Colin. Anne had almost forgotten that was Lord Grump’s Christian name. Why did it have to be so...so nice? It should be something like Horace or Horton, which would sound like a cat trying to cough up a hairball.
A giggle rose at the idea.
“You also find your fall humorous, Miss Weatherby?” Horton—erm, Colin—asked.
“No, sir. I was thinking about something entirely different.”
“Care to enlighten us?”
“No. I don’t think so. A woman must keep some things a mystery.” She gave her chin a defiant jerk for good measure.
Across the table from Anne, Charlotte snorted a laugh and received an elbow nudge from Mr. Beckham. She hitched a brow at her husband. “What? They sound like us.”
“Then I pity poor Manning.” With a slight pause, Mr. Beckham grinned. “Or perhaps...not.”
Mr. Grey stifled a cough with his serviette. “If your accident hasn’t put you off riding entirely, and your brother approves, perhaps we could join Lord Manning and Lady Miranda tomorrow.”
Did Lord Grump just growl?
“If Anne promises not to attempt anything foolish”—Andrew gave her a pointed look as if adding a silent addendum ofas she usually does—“and Burwood supplies the most docile of horses for her, I don’t see why not.”
“Miss Weatherby?” Mr. Grey waited for her approval.
“Very well. That is, if Lord Manning and Lady Miranda don’t object. I would hate to think we were intruding.”
“No intrusion at all,” Miranda said. “We’d be happy to have you join us, wouldn’t we, Lord Manning?”
“Of course.” The pulse in Lord Grump’s jaw said otherwise.
Supper conversation turned to other topics, and Anne breathed a sigh of relief when it was over and the ladies retired to the parlor, leaving the men—and most importantly Viscount Moody-Manning—behind.
Colin had excusedhimself after supper. In an effort to avoid gathering with the ladies later, he claimed exhaustion. And although it wasn’t a lie, he had another fitful night’s sleep. Visions of Margery wasting away while he stood helplessly by haunted his dreams, and he woke in a cold sweat.
He had failed his wife. Irrational thought? Yes, but he couldn’t shake the heavy weight of responsibility he carried ever since Margery had become ill. They had visited her family during her sister’s illness, and Margery had insisted on remaining by Penelope’s bedside until her death.
Two weeks later, the coughing began.
He should have done something. Said something. Insisted.
He rose from the bed and splashed cold water on his face. Outside, the sun rose over a rolling hill and provided a gentle wake-up call to the estate. Birds tweeted their incessant cheerful songs, and a light breeze blew in from his window, bringing with it the sweet fragrance of a freshly scythed lawn.
None of it matched his mood.
After a sharp rap, his door opened, and his valet, Fitz, entered. “Good morning, sir. How are we feeling this beautiful day?”
Damn the man’s infernal cheery disposition. Colin grunted his reply.
“Grumpy this morning, I see.”
Colin jerked his head toward the man. The image of a particular petite woman with red hair rose in his mind. “Why does everyone insist on using that descriptor? I amnotgrumpy.”
Fitz’s lips pressed in a thin line, the tell-tale dimple in his left cheek making a brief appearance. “As you say, sir. And what are our plans today?”
“Myplans are to go riding after breakfast with Lady Miranda Townsend.”
In the process of going through Colin’s clothes, Fitz halted, standing stark-still for a few seconds before turningand staring wide-eyed. “Indeed? Well then, we shall have to make sure you look your absolute best.”
Colin grunted again.
