Page 6 of Dare it all for Love

Lady Montagu laughed, her eyes glittering with adoration. “Foolish man.”

“Not in the least foolish, as you were born to be a princess,” he said with the utmost gravity, taking her hand and raising her fingers to his lips.

Lady Montagu blushed at the devilish look glinting in her husband’s eyes and Florence sighed, wondering if she would ever have that. The kind of connection she saw between Lord and Lady Montagu was the same she saw between her own parents, yet none of them had gained their heart’s desire without a fight… Lady Montagu especially. Well, then, she must not give up too easily. She did not know for certain that Henry didn’t like her. Perhaps he was shy, or perhaps he thought he was too old. He was a friend of Papa’s, after all, though younger than him. Indeed, now she thought about it, her father might not like the match. Florence chewed at her lip pensively as she considered this. The idea had merit, for she knew Henry was an honourable man. She stilled, suddenly aware of eyes upon her. Florence looked up, finding Henry watching her with an intense expression. He looked away at once, busying himself with opening another bottle of wine. But Florence had seen. Her heart beat hard, hope flickering to life in her chest.

Oh, no, she wasn’t giving up yet. She’d only just begun.

Fool, Henry cursed himself, tugging the cork free with more force than was required. He might make himself sit as far from her as he could get but keeping his eyes from her was another matter. It was as if she radiated some magnetic force, and he was helpless to resist turning towards her, like a sunflower raising its face to follow the light. The moment he let his guard down, he found himself looking for her, listening for the sound of her voice. It was intolerable. Memories of the days after Lily had jilted him filled his mind, and he embraced the memory of hurt and humiliation to remind himself of the danger. He remembered too well, remembered the pain, as if his heart had been torn from his chest, remembered the mortification that burned so badly he’d hidden himself away at Saxenhurst and refused to see anyone for months. Irritated, he flung open the lid of the basket beside him, looking for the glasses, and stilled as he saw what lay within.

“Don’t touch it!” Sterling snapped, seeing what Henry had seen.

“Whatever is it?” Ash asked, peering to look at the basket.

Though his back was to her, Henry was aware of Florence getting to her feet, too curious not to investigate. She looked over his shoulder, and he was ridiculously aware of her closeness, certain he could feel the warmth of her body through his coat, which was absurd.

“Why, it’s just a little corn doll,” she said in surprise, clearly wondering what they were both looking so shocked about. “A pretty one, too, though Lammas Day was almost two weeks ago.”

It was beautifully crafted, no bigger than his hand, the corn stalks woven together with the frilly ends where the grain bloomed making the doll’s skirts.

Florence reached to pick it up.

“No!” Mr Oak said sharply, but it was Henry who reached out, grasping her wrist before she could touch it.

Her gaze snapped to his as something that felt like electricity crackled between them. The shock of recognition lanced straight to Henry’s core, and he sucked in a swift breath, dropping her hand as if the contact had burned him.

“What the devil is going on?” Montagu asked, staring at the corn doll with suspicion. “That’s the kind of thing Pippin makes—our old cook, that is—but I’ve seen no one look so anxious about it before.”

“Witchcraft,” Mr Oak said succinctly. “You’d best tell them, Henry.”

Henry shook his head, irritated. “No, it’s a load of nonsense.”

“Someone breaking into your house and causing havoc is not nonsense.”

Mr Oak’s words had everyone’s attention, including Harriet’s.

“What’s this, Henry?” she demanded.

Cursing Sterling, and with a sigh of resignation, Henry told them about the dolls in the hedge and about the events of last night.

“Someone wants to hurt you.”

Henry’s heart gave a little skip in his chest at Florence’s words, at the worry in her eyes. He waved her concern away.

“With a corn doll?” he retorted, a mocking tone to the words.

She put her chin up, holding his gaze. “It wasn’t just a doll, though, was it? A woman screamed in the night, a valuable vase was broken. Someone is trying to scare you, at the very least, and who is to say this isn’t just the beginning? Perhaps they will get bolder.”

“Well, I’m not easily scared, Miss Knight, certainly not by handicrafts and amateur theatrics.” Henry plucked the doll from the basket and tossed it into the grass. “Who wants wine?” he asked, reaching for the glasses he’d wanted.

Florence hesitated, her hands twisted in her skirts. He could sense her agitation, her concern for him, and it warmed him as if he’d stepped in front of a fire after a long day out in the cold. It was seductive, that heat. A chill ran down his spine as he recognised the danger to his heart. No. No, he would not tread this same path again and make a damned fool of himself. Florence, though, was not done.

“Mr Stanhope, I think you ought to speak to your staff at once. Surely they ought to know how it got in the basket. What if someone in your household holds a grudge? You might be in danger and—”

“Miss Knight, much as I appreciate your concern, I fear you’ve read one too many Gothic novels. You’re becoming hysterical.”

Henry hated himself the moment the words left his mouth, his tone hard and derisive. His self-loathing burned harder still when Florence blushed, swallowing hard as everyone stilled in shock.

“Forgive me,” she mumbled. “I… I am sorry my concern is such a trouble to you.”