AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He had not told her that. In fact, he had said very little, only looked. And touched. She had felt like a slab of meat on the butcher’s block being assessed for freshness and flavour. She had learned about him by listening to the ballroom chatter.
‘And you are a widow. He has two daughters, he needs an heir.’ Lady Madeleine tapped the card against her teeth, lost in thought. ‘I must tell Papa, he will wish to be prepared if Dryton makes an offer. You will write to thank him for the flowers, of course.’
‘I will write to all the gentlemen,’ Cleo said. She went from bouquet to bouquet again, pretending to study the cards. Quin’s offering was a subtle and lovely blend of yellows and greens, a compliment to the colours she had worn the night before.
The card bore one line of strong black letters. In friendship. Quintus Deverall. ‘If you will excuse me, Aunt, I will go up to my room and do it now.’
* * *
The ball had changed something in her grandfather’s attitude to her, Cleo realised the following day. He had obviously been impressed by her behaviour, or perhaps by her attaching the interest of Lord Dryton. At breakfast he was positively unbending, offering a teasing remark about milliners’ bills.
Cleo decided she would see if the good humour extended to a relaxation of the bounds around her. ‘It is a lovely day, Grandfather. Might I walk in Hyde Park? I believe that is an unexceptional place, is it not?’ She looked earnestly at her aunt for guidance. ‘I would take Maggie and a footman, naturally. But perhaps you need me to assist with something...’
‘You are looking a trifle wan,’ her aunt said, putting down the letter she had just opened and regarding her, so Cleo thought, like a village woman sizing up the freshness of a piece of fish. ‘Yes, you may go. It will be quiet enough at this hour, but remember not to acknowledge any gentleman to whom you have not been introduced.’
‘Yes, Aunt.’ She had no illusions about being supervised, the footman would be instructed to take careful note of who she spoke to and what she did. But it was freedom of a sort and a way of testing the restrictions around her. A space to think and plan, but not to dream. Dreams were a deceiving weakness.
* * *
At last. Quin folded his newspaper and stood up from the seat amongst the shrubs of the Grosvenor Square garden where he had been pretending to read for the past hour.
Cleo’s unhappiness was costing him sleep and instinct told him more was troubling her than homesickness for the familiar, if uncomfortable, world of the desert encampment.
It was none of his business any more, he had told himself for the hundredth time last night. She was her grandfather’s responsibility now and if he interfered it would be deeply resented. And misunderstood.
He locked the gates behind him with the key he had borrowed from his friend Alderswick who owned the house on the corner, and followed Cleo and her small escort along Upper Grosvenor Street towards the park. It had been a gamble coming here, for she could have been spending the day inside or have driven off to some engagement, but the sunshine had made him optimistic and the decision had paid off.
It would not be wise to speak to her, naturally. Nor would it be kind for she was unsettled enough as it was, without presenting her with the source of her anger and resentment. But he needed to see how she looked.
Quin crossed Park Lane and took the track to the Riding House while Cleo, with Maggie and the footman behind her, strolled down to the small circular reservoir. It was frustratingly difficult to see her face at this distance. She had a charming bonnet with a brim that shaded her face, she was twirling a parasol, riders and trees kept getting between them... With a muttered oath Quin cut through behind her and took the direct path across the open park towards the end of the Serpentine, gambling that was where she was heading by way of the more shaded paths.
His luck was in again that day. Cleo passed him as he sat, newspaper raised, by the edge of the track along the Serpentine. She did not spare him a glance, he noticed through a slit in the fold of the newssheet. Her face was intent, as though she was thinking deeply and not noticing her surroundings and he recognised the way she held herself from the times in Egypt when she had been weary beyond words, but kept going by sheer will-power.
‘My lord! Oh, excuse me, my lord, for speaking.’ It was Maggie, of course, and he had been inexcusably careless, letting the paper fall as he stared after Cleo.
Cleo spun round. ‘Qui— Lord Quintus! What are you doing here?’
Nothing for it but to brazen it out. ‘Why, enjoying the sunshine as you are, Miss Woodward. Good morning.’ Maggie was beaming and the footman, who must know he was the man who had rescued the duke’s granddaughter from Egypt, obviously saw no cause for concern in Quin speaking to his mistress.
