“Lord Bowen.I have met him twice now,” her mother began slowly.“Henrik’s letters from London spoke of many people he met, including this viscount mapmaker.But when you both came home, neither of you mentioned…” She paused.
“Mentioned what?”Her heart beat quicker.Had her mother seen something?
“That Lord Bowen looks at you as a drowning man looks at shore.Henrik must have missed this.And you thought it best not to say anything.”
Heat flooded Lise’s face.“That is ...You are mistaken.His lordship is merely —”
“I’m not blind, Lise.”Her mother gently squeezed her shoulder.“I can only guess that something happened in London, which Henrik also missed.”
Lise could not speak.Could not breathe.Nor could she turn and look into her mother’s eyes.
“I will not press you,” her mother continued quietly.“But I will remind you of your betrothal.Whatever you feel for Lord Bowen, it cannot come to anything.It must not.Friedrich’s father and your father have an understanding.TheEhevertraghas been drawn up.To break it now would…” She trailed off, shaking her head.“It would be difficult.For all of us.”
“I know,” Lise whispered.“I know.”
Her mother’s hand dropped from her shoulder, but only so she could take hold of Lise’s hand with a reassuringly firm grip.
“If you are in Lord Bowen’s company again, you must guard your reputation.”After a moment, she added, “And your heart.Both are more fragile than you think.”Then her mother left her to ruminate.
Exhausted by the topsy-turvy state in which she’d existed all week, Lise climbed the stairs to her room.Her mother was right.Family honor, reputation, and Henrik’s safety meant more than anything else, more than a silly infatuation.And that was all her affections for Jonathan were.He was an exotic Londoner, vastly different from any man she’d encountered here at home.He’d paid her some flattering, undue attention.For all she knew, he had a lady friend in England.
Not that his state of bachelorhood mattered to her.Not at all.
Even if he was free as a greenfinch and utterly sincere in his compliments, she must ignore the attraction.Although Jonathan seemed genuine in each softly spoken word and every kiss, she would do well to recall he was a thwarted viscount.Used to getting his way.That could be his primary motivation in pursuing her.
Moreover, he hadn’t come to Holstein to vie for her heart or her hand.He’d come to survey for his country.She merely happened to be in the vicinity of his assignment.Would he have crossed the Channel and sought her out on his own accord?
And what did the answers matter?They didn’t.
Lise decided to train all her attention on her future husband.Friedrich’s alarming words had been the result of his sincere desire to be wedded to her, not to mention his jealousy over the hint of another man.
She was ashamed to admit he’d had good reason to be jealous.She was entirely to blame for provoking Friedrich.She must school herself to better appreciate his good qualities.
Even if it crushed her.
Morning came too soon, and with it, the drumming of hoofbeats on the road.
Lise was in the kitchen, doing a most enjoyable task, helping Anna knead bread.Two years earlier, after convincing her father it wouldn’t mar her hands or give her a hunched back, she’d been granted his permission to spend time in the kitchen.She’d still had to win over the most difficult member of the household.After a week of begging their cook to allow her entrance to her domain, Frau Becker had granted her limited access.
“Only when I’m not busy,” she’d said.“I can’t have you under foot when the pans are hot and the pots are bubbling.”
Ever since, at certain hours, she was allowed to work alongside their kitchen maid, who thought Lise to be the strangest creature.
“Working when you don’t have to, Fräulein,” Sofie would say with a shake of her head, but they enjoyed one another ‘s company.
Today, Lise had awakened after a fitful night, desperately needing something to take her mind off affairs of the heart.And she adored making the fragrant loaves, the precise measuring, the mixing — not too much, not too little — then the kneading.Almost as diverting as making preserves, which Sofie declared sweaty, back-breaking work.
Her mother appeared in the doorway, her face pale.
“Lise,” she said it like an exclamation.“French troops.Coming up the lane.”
Lise’s hands stilled in the dough, her heart starting to hammer.It had only happened once before, months ago in the winter while she and Henrik were making plans to go to England together.The soldiers needed a warm place for the night and settled in the horse stalls without asking.Then they’d demanded food in the morning.
Reaching for a cloth, she quickly wiped the sticky dough and flour from her palms and removed her apron before following her mother’s retreating form.At the front of the house, through the drawing room windows, she could see them — soldiers in imperial blue coats, lighter than the midnight blue of her brother’s uniform.
Lise counted eight, their horses kicking up dust in the early light.An officer rode at their head, his posture rigid with authority.
With her stomach starting to churn, she reached for her mother’s hand and found it was trembling.If only Henrik were there, but then, maybe it was best he wasn’t.
