Or perhaps not.
“Are they enjoying the Lake District?”
“According to the letter I received yesterday, yes.”
“Good.”
They walked on for a while in silence before she stopped and looked around. “Do you know where we are?”
“In the woods.”
She heaved a great, dramatic sigh. “Where are we in relation to the manor house?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
She lifted a bewildered eyebrow. “But these areyourwoods. How can you not know your
estate lands?”
He lifted empty hands. “Alas.”
“We’re lost?”
“Define lost.”
Her eyebrows dug trenches into her forehead.
“Beatrix,” he said in a tone that could calm a spooked horse, “did you never go off adventuring in the woods as a child?”
“No.”
For an instant, Dev was flummoxed. How could that be?
Then he remembered.
She’d spent many of her childhood days and years at racecourses with Lydon and his band of jolly rotters.
“Well,” he said, “I can assure you we shan’t be lost for long. England only has so much land. We would hit the sea from any direction, eventually. You can take the word of the son of an estate manager.”
Her eyes searched his for another instant, then she nodded and started walking again. “You had a wonderful childhood, didn’t you?”
He’d never given it much thought, but… “Yes.”
Ahead, a clearing came into view—a second, smaller pond. The forest surrounding it lent a feeling of privacy. One could indulge in summer swimming here. It would’ve even felt wild, but for the Greek-columned folly on the other side with its grand, domed roof.
“You might be the owner of the most beautiful estate in all England, Lord Devil.”
Before he could reply, a thunderclap sounded directly overhead, eliciting a startled cry from Beatrix before the sky opened—one…two…three…heavy raindrops followed by a sudden torrent. Lost as they were, a mad dash to the manor house wasn’t an option. By unspoken agreement, they sprinted straight for the folly, arriving soaked through to skin.
Well, Beatrix was soaked to the skin.
He had his greatcoat for protection.
She stared out at him, sodden, stringy tendrils of hair clinging to her cheeks, lashes heavy with raindrops. The wet-cat metaphor came to mind. “Are there two people in England more likely to get caught out in a rainstorm?”
Dev laughed. He couldn’t help it.
Beatrix didn’t join.
