She had met Lord Farendale once, too; he had looked her over with undisguised interest but had not spoken. She would be perfectly content never to meet him again.
“I thought we might enjoy a picnic this afternoon,” Lady Westbrook announced at length, breaking the uneasy silence. “If you aren’t too tired, that is, Neil.”
The duke flinched. “Tired? I’m not tired.”
His aunt gave him a knowing look. “You and Simon were out rather late last night.”
Only then did Maggie notice the dark circles under his eyes.
“A picnic!” Emma exclaimed, beaming. “I want to go on a picnic!”
Lady Westbrook reached over, stretching past Maggie, to ruffle Emma’s hair. “Of course you do, dearest. So, it’s settled, then? We’ll go out at two o’clock and go to the big oak tree on top of Burn Hill. It’s a beautiful view, and there’s plenty of shade. There is even a lake at the bottom, where Emma might paddle if she wishes. The rain has held off, and I think the ground is quite dry enough.”
“An excellent idea, Lady Westbrook,” Lady Constance gushed. “I do declare, you have theloveliestideas.”
Maggie bit back a smile at this gushing flattery. Lady Westbrook’s smile held steady, though something in her eyes flickered—an almost imperceptible change, gone before it could quite be named. Maggie caught it.
Emma hesitated, glancing around the table. “Maggie can come too, can’t she?”
“Who in the blazes isMaggie?” Lord Farendale snorted.
“I believe Emma means Miss Winter here,” Lady Westbrook spoke up.
Lady Constance wrinkled her perfect nose. “Oh, no! It will quite spoil the day if servants come along. Let’s have it just us.”
“No servants?” the duke said sharply. “Do you intend to carry the blankets, chairs, and hampers up the hill yourself, Lady Constance?”
A heavy silence followed. Lord Farendale’s mouth fell open mid-chew; Lady Constance went pale.
Lady Westbrook broke the tension with brittle composure.
“His Grace is joking, of course,” she said lightly. “Naturally, theservants will help, and of course, Miss Winter will come. What do you say, Miss Winter—would you like a picnic?”
“I shouldn’t bother asking her,” Lord Farendale said with a coarse laugh. “She’ll do as she’s told, won’t she?”
Maggie fixed the man with a firm, steely stare. He met her gaze and seemed rather surprised to find her looking at him. He held her eyes only for an instant, then glanced away, flushing.
When Maggie looked around the table again, she found the duke watching her, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“It seems the decision has already been made,” he murmured. “A picnic it is.”
***
The picnic had thrown everything into disarray. Below stairs, Cook and her staff scurried to prepare a mountain of food while still managing an elaborate dinner for the evening. Jenny had been press-ganged into service in the kitchen, leaving Maggie to occupy Emma.
She had found a higher pianoforte stool, one that would let Emma reach the keys. They sat side by side in the bright room at the pianoforte, while Emma laboriously learned her scales.
“I want to play proper music,” Emma sighed. “Not all this running up and down.”
“Yes, but running up and down is how you learn to play the proper music,” Maggie said, smiling. “Scales are ever so important.”
Emma sighed again but obediently followed her example, climbing the keyboard one note at a time.
“Now back again. Not that finger—this one.”
“Why can’t I use that finger?”
“Because it helps your playing flow more smoothly,” said a man’s voice from the doorway.
