Lord Deane's face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "Has he? That is wonderful. There is so much potential for improvement in our agricultural practices, one cannot help but wish that a greater number of landowners would see fit to embrace the enlightened spirit of the age. The traditional methods have served us well for centuries, but science is advancing at such a remarkable pace. There are endless new techniques for enriching soil, more efficient use of land, better care for livestock…the possibilities are truly exciting."
He caught himself, laughing softly. "And there I go again. My mother despairs of me, truly. She says I will never find a wife if I insist on discussing crop yields at social gatherings."
"Perhaps you simply need to find a wife who appreciates discussions of crop yields."
The words came out before Vanessa could consider them, and she felt herself flush at the implication. Lord Deane's smile widened and something warm and hopeful flickering in his eyes.
"Perhaps I do," he said quietly.
Lady Wayworth cleared her throat in the manner of a woman who felt the conversation had veered into territory requiring intervention. "More tea, Lord Deane?"
"Thank you, Lady Wayworth." He accepted the refilled cup with grace, though his gaze lingered on Vanessa for a moment longer than strictly necessary.
The remainder of the visit passed pleasantly enough. They spoke of London, of the upcoming Season and of their mutual acquaintances and social obligations. Lord Deane inquired after Edward, who had apparently beaten him rather soundly at cards the previous week and owed him a rematch. He asked about Helena Crawford, whom he had met briefly at a musicale and found delightfully unaffected.
"Miss Crawford is my dearest friend," Vanessa said. "We have known each other since we were girls."
"She speaks very highly of you. At the musicale, she told me that you were the most intelligent woman of her acquaintance, and that anyone who failed to see it was a fool." Lord Deane smiled. "I found myself inclined to agree with her."
"Helena is too generous."
"I do not think so. I think she sees you clearly, which is more than most people manage." He set down his teacup, his expression thoughtful. "Clarity of vision is a rare gift. Most of us stumble through life half-blind, seeing only what we expect to see rather than what is actually there."
There was something in his tone, a weight beneath the words that made Vanessa look at him more closely. For a moment, she had the strangest sense that he was trying to tell her something, to communicate some deeper truth that propriety would not allow him to speak aloud.
But then the moment passed, and he was rising, consulting his pocket watch with an apologetic smile.
"I have taken enough of your time for one afternoon. But I wonder…might I call again? When you are settled in London, of course. Perhaps we could take a turn in the park, if the weather permits."
"I would like that."
"Excellent." He bowed over her hand, holding it perhaps a moment longer than strictly necessary. "Until London, Lady Vanessa. I shall count the days."
She watched him go, feeling... something. Not the desperate longing she had come to associate with matters of the heart, but something gentler and warmer. The possibility of contentment, if not passion.
Perhaps that was enough. Perhaps that was all anyone could reasonably expect.
"Well," Lady Wayworth said, once the door had closed behind him. "That went rather well, I think."
"He is pleasant company."
"He is more than pleasant company. He is an excellent prospect." Her mother's eyes were sharp, calculating. “He comes from a respectable family with a good fortune. He seems to have a pleasant disposition and I daresay… he is clearly, not to mention that he is clearly taken with you, Vanessa. A mother can tell these things."
"Mama…"
"I am not pressing you. I am merely... observing." Lady Wayworth gathered her needlework with the air of a woman who had said her piece. "Lord Deane would make a fine husband… a more tolerable arrangement could scarcely be imagined.”
A more tolerable arrangement could scarcely be imagined.
It was not exactly a ringing endorsement of passion and romance. But then again, passion and romance were not what Lady Wayworth valued. Stability, security, respectability, these were the currencies in which her mother dealt.
And perhaps she was right. Perhaps Vanessa had spent too long chasing feelings that led nowhere, wanting things she could not have. Perhaps it was time to be practical. To choose the man who was available, rather than pining for the one who was not.
She thought of Martin, unbidden with his grey eyes and mocking smiles and the weight of his hand at her waist during that waltz.
I am not the man I ought to be.
What had he meant by that? What could he possibly have meant?
