After the first flurry of greetings was over—they must have lasteda good fifteen minutes, by Peter’s estimation—he went back outside to tend his curricle and his horses. Then, having discovered several loose boards in the fence but no handyman on the premises, he went in search of a hammer and nails, found them in the stable that doubled as a garden shed, left his coat there, and made the repairs himself despite the fact that the housekeeper gawked at him as if he were the unfortunate possessor of two heads when she came to the door to see what was creating the noise.
And then, because a scruffy little terrier dog had barked incessantly at him since his arrival and danced about him and even attempted to nip his wrists and ankles until informed that it would do so at its own peril, he decided that the animal needed more exercise than a prowl about the garden provided. He found an old leather leash in the shed, brushed it free of cobwebs, attached it to the dog, and took it for a brisk walk along some narrow country lanes until, on the way back to the cottage, he removed the leash so that it could dash about in all directions, beside itself with exuberant glee at discovering such wide open spaces and the freedom to explore them.
The stable, which had been built to accommodate three horses and a small carriage, would only just take his two horses. The curricle had to remain outside. Peter set about tidying the area and creating more space. And then, because the new space looked as if it had not seen either a broom or a pail of water in some time, he gave it both before spreading some fresh, clean-smelling straw, which he had found piled up behind the building.
By the time he entered the house by the kitchen door, he was feeling grubby and sweaty and really rather pleased with life. This was turning into the most pleasant afternoon he had spent since coming to Hareford House.
He washed his hands and his arms up to the elbows in water the flustered housekeeper poured for him, rolled down his shirtsleeves, and shrugged back into his coat—not an easy task without the assistance of his valet—and stepped into the sitting room, where Miss Osbourne was reading aloud but quietly while Miss Honeydew sat in a chair nearby, her head resting against the cushioned back, her eyes closed, her cap askew, her mouth wide open, snoring softly.
His eyes met Miss Osbourne’s.
He stepped back out into the corridor, cleared his throat, scuffed his boots on the wood floor, called out a second, more effusive thank-you to the housekeeper for the water, and reappeared in the doorway.
Miss Osbourne was closing the book and Miss Honeydew was sitting erect and wide awake. She was straightening her cap and beaming with happiness.
“What a wonderful reading voice you have for sure, Miss Osbourne,” she said. “I could listen to you all day long. And how splendid to havetwoyoung persons come to tea. I do hope the afternoon has not been a tedious one for you, Lord Whitleaf, though I daresay it has. I cannot tell you how much your kindness and Miss Osbourne’s has meant to me. You must both be ready for your tea.”
“It has not been a tedious afternoon by any means, ma’am,” he said, seating himself. “I was thinking to myself only a few moments ago that I have enjoyed this afternoon more than any other since I came into Somerset.”
“Oh, what a rascal you are!” Miss Honeydew clapped her hands with glee and laughed heartily.
Susanna Osbourne looked back at him reproachfully.
“You will surely fry for your sins,” she told him an hour later after they had waved good-bye to Miss Honeydew in the doorway of her cottage and were on their way back to Barclay Court. “The most enjoyable afternoon of your stay here indeed! Iheardyou hammering at the fence, and the housekeeper came and whispered to me that you were cleaning out the stable and wanted to know what she ought to do about it.”
“I took the mutt for a run too,” he said with a chuckle. “I thought its yapping might well drive you insane.”
“Why did youdoit all?” she asked, sounding rather cross.
“Because I cannot stand being idle?” he said. “But no, you would not believe that, would you? You believe me to be nothingbutidle. Perhaps I wished to impress you.”
“And you flattered Miss Honeydew without ceasing for almost an hour,” she said. “She was delighted even though she did not believe a word you said. She will doubtless live on the memory for days or weeks to come.”
“Is there anything wrong with that?” he asked her. “She is lonely, is she not?”
“There isnothingwrong with it,” she said, still sounding cross. “You are kind. You areverykind.”
Ah, she was cross because she had been proved at least partly wrong about him, was she?
“But frivolous and idle too,” he said, realizing suddenly that the elusive perfume he had tried to identify all the way to the cottage was not perfume at all but soap. It was very enticing nevertheless. So were the soft warmth of her thigh and her arm.
She did not reply and he chuckled.
“It is quite unsporting of you not to contradict me, Miss Osbourne,” he said. “Shall we use the return journey to discover if there is anything about each other that might make it possible for us to be friends?”
“Or impossible,” she said.
“I perceive,” he said, “that you are of the half-empty-glass school of thought, Miss Osbourne, while I am of the half-full school.”
“Then we are quite incompatible,” she said.
“Not necessarily so,” he said. “Some differences of opinion will provide us with topics upon which to hold a lively debate. There is nothing more dull than two people who are so totally in agreement with each other upon every subject under the sun that there really is nothing left worth saying.”
But why the devil it had popped into his head earlier and even last evening that he wanted her as afriend,he had no idea. Except that he knew he could not make her into a flirt, perhaps. She would not allow it—and neither would he. He would flirt with his social equals, with those who knew the rules of the game. He would not flirt with an indigent schoolteacher—she had been a charity pupil at the school where she now taught, for the love of God—whom he might inadvertently hurt.
But he could not simply ignore her. Good Lord, what was it he had thought two days ago when he first set eyes on her?
There she is.
