Page 80 of A November to Remember

Richard leaned closer, the space between them narrowing.

“Miss Mary.” His voice dropped into a rough, low register. “I marched to Corunna on a biscuit and a prayer. I assure you, you are the least tedious person I have ever met. Tell me. Will you allow me to court you?”

“Yes!” Mary exclaimed before he had finished the last syllable.

“Good.” He smiled, then reached into the deep pocket of his greatcoat and produced a squashed scone wrapped in brown paper. He unwrapped it carefully, broke the pastry down the middle, and handed her the larger half.

Mary accepted the scone and they sat together on the bench, the curtain at the drawing-room window twitching twice.

Whatever Dr Fordyce might have said about gluttony, Mary concluded, brushing the crumbs from her gown, he had never once in his life been handed the larger half of anything, nor had he been courted by a wounded colonel.

Jane had walked the shrubbery path often enough to know where the gravel thinned, which branches caught at a bonnet, and how far one must proceed before the drawing-room windows ceased to command a satisfactory view. She had never before attended to the last consideration with quite such care. Beside her, Lord Keathley shortened his stride to match hers, displaying a courtesy which might have pleased her more had he not spent much of their acquaintance behaving as though proximity to her required immediate correction.

He had not corrected it yet. Jane could not decide whether this represented progress or merely an obstacle created by the narrow path.

“I am sorry you have been thrown into my company, my lord.” Jane kept her attention on the ground. “My mother is rather a force no earthly power can contain when she has settled on an idea and I am afraid she does not consult the weather or the wishes of her guests. I hope you will not think I had any part in the arrangements.”

Lord Keathley turned to her. “I had not supposed you responsible for the weather, Miss Bennet, though I am beginning to suspect your mother believes herself to be.”

“She has always considered sunshine a matter of perseverance.” Jane gathered her skirts away from a wet branch, allowing herself a small smile before continuing. “Nevertheless, I know you would probably have preferred a different companion. I am aware that I am not your favourite person in Hertfordshire.”

He stopped so abruptly that she took another step before noticing. When she turned, the amusement had gone from his face, leaving an expression she could not readily interpret.

“Is that what you think?” he asked.

Jane had expected a polite denial, perhaps followed by an observation about the garden which would permit them both to pretend she had said nothing of consequence. His surprise made that retreat less easy, and she found that she did not particularly wish to take it.

“It is what I have been led to believe.” She lifted her chin. “At Lucas Lodge, you appeared to regret being introduced to me almost as soon as the introduction was completed. Since then, you have generally found something urgent to discuss with my mother whenever I have attempted to speak to you. I am glad you enjoy her company, of course, but I had not thought her views regarding carriage springs so inexhaustibly interesting.”

“They are extensive,” he admitted, looking down briefly before meeting her eyes again. “I believe I could now give evidence concerning the left wheel.”

“Then you have benefited from the acquaintance.”

Her own answer startled her. She had meant to remain civil, and she was civil, but there was an edge beneath the words which she would ordinarily have smoothed away before allowing anyone to hear it. Lord Keathley regarded her for a moment, then inclined his head with a gravity which made her wonder whether he had recognised the effort.

“I have behaved rudely.” He did not attempt a smile. “You need not spare me the word merely because I did it with a bow.”

Jane’s fingers tightened on the folds of her skirt. He resumed walking when she did, remaining beside her rather than using the moment to put distance between them.

“I thought I had offended you,” she confessed. “I could not discover how, which made the matter rather difficult to mend.”

“You have not offended me.”

“Then I wish you had told your manner. It has been giving quite a different account.”

A laugh escaped him, brief and surprised, and Jane felt an answering warmth which she mistrusted on principle. He was very handsome when he laughed. He was also very handsome when he did not, which seemed an unreasonable advantage in a man whose conduct she was attempting to examine impartially.

“My manner is a disgrace, Miss Bennet. But you are right, and I apologise. Whatever my reasons, there was no excuse for allowing you to believe you had done wrong.”

Jane looked at him more closely. He had left his reasons unexplained. She could accept an apology without pretending her feelings had never been hurt.

“Your conduct has not been entirely consistent.” She ducked as they passed under an arch of bare branches. “You drove into the rain to fetch the apothecary when I was ill, and you gave me the Cowper.”

“Oh, that.” He made a slight movement with one hand, dismissing both the weather and the book with an ease which irritated her. “It was nothing.”

“It was something to me.”

He looked at her, and Jane pushed forward before she could succumb to the familiar temptation to soften a statement merely because someone else had become uncomfortable.