Page 20 of The Trouble with a Dare

―Excerpt of an entry to the diary of Lady Catherine ‘Cat’ Barrington, (youngest daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu).

5th of September 1839, Thistley House Farm, Sussex.

“Where?” Sterling asked his housekeeper, perplexed.

“Upper ten acres,” Mrs Gladwish said patiently. “She’s waiting for you. One of the lads carried the basket for her but she took a picnic up as it were such a fine day. Said to tell you to meet her there.”

Sterling frowned, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. Mrs Gladwish turned to give him an impatient glare and flapped her apron at him in a shooing motion he hadn’t seen since he was a boy.

“Well, go on, then! Don’t keep the lass waiting. She’ll think you don’t want to spend time with her. I don’t know, and you two newlyweds,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Don’t know what men are coming to if you need persuading to bide awhile with a beauty like your missus.”

With little other option and no desire to spend another minute being nagged by his housekeeper, Sterling hurried away. What the devil was Grace playing at? He had work to do. Surely she had enough to occupy her. He’d agreed to all her plans for the house and garden, so there was no need to butter him up, for why else would she arrange this outing? It made no sense.

Thoroughly perplexed, he was in a peculiar temper by the time he reached the gate to the extensive field. His hands moved to open the gate when the scene before him made him freeze in place. She had set a blanket down, and was occupied with laying the picnic out over it. The breeze tugged playfully at her golden hair, for she had set her bonnet aside and a few loose curls shone in the sunshine, dancing in the breeze.

A memory unearthed itself from long ago, just as it had the previous day when she’d brought the posy of flowers indoors. He’d found them again later that evening, arranged in a pretty white-and-blue jug on the desk in his study. When he’d asked Mrs Gladwish—for she was the only other person with a key so she might go in and clean—the woman had confirmed his wife had insisted they be put there so he might enjoy them. He wasn’t certain if he had enjoyed them or not. They were like Grace, a reminder of things he’d once wanted and hoped for but knew he couldn’t have. Except Grace was here. She was his wife, and she’d asked him to meet her for a picnic, as if they were courting. The back of his neck grew hot.

He told himself that he ought not go getting any nonsensical ideas along those lines. Grace was just a sweet-natured girl who liked to make people happy. No doubt that’s how she’d got herself into trouble. So, he must not read any more into it and take fool notions into his head. It was just a kindness she was doing, something to please him because she was grateful to him and felt beholden. It was not because she wished for his company.

She looked up as the gate creaked open and her smile set off a sharp stabbing sensation in the vicinity of his chest. Grace raised her hand and waved at him. Sterling did not wave back, though his fingers twitched with the desire to do so. It was only then he realised he’d left without putting on his coat. He was in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, a state in which no proper gentleman would be caught dead outside of a bedroom. He fervently wanted to roll his sleeves back down at least, but forced himself not to. This was who he was, not really a proper gentleman as his mother never failed to remind him, even if his grandfather had been squire here. She’d best accept it now before she got any foolish notions in her head. He didn’t wish to disappoint her any more than he must have done already.

Sterling walked over to her, looking down at the picnic she’d arranged for them.

“What’s all this, then?” he asked, which was a ridiculous thing to say, as it was rather self-evident.

“I walked up here yesterday,” she said, apparently undaunted by his less than enthusiastic reaction. “And discovered this glorious view. It is the perfect spot for a picnic, don’t you think?”

She stared up at him, her eyes so full of hope that Sterling didn’t have the heart to disagree with her. He nodded.

Grace patted the blanket.

“Won’t you sit down?” she asked, and he caught the tremor of anxiety in her voice. Though he could not fathom why, this was important to her. Obediently, he sat down where she indicated, and she handed him a bottle of beer. “I expect you must be thirsty.”

“Yes.”

“Hungry too, I’ll wager, which is lucky as there’s a lovely chicken and ham pie and potato salad, sandwiches of potted rabbit, some good cheese and crackers, a jar of pickled vegetables, and a simply glorious fruit cake which I’ve been hard pressed not to eat myself whilst I waited.”

Sterling studied her with interest, and she flushed, looking away from him to snatch up a plate.

“Here, let me serve you.”

She busied herself, arranging a large slice of pie and a selection of all the savoury goods on the plate for him. Sterling took it from her and nodded his thanks, watching as she took half a sandwich.

“I hope that’s not all you’re having?” he said, frowning.

Grace shrugged. “I’ll see. If I put too much on my plate, it just makes me feel ill. Little and often seems to be the trick. I shall graze, like your sheep do.”

“Hmm,” he replied, unconvinced. She leaned back on one arm and the movement pulled the fabric tighter across her belly, showing the beginnings of a gentle curve. Sterling worried that sitting on the hard ground was not good for her.

“You ought to have had someone fetch you a chair to sit on.”

“At a picnic?” she replied, looking so indignant he almost laughed.

“Fancy picnics have tables and chairs, don’t they?”

She returned a disgusted expression. “That is not a picnic.”

“Doesn’t the babe make sitting on the ground uncomfortable?” he fretted.