Page 11 of Fair as a Star

“We won’t be able to get away from Shepton Worthy anytime soon,” he went on. “Not with the harvest coming in.”

“I didn’t expect we would.”

“But you enjoy traveling. You require diversion.”

She gave him a long look. “Is this about Paris?”

“It was a surprise. You going away so abruptly, and for such a length of time.”

“For me as well. I hadn’t any notion that Aunt Hortensia would invite me to accompany her, or that I’d need to make up my mind so quickly.”

“You might have declined her invitation.”

“And risk upsetting her? I couldn’t have. Not with Mama and Winnifred to consider. You know we’re dependent on my aunt’s generosity. And after you and I marry—”

“There’s been talk.” Henry’s voice was peculiarly flat.

A knot formed in Beryl’s stomach. She nevertheless endeavored to keep her own voice light. “What kind of talk?”

“Scurrilous gossip about why you left so suddenly. Why you didn’t stay for Jack’s funeral. I won’t repeat it.”

“I wish you would.”

“I’d not have mentioned it at all except that I’d rather you were prepared for it.”

“I’m prepared. One can’t have lived here as long as my family has and not be.”

It was an unpleasant truth. Shepton Worthy may have been the prettiest village for miles around, but there was a wealth of ugliness beneath its damask-rosebud surface. Like most small villages, it was a hotbed of gossip and scandal, especially during those periods of the year when social activities were at a lull. Indeed, in the long months between the Christmas pageant and the summer fete, there was little else to occupy the residents save spreading gleeful reports of the various peccadilloes of their neighbors.

Beryl wasn’t entirely surprised that she’d fallen victim to it. She was, after all, marrying Sir Henry Rivenhall, the most sought-after matrimonial prize in the county. Add to that her sudden departure for Paris, and the gossip fairly created itself.

“Be that as it may, I don’t care to have your name bandied about.” Henry paused before adding, “Nor mine.”

The knot in her stomach tightened. He was reprimanding her in a typically Henry way. Warning her that her behavior had reflected badly upon his good name.

Her behavior.

Good gracious, if he only knew.

She felt vaguely ill at the thought of it all. “Henry, I—”

“Beryl!” Winnifred strode toward them across the lawn, an Indian shawl in one hand and her flounced skirts clutched in another. “I’ve brought you your wrap. Mama says it’s getting cooler and that you mustn’t take a chill so close to your wedding day.”

Beryl accepted it without a word, drawing the soft cashmere around her shoulders. It was only a shawl, but at the moment it struck her as a suffocating symbol of all of Mama’s hopes for her future. An unwelcome reminder that, if Beryl took ill again, she’d dash those hopes. Not just for Mama, but for Winnifred too, whose future depended so very much on Beryl’s own.

“Very thoughtful,” Henry said. “But where is yours?”

“Oh, I don’t need one,” Winnifred replied carelessly. “I’m as healthy as a horse.” Her gaze turned acquisitive. “Speaking of which…did you tell Beryl about Vesper?”

“Vesper?” Beryl looked from Winnifred to Henry.

“A stallion I bought while you were away,” Henry said. “Your sister has been exercising him for me.”

“More than that. I’ve developed a bond with him. An affinity. He doesn’t care for any of Sir Henry’s grooms, but when he sees me, he always—”

“I beg your pardon,” Henry said. “It grows late, and I still have business to attend to at the Park. If you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course,” Beryl said.