Page 77 of The Lady Knows Best

If so, she hadn’t given in to the temptation. She had followed him into the drawing room, sung the praises of Lyneham Park to her family over luncheon, over dinner, over tea. She hadn’t run away.

Not then, at least.

He supposed it wasn’t entirely irrational, this fear he had of being left alone. He didn’t remember his parents’ death, but he’d once overheard his grandmother describing the inconsolable child he had been, incapable of understanding why Mama and Papa wouldn’t come back.

He’d carried that fear forward, in his desire to be popular among his peers, to be liked. He’d taken women to his bed, merely to avoid spending a night in his own company. And whenever it had been necessary to bid adieu after an entertainment, to move on from a familiar place, or to break things off with a mistress, he had always made sure he was the first to leave, rather than the one who was left.

He’d long suspected that Alistair understood the root of his weakness—why else would he have tolerated Miles’s company, all these years? But even knowing for himself why he did these foolish things didn’t make the days less bitter or the nights less dark.

At present, however, it was the hour of hope, suspended between darkness and day. He dragged in a shuddering breath and watched the door to the house, waiting for Daphne to appear.

“Miles?”

Her voice came, inexplicably, from behind him, and he spun on the gravel to find her watching him through the wrought iron gate. “I—I really couldn’t sleep,” she explained, as he reached out to lift the latch. “I c-came out an hour ago, thinking a walk through the garden might help me gather my thoughts, but I g-got t-t-turned around on the paths and had to wait until it was light t-t-to find my way out.”

“You must be cold,” he said, drawing her instinctively into his arms, wrapping his coat around her shivering body, laying his cheek against her hair. She’d come out, most uncharacteristically, without a bonnet, though she had at least worn a pelisse.

After a few minutes, the tremors subsided and she tipped her chin up to search his face. “What is it you wanted me to see?”

“Come this way.” Tucking her arm around his elbow and knitting the fingers of his other hand with hers, he directed her toward the stables. By prior arrangement, a groom led out a small dapple-gray mare with soft black eyes, which she fixed on Daphne as they approached. “She’s your wedding present,” Miles said.

“A horse?”

“Well, more of a large pony, really.” He released Daphne’s arm and stepped forward to take the horse’s lead from the groom, who returned to the stable. “The gentlest mount I could find in Hertfordshire. Lord Stalbridge gave me the tip. She’s called”—he paused to tousle the mare’s forelock and chuckled—“The Widow of St. Albans; for her gray hair, I suppose. But you can give her any name you like.”

“A horse.” Daphne approached warily, hand extended, palm up. Widow nuzzled, clearly hopeful for a treat, then blew out her nostrils in disappointment. Daphne giggled. “You got me a horse.”

“I know you said you’re not much of a rider, but Raynham was right—it’s a necessity in the country. I’ve a stable of hunters, but I wanted a horse you’d feel secure on. You’ll be safe as houses on this one,” he said, slapping the horse’s sound flank. “Why, I shouldn’t even worry if you took a notion to go out alone.”

“Alone?” Daphne drew back her hand and shook her head, as if she couldn’t imagine such a thing.

“Well, best not to,” he agreed. “But I thought, sometimes, you might like to be by yourself. And speaking of, it’s time for the second part of your gift. Care to take a little ride?”

She glanced down at her clothes. “I’m really not dressed for it.”

“No matter,” he said, whistling for the groom, who led the horse away. “We can walk, though I hope we don’t get soaked.” The sun was surely fully risen by now, but its face was hidden behind dark, tumbling clouds. “It’s not too far,” he promised, and took her arm again, leading her through tall grasses, along the edge of the trees.

Just as the raindrops began to pelt down, they came to a clearing and a tiny stone outbuilding hardly worthy of the name of cottage. Hurrying her to the door, he ushered her inside and ducked beneath the lintel to join her.

“What is this place?” she asked, looking about her.

He hung his greatcoat and hat on a peg behind the door, then held out a hand for her pelisse. “You asked to see my favorite place at Lyneham.”

He’d never know what the building had been meant for, a storeroom or perhaps a shepherd’s shelter. But when he’d found it, some twenty years ago, it had seemed magical—the only place he’d never minded being by himself.

He’d come out the day they had arrived to make certain the roof and the hearth were sound, and the day after that, he’d repaired some masonry and swept away the cobwebs with his own hands. Yesterday, after he’d returned with the horse, he’d come back and seen to its furnishing: a quilt-covered cot, a desk stocked with paper and quills, candles and a tinderbox on the rough wood mantel, and two chairs—just in case she might ever be inclined to share the space.

He’d even laid a fire, for which foresight he was glad as he knelt to light the kindling. “I used to hide away here,” he explained with a laugh. “I needed someplace my tutor couldn’t find me.” And then, dusting off his hands as he rose, he finished simply, “Now it’s yours.”

She glanced around again—it took but a moment to take in every corner—and shook her head, clearly bewildered. “A horse, a hideout . . . it’s as if you’re inviting me to run away from home.”

His answer, if there was one, caught in his throat. He dragged a chair closer to the fire and gestured for her to sit down in it, then sank into the other. It took three deep breaths for him to gather the proper words.

“Maybe, in some way, I am,” he confessed at last. “If I were any sort of gentleman, I’d let you go, not hold you to a promise, a proposal made under duress.”

As he spoke, she watched the flames lick along the logs, blackening them. “You did warn me, that first night, that you’re no gentleman.”

He turned his gaze to the window; just the day before yesterday, he’d filled the opening with a single pane of clear glass, now blurred with rain. “I did.”