“That is none of your business, Mr. Thorne,” she said, her laughter forgotten, to be replaced by icy hauteur.
“How old are you?” he asked her.
“Mr. Thorne!”
“Twenty-four?” he suggested. “Twenty-five? Twenty-six? No more than that, I believe. But surely well past the age at which most ladies marry. Yet I cannot believe no man has ever asked or hinted that hewouldask with the smallest encouragement. You are the daughter and sister of a duke, after all. I would be surprised if you are not also extremely wealthy. Besides all of which you are easy on the eyes.”
There was a pause. “And you, sir,” she said, “are impertinent.”
“For speaking the truth?” he said. “Do you encourage your court to cluster about you, Lady Jessica, because you do not want to marry? Safety in numbers and all that? It seems altogether possible.”
“If you do not change the subject immediately,” she said, “I must ask that you take me home, sir.”
“My guess,” he said, “is that you have given up hope.”
“Oh really,” she said, sounding severely annoyed. “Are these American manners, Mr. Thorne?”
“It would be somewhat alarming,” he said, “if a whole nation was to be judged—and presumably condemned—upon the words and behavior of one man who has only lived there for a number of years. But back to my point. I believe, Lady Jessica, you have given up hope of finding that one man who can distinguish himself from the crowd and renew your interest in matrimony and a new life, quite independent of your mother and brother—halfbrother, I believe that is.”
“Well,” she said, “you have certainly distinguished yourself from the crowd, Mr. Thorne. But if you believe that you have also aroused in me any eagerness to marry you, you are sadly mistaken. To put the matter mildly.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed.
“There is noperhapsabout it,” she retorted.
They lapsed into silence after that while Lady Jessica faced forward and raised her parasol. It was definitely a parasol rather than an umbrella. It was made of a pale silvery gray lacy fabric that would not offer much protection from rain. She twirled it vigorously behind her head for a few moments before lowering it again with a snap. He had discomposed her, Gabriel could see, though she maintained a stiff dignity and did not carry through on her threat to demand that she be taken home.
When they approached Richmond he directed his horses to one of the gates in the high wall that he had been told surrounded the whole of the park. Perhaps he would find somewhere inside later to leave the curricle so that they could walk. But first he wanted to find and drive along the Queen’s Ride he had heard about, a grand avenue that ran between woodland on either side.
There were other people in the park, enough, anyway, to satisfy the Dowager Duchess of Netherby when she questioned her daughter later, as she surely would. Generally speaking, though, there was an agreeable sense of rural quiet here, a heightened awareness of trees swaying and rustling in the breeze, of birds singing, of blue sky above with small white clouds scurrying across it in a breeze that was hardly apparent on the ground. Once or twice they spotted deer, which apparently roamed free here in large numbers. There were the smells of greenery and soil and fresh air. Gabriel felt an unexpected wave of pleasure at being back in England. He had forgotten . . .
“I miss the countryside,” she said, breaking a lengthy silence.
“You do not live in London all year, then?” he asked. Most of the upper classes did not. He knew that much from when he had lived in England himself.
“No,” she said. “I grew up at Morland Abbey in Sussex, my father’s home and now Avery’s. I still live there with my mother. And with Avery and Anna and their children, of course.”
“Your mother did not move to a dower house after your father’s passing?” he asked. “Is that not what most dowagers do?”
“Most?”she said. “I do not know. My mother and I have our own apartment in the abbey. It is very large. The abbey, I mean, though our apartment is spacious too. We are not confined there, however. We live freely with my brother and sister-in-law.”
“You do not long for your own establishment?” he asked.
She turned her head. “Are we returning to that subject?” she asked. “My own home, you mean, as a wife and mother?”
“Yes,” he said. “Are not most young ladies eager to get away from their mothers and their brothers in order to be mistresses of their own establishments?”
“I cannot speak for most ladies,” she said.
“Then speak for yourself,” he told her, acknowledging with a nod a couple of riders who were cantering by in the opposite direction.
“I have never been tempted,” she said.
“Because you cannot be?” he asked her. “Or because it has just not happened?”
“Oh,” she said, sounding cross again, “weareback on the subject. What about you, Mr. Thorne? You must be considerably older than I am. Thirty, at a guess? At least that. Haveyounever been tempted to marry?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “It happened a couple of weeks or so ago, soon after I had disembarked after a long voyage from America. I was relaxing in the private parlor of the inn at which I had put up for the night, reading and minding my own business, when I was interrupted by the landlord, who had come to beg me to relinquish my claim upon the room, for which I had already paid handsomely. A lady had arrived unexpectedly at the inn and was demanding it. Avery important lady. He dared not say no. His business might be forever ruined. When I followed him from the room, prepared to argue the point, I came face-to-face with the lady herself, though I do not doubt I was not intended to do so. Almost instantaneously I gave in to the temptation to give up not only the parlor but also my single state. I decided that Lady Jessica Archer, sister of the Duke of Netherby, would be my wife.”
