“You are most definitely ungrateful,” he said wearily. “They’d follow because they wish to get you alone.”
“Crowthorne?” She swallowed. “I will not give him another chance.”
“That depends on how determined he is in his pursuit of you.” He yawned. “I’ll be happy to be proved wrong. I intend to find out what’s driving him. It can’t merely be your allure or your humble cottage.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” she said with a touch of irony. “I see you are resting your diplomatic skills along with the horse. As I have told you, Sir Horace wants to put a road through my land.”
“Mmm. I like your perfume. Is it roses?” He yawned again.
“It’s called Attar of Roses. You’re not falling asleep, are you?”
“With a lovely bundle in my arms?” He chuckled. “What sort of man would I be?”
“A tired one I imagine.” Her own lids were threatening to close. She sat up suddenly at a flicker of light glowing in the dark.
“Careful!” One big hand flattened against her stomach as the horse’s gait faltered.
She shifted away from his warm hand. “There’s a light over there, through those trees.”
“I don’t see it, where?”
They approached a bend, the road bordered by large trees. “I can’t see it now.”
“I doubt a farmer would be up at this hour,” he said. “It might have been moonlight reflecting on a roof.”
“A farmer tending to a sick animal, perhaps. It’s the wrong time of year for foaling.”
“You know about farming?”
She noted his surprise. “My father was a farmer.”
“How did you come to marry Lord Brookwood?”
“Father was the third son of a baron. We were not poor,” she said defensively. She had suffered enough criticism from her husband to last a lifetime.
“Oh? Which baron?”
“A small barony in Dover. Lord Freemont, long dead and the property gone for taxes.”
“That still doesn’t explain how you came to marry Lord Brookwood.”
“In a church in the usual way,” she said crisply.
“I suspect there is a lot more you aren’t telling me,” he said, in a quiet voice.
“Perhaps. But this is hardly the time,” she murmured uneasily. Was his gentle tone meant to disarm her? She would not discuss her sorry past with him now, or ever.
The horse stumbled. “We should dismount.” He pulled on the reins. “The horse tires, walking him will wake us up.”
He helped her down. She stretched her stiff limbs and glanced with dismay at her beaded evening slippers. If only she wore her sturdy, leather half boots. He might have warned her! She could be wearing a wool gown instead of this light silk. But if he had warned her, she reasoned, she’d be enjoying the Canning’s dinner.
Glad of the moonlight, Althea walked with him along the rough road, skirting moonlit puddles. She enjoyed her garden lit by moonlight. But she’d had more than enough of fresh air and moonlight this evening.
They fell silent, the horse clopping along beside them with Montsimon holding the rein. An owl hooted and flew from a tree into the sky. Althea felt every pebble through her thin, silk slippers and stifled the pain of a stubbed toe, afraid Montsimon would be obliged to carry her. But she failed to suppress a shudder when the cold breeze lifted her cloak. There was only so much she could endure without complaint.
“I’m chilled through,” she grumbled.
Montsimon looped the reins over his arm. He removed his leather gloves. “Give me your hands.”
