Page 17 of The Widow Wore Plaid

“Hello again, Miss Granger.”

The pleasantly familiar voice of Lord Harold right next to her brought her wide awake instantly. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

“They are offering lemonade as well as tea, and I thought you might enjoy something cool.” He set a glass filled with pale yellow liquid before her, flat flecks of lemon pulp swirling around it.

“Thank you. That was quite thoughtful.” She smiled at him and took a tentative sip. “This is perfect. Not too sweet, not too tart.”

“I like mine a trifle on the tart side, don’t you know.” Lord Harold sipped from his glass, all the while keeping his gaze on her. “Sweet is good if you want cake, but in most other things a bit of tartness is . . . more interesting.”

Lord, the man hadn’t known her two hours and here he was flirting with her. And more than decent flirting, to be sure, for she was certain the man was not speaking only of lemonade. “Then I’m sorry you’re disappointed, my lord. I suspect it’s too sweet for your tastes.”

He laughed and shrugged. “But that’s the best thing about tastes, Miss Granger. They can change.” He gazed into her eyes and her stomach dropped. “Perhaps a little sweetness is what I’m in need of at the moment.”

Despite the lemonade she’d just drunk, Bella’s mouth dried as though she’d stuffed it with cotton cloth. Another swallow helped, but how in the world was she supposed to answer that remark?

“Hal? Are you coming?” Lord Brack called from just beyond the canopy.

“In a moment.” Lord Harold stood and drained his glass of lemonade, his throat working with each swallow. When he finished he set the empty glass on the table and wiped his lips on the back of his hand.

Bella gulped. For some reason that display had seemed almost indecent.

“Shooting is thirsty work, Miss Granger. I’m to join them this afternoon, but I hope to see you this evening at the banquet and later at the bonfire.” He smiled and her heart melted. “If you’ll allow me to escort you?”

Numbly, she nodded, feeling herself an idiot because her tongue was tied in knots.

“Excellent. We shall have to compare our tastes again after dinner. To see if you have developed an appreciation for the tart and I for the sweet. Till then, Miss Granger.” He bowed and left, calling out to his brother to wait for him.

Gasping for breath, Bella grasped her lemonade and took a huge swallow, letting the cool liquid calm her heated mind.

“You and Lord Harold seem to be getting on well.” Maria turned from her conversation with Lady Brack and beamed at Bella. “Georgie has said he’s rather a wild young man, but all gentlemen have to sow their oats. He should be ready to settle down soon, don’t you think?” She leaned over to whisper in Bella’s ear, “Have you set your cap at him?”

Heart still pounding Bella attempted nonchalance. Anything to keep Maria from discerning the level of her actual interest in Lord Harold. “I’ve only just met him.”

“First impressions can be the best, my dear.” Her sister-in-law’s tinkly little laugh only made Bella’s face flush. “I’m sure he thinks you a sweet young lady.”

Bella almost choked but passed it off as a fit of coughing.

“I shall ask Georgie what she thinks about such a match.” Maria turned back to her friends and began an animated conversation with Lord Harold’s sister.

Much good it would do if Lord Harold thought her sweet. In this particular case she was certain she might do better with less sugar and more spice.

Chapter Eight

The long walk back to the shooting butts was always tedious for Gareth, but today it seemed particularly so. The sun beat down fiercely, causing his shirt to begin to stick to his back and chest, a feeling that heartily annoyed him. The cooler weather of September and October was more pleasant by far, but the Glorious Twelfth had begun the grouse season. He could scarcely call himself a Scot if he put off shooting until September.

The magnificent view as they walked up the path to the butts compensated him much for the discomfort as it overlooked his favorite bit of moor, now lush with the last of the summer grass. That view always gave Gareth a deep sense of peace and homecoming. These lands had been in the Seton family for generations, even before the creation of the marquisate. His soul was sunk deep in this land and now there was every possibility to hope he could pass it all on to his son one day. His and Jane’s son.

“You’re awfully quiet, Kinellan. Thinking about your wedding night to come?” Lathbury had caught him up and now laughed and clapped him on the back.

“Not exactly the wedding night.” Gareth gave his friend a slight nudge. “More about the possible consequences of it.” He sighed. “You are a fortunate man, Lathbury. Fanny has speedily produced an heir for your nursery.” He looked askance at his friend. “And if I hear correctly, another one on the way? Have you and Fanny no topic of conversation that you might engage in for five minutes that does not lead you to your bed?”

“Conversation is too much prized, in my estimation.” Lathbury laughed heartily. “We prefer to keep talking to a minimum in favor of other, more active pursuits.” He raised his eyebrows and waggled them, giving him a roguish demeanor. “May I suggest, Kinellan, that is the way to fill your nursery in record time. You and Jane must take a page from our book . . . once you are married, of course.”

Gareth grinned. “I fear that ship sailed long ago, Lathbury. But I will admit, now that Jane’s agreed to marry me, we may indulge ourselves more frequently than in the past. There is certainly something to be said for vigorous repetition.”

A wistful expression crossed Lathbury’s face. “Oh, there surely is.”

“If you are not careful the country will eventually be overrun with little Hunters.” Gareth laughed, and Lathbury joined in. He would wish his friend luck in such an endeavor. Life was too chancy. His own parents had produced four sons and two daughters, yet he and Caitriona were the only two who had survived.