Page 27 of The Lyon and the Lamb

She smoothed down her skirts. There was luggage to unpack, and gowns that needed to be taken out and aired. Orders needed to be given, rooms must be prepared. Only a maniacal burst of activity would keep her going, would quell the gnawing doubt inside that threatened to overwhelm her.

If what Mr. Chetwynd had said was true, there was no reason why she should ever see Leo again.

Chapter Thirteen

Luncheon was a solemn affair, despite Araminta’s attempts at gaiety. The dining room had grown ever darker as they ate, and before long, the sound of rain slashing against the windows could be heard.

Belinda glanced up, resting her fork on her plate. “Is it raining? The gentlemen won’t come back if it’s raining, will they?”

Araminta pushed a piece of smoked ham around on her plate. She knew she ought to eat, but her body was in such turmoil, she was afraid a single bite could choke her. Her thoughts had been running along the same lines as Belinda’s. Why would the gentlemen return? Leo’s business interests lay in London, as did his brother’s—if, indeed, he had any. His personal interests lay in London, at any rate, and doubtless many of them revolved around the Lyon’s Den and its clientele. So, as soon as the rain stopped, the men would return to Town.

“It’s probably no more than an April shower. It will soon be done with. Then I expect they’ll head back to London.”

“But it must dry up properly before they can ride that far—the horses won’t like splashing around in puddles. And they’ll need to rest them, won’t they? Both have been ridden many miles today, so they should be stabled here. We have plenty of room.”

Araminta sighed. Wasn’t her pain bad enough, without Belinda inadvertently making it worse with her false hope? Ah! If only Leo’s brother hadn’t made his entrance at that moment! What might have happened between herself and Leo? She suspected she knew—and he must have felt it too, or he wouldn’t have admitted his feelings.

She pressed her fingers against her forehead. How much could she trust an unintended declaration of love, especially after so short a time? Leo could easily have been pretending—he could have turned on the charm, he could have made an extra effort in the bedchamber to ensure he’d be marrying into money.

But now, he no longer needed to. And now, he was gone.

She rose and pushed away from the table, desperate to be alone with her thoughts. “I’m going to make sure the carriage horses have been groomed and fed properly. No—you stay here and finish your meal, Belinda. I don’t want you going out in the rain—remember that terrible cold on the chest you caught the year before last?”

Belinda nodded glumly. “I remember. Lord Lamb had something similar to that, didn’t he? But it wouldn’t have killed him had he not abused his liver all his life.”

“Don’t say that to anyone else!” Araminta was horrified that Belinda had remembered her bitter, unsympathetic response when word reached them of Horatio’s death.

It was the truth, all the same, and had been the medical prognosis during Horatio’s last illness. However, the utterance of those words in front of Belinda had not been Araminta’s finest moment. She had just been so shocked, so angry, that her husband had abandoned everyone to their fate simply because he couldn’t curb his appetite for alcohol.

She was a terrible person. Maybe she deserved to be abandoned. The only other human being who cared for her, who needed her, was Belinda, and that was what kept her going.

Heaven help her—she was about to break down in front of Belinda! This would not do. She seized a hooded cloak, shoved her feet into her galoshes, and escaped outside as the tears started to fall. She knew that she was headed for a spell of self-pity and couldn’t bear for anyone else to witness it. To the outside world, she must appear strong even though inside she was breaking apart.

The rain fell less heavily and had changed to a fine drizzle that settled on one’s clothes and threatened to drench them in no time, but she didn’t care. Turning her back on the house, she hurried through the herb garden and out toward the orchard where blossoms were already beginning to form. Next to that was the walled garden, completely enclosed by ancient high brick walls that shut out the external world.

Rain ran down her face, mingling with her tears as she lifted the latch on the solid wooden door, hurried through the archway, and let the gate swing closed behind her.

At the back of the garden was an ancient platform, from which Horatio’s ancestors would have gazed down with pleasure at the complicated knot of low box hedges and the maze of flower beds and graveled paths. There was an arbor, too, that had once been covered in entwined climbing roses, creating a scented summer paradise.

Not long into their marriage, Horatio, despite her objections, had had the roses destroyed, and the arbor roofed over as a place for the gardeners to take shelter. Why could he not have built them a greenhouse to shelter in? Ah, but that would have pleased her, and of course, he couldn’t be guilty of that.

Having climbed the steps, Araminta negotiated the slippery platform, then took refuge in the arbor. The wind threw the fine rain like a curtain across the front of the structure, and for a moment, she felt as if she were now completely separate from reality, in both body and soul.

The grim truth of what had happened to her, and what she must do, was temporarily thrust aside. There was nothing but her, and the buffeting rain that would make life spring anew in the garden. She gazed out, unseeing, while the cold crept into her limbs, and her tears fell with the rain until she felt drained, empty, numb to all feeling.

The click of the garden gate set her heart thumping. Who was invading her treasured privacy? Was it one of the gardeners, or somebody from the house coming to find her? No, for the figure striding toward her in his billowing riding coat was too tall and erect to be any of them. She pressed her palm to her heart as if she could will it back to a normal rhythm. But she could not. The man heading for her with quiet determination, the rain dripping from his dark hair, was Leo.

“What are you doing out here? You’re soaked!” His body filled the entrance to the arbor, shutting out what little light there was. His tone was angry. Before she could respond that she had every right to do as she wished, he’d folded her in his arms and pressed her against his chest.

“You foolish wench.” He gazed down at her. “You’ve been weeping. Not because of me, I hope. I didn’t mean to frighten you by leaving, but I had to deal with that accursed Roland. He’s disobligingly good at putting his foot in it at the worst possible moment.”

She couldn’t speak. All she knew was that Leo was holding her and that she could hear the sturdy but rapid beat of his heart against her cheek. This felt like home. More than any place she’d ever been before.

“Please—let me reassure you that I have no intention of reneging on our bargain. It was made in good faith.”

There was still hope then—this was a man whose word one could trust. But was this a man one might come to love?

“Do you think that having found you, I have any intention of letting you go? I know the circumstances of our coming together are most unusual, but I can’t imagine finding happiness with any other woman. I truly love you, Araminta Lamb. If you’re willing to be my wife, I hope you’ll be happy to be the mistress of Brampton Hall. I’ll still do my utmost to ensure Forty Court doesn’t fall into the hands of your late husband’s rapacious relations, however, as it is rightly and justifiably yours.”