When she finished, she rested her hands in her lap and lifted her eyes.
Hudson was staring at her in open-mouthed wonder.
“Useless?” he repeated in disbelief. “They should be paying you to lead the orchestra.”
She laughed and rose from the bench. “If you knew anything about music, you’d realize—”
He grabbed her hands and hauled her to him. “When will you realize that you aren’t useless? You’re worth so much more than you—”
“Of course I’m not useless. I’m useful. I’ve been told so my entire life. That is, I’ll become useful the moment I wed Lord Oldfield and fulfill my destiny. After which, I’ll become useful to the viscount, in any way that he demands. A good daughter. A dutiful wife.”
“That sounds dreadful. I like you better when you think for yourself and live as you please. If you were my wife—” He dropped her hands and turned away.
“If I were your wife?” she repeated softly, coaxingly.
He shook his head. “There’s no point in finishing the sentence, is there? I might as well have said, ‘If I were a fire-breathing dragon.’”
“I’m fairly certain you are one,” she informed him. “Your official title might be ‘man of business’, but when people speak of you, it’s with fear and respect. I’ve heard ‘guard dog’, ‘attack dog’, ‘good kisser’…”
He snorted. “What do you know about that, Mrs. Snowfeather? Have you ever kissed anyone else?”
“No,” she answered honestly. “Nor do I want to.”
A tortured expression crossed his face. He placed her hand back on his arm and directed them toward the exit, rather than respond.
“Where to now?” he asked once they reached the pavement.
She grinned at him. “Your turn to choose.”
He looked so surprised that for a second Tabitha was hurt—did he truly think her so spoilt and demanding that his own wishes and happiness were not of the least concern to her?
Just as quickly, the more likely explanation occurred to her: he was a full-time servant to an aristocratic master. And not just any lord. Viscount Oldfield, who was famously unconcerned about the desires and consent of others.
If the self-centered roué was chronically invasive and leering and rude in plain sight of an entire ballroom of his peers, heaven only knew how poorly the viscount would treat a servant considered far beneath his station in the privacy of his own home. Especially knowing that a single word from a powerful lord would be more than enough to ensure Hudson never found similar work again, if he dared to leave his master.
“Your turn,” Tabitha repeated softly. “I needed this week for me, but you’re here, too. This is our week, Mr. Snowfeather. We’re on holiday together. What would you like to do next?”
He stared at her with such heat in his eyes that Tabitha blushed.
“What do I wish to do? Nothing speakable in public.” He forced his gaze away and gestured down the street. “But I’ve always wanted to visit the brewers’ field. There’s no sense in going now. The vendors are long gone and—”
“We’re going. Right now.” She tugged him forward with a spring in her step… and a pang of sympathy in her heart. His wish was so simple. So achievable. She hated that he never had a single moment of his own to do as he pleased. Hated that she hadn’t thought to ask his preferences a fortnight ago, when they’d both been in Marrywell, and the festival was in full swing.
Perhaps she had once indeed been spoilt and selfish after all.
When they arrived, the brewers’ field was even larger than Tabitha had imagined. She’d never visited it either in all her years journeying to Marrywell, primarily because it was generally the domain of men, and not the sort of place an aristocratic young lady should be seen.
No one was here now. She and Hudson had the entire enormous field with its tall green fence of elderberry bushes all to themselves. The tents and beer stands were long gone, but dozens of huge round stone tables with matching curved stone benches dotted the empty field.
And that wasn’t all.
“Look!” Tabitha pointed past the vacant tables to the furthest section of grass. “A maypole!”
The tall wooden pole stretched twelve or fifteen feet high, and was wrapped in an intricate braid of brightly colored ribbons.
“We missed the maypole dance,” she said with disappointment.
Hudson chuckled. “I doubt that’s true. Have you seen the clientele of a brewers’ field? I can’t imagine hundreds of men frolicking with ribbons in a fertility dance by themselves, no matter how much ale they’ve imbibed.”
