Page 47 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

“Your family’s home is incredible.” Lord Hartwell walked beside her, hands clasped behind his back, as he took in the gardens and trees. “The lengths your mother went to in the castle’s creation have become the stuff of legend in Society. Do you share her interest in architectural pursuits?”

It wasn’t an uncommon question. She could answer easily and with a benign smile. “My mother ensured I studied the modern masters of that particular art, but no. I am not passionate about building plans, buttresses, and columns as she is.”

“Understandable. My father’s passions leaned toward astronomy and mathematics. It was something of a disappointment for him when neither of his sons showed a natural inclination for either beyond a routine knowledge of both.” He bent to study the delicate purple buds in one of the flower beds. Keeping up the ruse, she supposed, that he had an interest in gardens.

“I suppose our parents hope to pass on to us the things they love. My mother has been content that we show an appreciation for the design and artfulness that goes into construction. My grandmother’s fondness for gardens have likewise been passed to us, her grandchildren.”

Lord Hartwell continued their walk at a slow pace, and Josephine counted herself lucky that he didn’t mean to spend the whole of their time together flirting with her. Thus far, Hartwell hadn’t paid her any extravagant compliments, or boasted of himself. Both things that previous would-be suitors had done ad nauseam.

“If not organizing building materials or gardens, my lady, what is it that you are most passionate about?”

Josephine’s toe caught on the edge of an uneven stone, causing her a slight stumble—but Lord Hartwell’s hand caught her elbow, steadying her. She swallowed back her embarrassment and smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

He released her, his genial smile still in place, his light blue eyes kind. “I didn’t realize my question would startle you. Forgive me.”

Josephine laughed, the sound too airy. He had startled her and caused a misstep. “You take too much credit, sir. The uneven ground is to blame for that ungraceful moment. Not your question, which I can answer with ease.” And falsehood. Because no one of her station could admit to writing for pleasure, unless they wrote poetry that Society would find acceptable enough to be read at dinner parties.

“Perhaps I am being unfair. Before I request that you reveal such things to me, I should tell you what I am most passionate about.” He leaned toward her, though not inappropriately close, and whispered loudly, “I am devoted to the subjects of history and art.”

That took her enough aback that her mouth popped open as she said, “Oh? Really?” She kept her pace beside him even when they began to walk once more, walking down a gentle slope to the next level of gardens.

“Quite. More so the appreciation of art, I will say. I cannot boast of being a talented painter. But I find myself excessively interested in historical research, and the paintings that allow us to see into the past.”

“That is fascinating. I cannot say I know too many noblemen who would declare such a thing.” She accepted his arm as he guided her down a set of stone steps into the statuary. “My father has an interest in history and the cultures of Europe.” Doubtless, her father would enjoy long conversations about both with the baron. Another mark in his favor, she supposed.

And yet, despite their pleasant conversation, Josephine didn’t feel any more inclined toward Roman Eastwood than she had the last time he’d visited the castle. Before he’d ever showed a modicum of interest in her. What had sparked his sudden interest? Besides her brother’s invitation, of course.

Almost as though he heard her thoughts, Lord Hartwell paused where they stood. He regarded her seriously a moment, his hands tucked behind him once more.

Something in the solemnity of his gaze made her wish her sisters back. Or at least the dog. Anyone or anything that might keep him from saying whatever it was he prepared to say.

“I should like to come to know you better, Lady Josephine.” He spoke her name with a preciseness and warmth that normally would put her on her guard. “Shall we be friends?” he asked, his eyes wrinkling at the corners with a teasing smile.

She stepped off the path and sniffed at a small pink bloom. What was she to say? Friendship was perfectly acceptable. He wasn’t asking for a courtship. Not yet. And if she cut him off so early, when her whole family approved of him, would that be fair to him or anyone else? Though she hadn’t any romantic inclination toward Hartwell, nothing about him repelled her, either.

She measured her words and adjusted her tone, trying to match his innocent request without giving too much encouragement. “I believe I can agree to a friendship, my lord.”

“But only just.” He chuckled and wisely moved to the other side of the path to examine the tree that hung above them. Had he approached her, or stood too close, she might have bounded away like a startled doe.

She turned to face him, the distance between them a relief. “What do you mean, Lord Hartwell?”

He looked down the path where her sisters had long since disappeared with his dogs, then tipped his head to the side as he regarded her closely. “You and I both know of the games people in Society play. I will be honest with you, my lady, if you are honest with me.” He took a breath, and for the first time, the baron appeared uncertain. Even sheepish. “A friendship is all well and good, but if your affection is engaged elsewhere, and a friendship is all we will ever have, I would appreciate a forthright word on that account.”

Heat blossomed in her chest and crept upward until she felt it in her cheeks. It was the first time he had pulled such a reaction from her. But it had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with someone who had laughed at her a short while before. “You wish to know if I have an understanding with someone?”

“No, my lady. I would not pry that far so soon.” He brought his hands forward, then let them hang at his side, as though uncertain what to do with them. He made a fine picture in his vulnerability, which wasn’t something she had seen much in the men of her acquaintance before. “I ask that if your heart is set on another, you tell me so I will not endanger my own as we come to know one another better. That is all.”

It was the most honest thing a man with courtship in his mind had ever said to her. For a moment, she remembered standing in the rain with Andrew. When she had felt that strange reaction to him—warmth and a desire to step into his arms.

But that was hardly an engagement of her heart. Andrew would doubtless laugh if he knew, or guessed, at how often she had thought of that moment since its passing. Just as he had laughed at her in the tower.

The idea of Andrew laughing at her again made Josephine’s answer obvious, even if it made her uneasy. “My heart is quite my own at present.” Then she turned away, catching the way the baron’s shoulders relaxed from the corner of her vision before she returned to the path. “We ought to find my sisters, my lord. They have quite made off with your dog.”

She had no intention of discussing the matter further with him. They had said enough for the present. He took the hint and offered his arm to escort her along the path.

Isabelle and Rosalind found them in the statuary. Upon seeing her master again, Athena trotted over rather more like a small pony than a dog. Her long, thin tail wagged happily as she sat at her master’s feet, staring up at him with complete adoration. The dog’s devotion to Lord Hartwell made the man somehow more endearing.

Did she have reason enough to entertain Lord Hartwell as a suitor? What would her father say about the matter, if he knew of her hesitation to declare her heart free? More so, what would he say if he knew she had entertained—even for a moment—the idea of a courtship with Sir Andrew?