Thirteen
THORNTON HALL, KENT - APRIL 2, 1814
MICHAEL
I bribedMrs. Hudson and Anna to put together a basket for the two of us to enjoy. I felt every bit the love-sick fool when I requested it. Of course, the two were quite willing to make miracles happen for a bottle of the good port, though not without a good-natured teasing.
My bribery was more efficient than I anticipated, and I was left to wait on Juliet’s arrival.Lady Juliet.I must remember it was Lady Juliet. I paced the foyer, fiddling with my hat like a dolt. I was certain I looked every bit as graceless as I felt when I saw her at the top of the stairs. She had added a navy spencer and a matching floral bonnet to her day dress, and she danced down the stairs, book in hand, biting her lip—perhaps the barest hint of trepidation.
“I thought perhaps we might find a spot for a bit of luncheon on our tour.” I lifted the basket in my hand before donning my hat and holding the door for her.
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
The day was warmer than usual for the time of year, and the sun burned bright. The air was fresh and floral compared to the thick, cloying scents of London. Confidently, she slid her hand to rest on my forearm, a significant change to her previous unease. Her hand felt at home there. The rest of her felt at home next to me as well. Her frame and small curves perfectly matched the dips in my own form. She was tall, the top of her bonnet reaching just under the brim of my hat.
She was responsible for maintaining the distance between us that propriety dictated; I would not be so fastidious. Propriety would also have demanded a chaperone, yet she did not comment on our lack. The numerous gardeners and stable hands wandering about were likely enough for her comfort.
“Where would you like to tour first?” Unable to resist the urge to tease her, I added, “There are several gardens and the stables I can show you.”
She hesitated, and I fought back a grin. She clutched the novel closer to her, seemingly an unconscious gesture. She cared little about the flowers or the horses, wanting only my promised reading hideaway.
A testament to her unfailing decorum, she answered, “You would know best where to begin.”
It was frustrating. In the rare instances she let her guard down, I had become addicted to her light teasing, her earnest sincerity, her adorable fury. I wanted that honesty from her, always. But I hadn’t earned that from her yet, nor her trust. I had no right to demand it from her. I was quite unworthy of even the precious few instances gifted to me thus far.
“Or…” I drew the word out as I turned to her and rocked back on my heels. “I could take you to my favorite place. Nice breeze and shade to keep cool, excellent light.”
She bit her lip, restraining a smile. The warmth in her eyes betrayed her. “Yes, please.”
I missed the anxious tightness that settled into my muscles with her first placid response. It eased with her honesty, and the relief in its absence was striking.
“You know, I think you’d be surprised at what I’m willing to do if you just ask.”
“And what, pray tell, would you be willing to do for me?” She wore the self-satisfied archness well.
“I think the better question is, what wouldn’t I be willing to do for you?”
“And what would you refuse me?”
“I’ll let you know the first time you ask me for something, and I find myself unwilling.”
A pleased flush overtook her, and it was breathtaking. Offering my arm once more, she slipped hers gracefully through. She was pressed closer this time, just on the correct side of improper. It was a short walk to my sanctuary. In no more than ten minutes, we found our destination, and I couldn’t help but wish I’d found a longer route.
The path was slightly overgrown. I was forced to release her to lift a tree branch from her way. In doing so, I missed her first sight of the little clearing surrounding the slow-moving creek and the worn bridge that crossed it. Her quiet gasp made up for it.
Trailing after her, I was treated to the first sight of my favorite refuge in years. The trees had grown in my absence, buds displaying the first brush of spring. The raspberry bushes on the opposite bank had overtaken it. Wildflowers bloomed in the sunlight filtering through ash branches. The dogwood had begun to drop a few petals into the creek; they floated lazily past. The simple oak bridge fared better than I had hoped in my absence. Though it was weathered, it remained sturdy. I had worried it would be overwrought.
I built the bridge in my youth using scrap wood. It served as a method to sneak across to the Revello property for raspberries. And raspberries meant Anna’s raspberry tarts. That family had complained heartily until they abandoned the house, ostensibly seeking a tenant. I was more than willing to risk their wrath for Anna’s tarts. As far as I was aware, the home remained empty to this day more than a decade unoccupied.
I could not bring myself to turn for her reaction, instead hurrying to my weatherbeaten bridge. Carefully, I tested the sturdiness with a foot before putting my full weight on it. Satisfied with its strength, I knelt to brush some of the debris off. After pulling out the blanket Mrs. Hudson had packed, I covered the worn wood, thankful she had thought of it. I never indulged in such flights of whimsy. I turned to find Juliet already on my heels, head tipped back as she took in the scenery. I handed her down to join me on the blanket. A small part of me feared that my proper duchess would refuse such an undignified, humble seat. At the very least, I expected her to sit primly, perfectly posed.
Instead, she gathered the slightest bit of her skirts up, flashing a tantalizing hint of stocking, and allowed her feet to dangle at the edge, legs bent at the knees. She pulled off her gloves, loosening one finger at a time before leaning back with her weight on one hand, the other at the ties of her bonnet, tugging it off. She tipped her head farther back, eyes closed, basking in the sun’s warmth on her face.
My heart stopped at the sight before resuming its work with fervor. Several of her dark curls pulled free with her bonnet, caressing her neck and cheek with the soft breeze. The barest hint of cinnamon shone in the locks where the sun hit. Long, dark lashes and elegant brows served as a vivid contrast to her pale skin. Her cheeks retained that peachy flush. Her lips were bitten to the same red as the raspberries along the bank.
I returned to myself when she sat up, turning her eyes to me. Caught with my mouth open in wonder at the sight of her, I struggled for purpose. I pulled the basket between us for something to do. Mrs. Hudson had packed fruits, cheeses, loaves of bread, spreads, and other assorted treasures, and I pulled them out one by one, an offering to my Juliet.
“What would you like?”
