More whispers, doubtless. More stains on the name of Northwood.
But dash it all, it’d almost been worth the risk. To hear her laugh as she did once or twice when he’d splashed her. To take her up to the sandy place he often came alone. To sit next to her and watch the different expressions come over her face.
Fondness, when she told him of the time Captain had brought home a beagle pup. Then eager interest, as he pointed at various luggers, gigs, and schooners and named every one of them. By and by sadness, when she spoke of the baby named Thomas. Or compassion, when he mentioned his mother’s illness.
Then happiness. For no reason at all and only because she looked at him.
He’d responded without meaning to. Something had tugged deep inside him, a flare of intensity…of attachment.
This was not going to work. This was not going to happen. He had one goal, one purpose—and that was to prove that Richard Northwood did not murder the viscount’s wife.
No room existed in those plans for Eliza. Maybe for her memory, her nightmares, her assistance in reaching his goal.
But nothing else.
He sprinted back home, reached the stables panting, and saddled his horse. By the time he rode to the cove, night had already fallen, and the world was aglow in moonlight.
He waited for close to an hour. Miss Haverfield had mentioned she would come. Indeed, she had practically promised she’d be here when he last spoke with her at the ball. Was it just another empty tease?
He was ready to turn back for home when he spotted a horse approaching along the water’s edge. He recognized the erect posture, the flower-decked riding hat, and the riding crop held in one of the girl’s hands.
When she neared, her smile flashed in the moonlight. “You surprise me, Mr. Northwood. I told you I would come yesterday, yet you never deigned to show.”
“Was it yesterday? I thought it today.”
Her mouth formed an O. Then another smile. “Not very flattering, that.”
Had she no idea how many times he had waited at the cove, only for her not to arrive? Not long ago, this has been his only pleasure. His only diversion from clearing his father’s name.
Now it was his diversion yet again.
Only from something else.
Someone else.
As if she sensed as much, she sighed and tilted her head. “I do not feel much like riding tonight, Felton.” Now it was his Christian name? “Shall we stroll instead?”
“I should rather ride.”
If his refusal irked her, she showed no sign. Instead, she nodded gracefully and moved her horse first. He followed behind, and as they reached the water’s edge, he trotted beside her while they followed the curving beachline.
Once, a year or two ago, she’d kissed him at this very cove. ’Twas the most encouragement she’d ever given, aside from a press to the hand or a charming whisper in his ear.
How he’d marveled and grinned and been so proud of the kiss from the squire’s daughter.
Strange thing, that.
All Eliza had done was smile at him this afternoon, without so much as a touch—and it had made a thousand disrupting emotions march across his chest. Indeed, it made Miss Haverfield’s kiss of little importance. Made everything of little importance, for that matter.
But he could not think this way.
He had a name to think of.
A name that was much too soiled to risk soiling further.
The collars of his carrick coat stirred in the wind as Bowles paced along the secluded edge of the shore. There she went again. In the blue tints of moonlight, the black sails of theMarywichbillowed with wind, a near replica of theRed Drummer, aside from the ornate carvings on her bowsprit.
Marywichwouldn’t go down though.
