Chapter 2
“Might I ask what you are doing on Mr. Tate’s property?” asked the fellow.
Rosanna refused to blush over her thoughts about her rescuer’s masculine arm—after all, such strength was to be expected when he made his living with his hands. Instead, she forced her thoughts onto more polite paths and considered the question.
“As anyone is free to cross the fields and forests whenever they wish, I hardly think you need to ask such a question.”
“Ah, true. But I cannot help but be curious when a pretty lady stands overlooking a creek with such an air of melancholy that she seems to have stepped straight from a Gothic tale.”
Then the fellow dared to wink at her, but for all that Rosanna knew she ought to be affronted at his impertinence, she couldn’t help but laugh; she would judge him to be a few years older than she, but he looked like a naughty child at that moment. If she was some tragic Gothic heroine, he was the impish Puck fromA Midsummer Night’s Dream, appearing in her life to cause mischief.
“Do you think I confide my secrets to every stranger who crosses my path?” she asked with raised brows, though not entirely able to conceal her smile.
The groom pulled them to a stop. “I have been quite remiss in my duties, haven’t I?”
Then, turning to face her, he swept into a grand imitation of a gentleman, though he had no hat to lift from his head. “I, dear lady, am Mr. John Malcolm, groom at Boxwood Manor and rescuer of fair damsels who try to throw themselves into a creek.”
“Firstly, falling atop me and crushing the air from my lungs hardly constitutes a rescue, and secondly, I did not throw myself in,” she said with a frown that was hardly effective at all, for she grinned through the whole of it. Rosanna couldn’t maintain her aloofness when Mr. Malcolm was so determined to make her laugh with his overdone airs and graces.
Ought she to refer to him as Mr. Malcolm? Or simply John? Although she would never address her family’s manservant by his surname, it felt strange to do so in this instance.
“Firstly, you needn’t besmirch my skills as a rescuer simply because you are not a proper damsel. I am certain I would’ve managed quite handsomely had a certain elbow not been thrust into my face,” he said, rubbing at his nose. But before Rosanna could say a word to defend herself, Mr. Malcolm added, “Secondly, I am quite certain of what I saw. You stood there, looking adorably forlorn. The very picture of dejectedness. Then you cast yourself into the creek.”
Glancing up at the shining sun, which gleamed all the brighter as birdsong filled the air, he added, “In the future, you might choose someplace a little more atmospheric for your demise. This is hardly befitting a tragic end.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“Thank you for the compliment.”
Rosanna ignored that last jest and continued on her way, though she got no more than two steps before Mr. Malcolm was at her side once more, offering his arm in support. She took it with a raise of her chin and an imperious brow, but the affectation was rendered entirely ineffective; Rosanna couldn’t playact, and Mr. Malcolm was too diverting to maintain her facade.
“Have you worked long at Boxwood Manor?” she asked.
“After saving your neck and introducing myself, am I still to be subjected to interrogation before you will tell me a thing about yourself?” But he ruined the put-upon tone by giving yet another grin.
Rosanna merely answered that with a challenging raise of her brows and awaited his answer to her question.
“I just arrived at Boxwood Manor. I fancied a change of scenery, so I came with Mr. Tate from his London residence,” he replied with a shrug.
With a huff and a shake of her head, Rosanna turned her attention to the path ahead and murmured to herself, “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Mr. Malcolm’s brows rose. “What would?”
She cursed her wayward tongue; she truly was in quite the mood today if she was allowing herself to say such a thing in front of a stranger. Instead, she turned her attention to the various shades of green around her, dotted with the tiniest of wildflowers. Were they chamomile? Or perhaps little chrysanthemums of some sort? Somewhere in the distance, a sheep bleated, though Rosanna couldn’t spy the creature.
“Out with it,” said Mr. Malcolm, nudging her side, and then he tacked on, “Miss…?”
Instead of acknowledging the shadows lingering in her heart, Rosanna embraced his silliness and raised her chin in a haughty manner. “And admit an acquaintance before we have been properly introduced? Scandalous!”
“I am only a poor groom, so I am beneath such niceties. And have I mentioned that I rescued you?” he added with a waggle of his brows. “Surely that earned me the right to know the name of my fair damsel, and what it is that has such a handsome lady looking so despondent on such a gorgeous day.”
Even if she wanted to hold onto decorum, with mud crusting on her person and the ridiculousness of this day, Rosanna couldn’t bring herself to remain silent. “I am Miss Leigh. Rosanna Leigh.”
“Such a lovely name for such a lovely lady.”
“Come now, sir, you can do better than that,” she replied with brows raised. “You play the part of a rascal, but your compliment is insipid. I have heard a variation of that most of my life.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Malcolm’s brows rose to match hers.
