularly miss in prison, Mrs. Wade?"
After a surprised moment, she answered, "There wasn't one thing, my lord."
"Three things, then. And they needn't be the main things, if that paralyzes you. Just the three you think of first."
"Flowers," she said immediately, glancing at the steep sides of the hard-packed road, where milkwort sprawled in exuberant blue and white tangles. "And . . . light. Long views of the world in natural light."
He frowned. "You were not allowed to go outside at all?"
"On the contrary, we had daily exercise in the prison yard."
"What was daily exercise like?"
She glanced at him, assessing his interest. "We walked, my lord."
"Walked? Where?"
"Nowhere.
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