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He laughed. “On the contrary,” he said. “I lapped up the knowledge to which he exposed me. I may be almost totally ignorant of modern languages—except French, my mother’s language, and English—but I am proficient in Latin and ancient Greek. And I agree with the vicar that all great literature ought to be read in its original language, since it loses much, particularly subtle nuances of meaning, in translation.”

They had still not resumed walking. Stephanie stared at him, fascinated. “But to do that, to understand all the nuances,” she said, “it would not be sufficient, would it, merely to make a word-by-word translation. That would give you only a general idea.”

“Exactly right,” he said. “Do you speak German? Or French? Have you read any of their literature in the original?”

“Only when I was forced to do so while I was still in the schoolroom,” she said. “But I always did it word by word and always just for a few paragraphs. It was a painful process. I had to read the work in English before I really comprehended it. Though perhaps I did not fully do so even then? What a lowering thought. And perhaps a fascinating one.”

“The secret,” he said, “is not to translate as you read even in the silence of your own mind, but to bypass the English language in your head and understand in the original language. The vicar taught me that early in my years with him. For a long time I believed it to be impossible, and in my frustration I could have hurled those books through the nearest window. But I reached the point of being impatient with the slow pace of having to read a phrase, translate it in my head, and try to comprehend it before reading on. All the natural flow was destroyed in that process. So I tried skipping the translation part and going straight for full understanding. I found to my astonishment that it worked.”

“Do you still do it?” she asked.

“I am afraid so,” he said, looking apologetically at her. “I am a thoroughly dull dog, Lady Stephanie. Estelle used to tell me sometimes, when I had been reading for long hours in the library, that if someone were to pick me up and give me a good shake, they would choke on the dust that rose off me.”

She laughed with delight—and then looked away sharply. She was standing rather close to him and had been staring at him intently just as though he were…well, any ordinary man. Any extraordinarily interesting man.

He was Viscount Watley.

“I did not picture you as a reader,” she said. “Certainly not as a reader of the classics—in their original language.”

“Not all gentlemen are rakes and rogues and high-stake gamblers,” he said. “Or even just idle gentlemen-about-town. Did you imagine I was one of them?”

“Of course not,” she said, frowning. But she had imagined him as an idle gentleman, since she did not doubt he was wealthy. She had imagined him as being resident in London during the months of the Season and then drifting from one amusement to another for the rest of the year. He always seemed to enjoy coming to Ravenswood and visiting their neighbors with Owen and participating in the summer fete. He was warmly welcomed wherever he went.

“I am Owen’s friend,” he said.

He did not explain what he meant by saying that, but he had put particular emphasis upon the name. She tended to think of Owen in much the same way as she did Viscount Watley, perhaps because he did not have a career as Nicholas did and had a definite streak of mischief in him that might be mistaken for a lack of seriousness. But she knew there was more to the youngest of her brothers than met the eye. Although he spent most of his time in London, and it would be easy to think of him as an idler, she did not believe he was. She knew he was deeply concerned about the poor and disadvantaged, not just in a pious sort of way or in the easy giving of alms, but with practicalities. He volunteered his services in a variety of causes, she had heard, like homes for delinquent boys and even prisons. Yet whenever anyone in the family pressed him about what he was going to do with his life, he always either waggled his eyebrows and declared he was going to be a professional gentleman or would say that he did not yet know what he wanted to do when he grew up. He really could be the most annoying person in the world. The plague of her life.

Viscount Watley was squinting off to one side, into the sunshine. “Do you fancy a climb up that rather steep lawn?” he asked her, pointing to their right. “It may be a bit strenuous, but I have kept you standing here in the cold for far too long, telling you of my very dull life. Are you quite frozen?”

“I’ll race you to the top,” she said, and went striding off ahead of him. She broke into a run after the first few steps, holding up the hem of her cloak and dress so she would not trip over them.

“This may well kill me,” he said from just behind her right shoulder when they were halfway up.

“You should have refused your helping of Christmas pudding and custard,” she said with the little breath she had left in her body.

“Let’s not be ridiculous,” he said, and edged ahead of her as she laughed.

They were standing at the top of the slope a minute or two later, still recovering their breath as they looked down at the view, even more spectacular from up here, when two other figures appeared on the lawn below—Nicholas and Winifred, hand in hand. They stopped just where Stephanie and Viscount Watley had lingered a short while ago, to look down at Bath. Winifred pointed with her free arm.

Stephanie could have called out to them. So could Viscount Watley. But neither of them did. Nicholas released Winifred’s hand to set his arm loosely about her shoulders and gather her closer to his side. She continued to point, moving her hand from side to side, seemingly indicating landmarks in Bath that were familiar to her but not to him. She turned her head to look up into his face, and he dipped his own head and kissed her.

It was not a lengthy kiss or even a lascivious one, but there was no calling down to them now. They were newlyweds enjoying a few minutes alone together. Stephanie felt an unexpected and purely unwelcome rush of envy, but that was followed almost immediately by intense embarrassment. She and Viscount Watley, who had just been feeling comfortable enough with each other to actually laugh and joke, stood silently side by side, their shoulders almost touching, and said nothing.

It was excruciatingly awkward, though the two below were no longer kissing but merely talking to each other, the faint sound of their voices audible from above, their arms about each other’s waist. Then they turned and walked in the other direction. Within moments they were out of sight.

“Others are feeling the need of some fresh air,” Viscount Watley said.

“Yes,” Stephanie said, and without another word, she caught up the sides of her cloak and half ran back down the slope.

He did not immediately follow her.

Chapter Seven

The concert was going to start early in the evening to accommodate the children, most of whom had regular bedtimes and were unaccustomed to staying up late. What Camille described as a light tea was brought into the drawing room before they all moved to the music room, though it was looked upon askance by everyone gathered there.

“Oh goodness,” the Reverend Kingsley said. “I am still full to the brim from dinner, Camille. I doubt I can swallow a morsel of this splendid feast.”

There were murmurs of agreement from others gathered there.