Her smile stuck to her teeth.
“I was referring to the twisting ride being worth the trouble.” He slid closer. “Of course.”
“Of course,” she said primly, sidling up against the door. “I assure you the view is well worth the effort.”
The road steepened, forcing the carriage to slow to a snail’s pace. Katherine gripped the seat and struggled to ignore her companion. The man radiated more heat than a cauldron of molten metal.
“Leaking quill?” he asked sympathetically.
Her gaze followed his to her stained fingers. “I hadn’t left the iron gall ink out long enough and…” She stopped. Why should she tell him she’d copied a primer for a child? For that matter, why should she tell him anything?
“You make your own ink?” he asked.
She nodded.
His expression turned perplexed, then admiring. “How industrious.”
“Thank you,” she replied, cursing her runaway mouth. She didn’t want him to know her. And she most certainly did not want to court his regard. And what kind of marquess was impressed with a lady who made her own ink?
She addedOddto her list ofReasons Not to Like the Marquess.
When the carriage reached the top of the hill, she moved to step off the small wooden stair. Misjudging the distance, she revealed a shocking length of pale pink silk stocking. She glanced back, but the marquess had not noticed.
“This way,” she said, scolding herself for a vague sense of disappointment.
She led the way up the steep stone stairs that climbed the final portion of the slope, making certain each step was solid. She hadn’t wanted him to admire her silk hose—one of the few indulgences she had not abandoned—and she did not want an offer of assistance.
Of course she didn’t.
Although assistance from the modern-day Olympian would not have been without advantages.
She retrained her eyes on the climb, with a not-so-silent exhale.
The closer they came, the taller the hemlocks appeared. At last, the folly came into view. The small structure sat in the center of a semicircle of hemlocks and resembled the ruins of an Ionic temple. They stepped inside, where Doric columns of pale gray stone framed the view.
“So this,” he said, “is your mother’s folly.”
“Was my mother’s folly,” she replied. “I mean, it still is a folly…”
There is nothing quite like a wide expanse to soothe the soul, her mother used to say. At the moment, Katherine found herself much in need of soothing. She settled her stomach and absorbed the view. Southford Manor lay nestled at the center, just as if someone had painted the scene.
“Does the folly have a name?” He spoke in a kind voice.
“She named it Vista Grove.”
He lifted his hand, shielding his gaze from the sun. “Magnificent.”
“I am sure it is nothing to your home.”
“Castle,” he said.
“Pardon?” she asked.
He turned his magnificent shoulders. “Not a home,” he said. “A Jacobean castle. In Northumberland.”
An image formed—ramparts rising out of a mist. A shimmering moat with a drawbridge. And in the middle, atop a beautiful stallion, Lord Bromton, in full armor.
He would have made a fine knight.
