Page 13 of The Untamed Heart

Lucius shrugged. “I suppose I will.”

“Good. You might consider a bath and a shave, by the way. You look like the very devil.”

Lucius frowned and rubbed his beard as if the thing had suddenly sprouted before his eyes. “Oh. I suppose you’ll want to stay the night?” he said, rather reluctantly.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Hawkney replied with undisguised sarcasm.

“Not to me. You’d best ask Mitten. He might think it is,” Lucius returned, a twinkle in his eyes that suggested he was being provocative on purpose this time.

Hawkney smiled thinly. “Your largess is always overwhelming, my dear fellow. We shall see you at dinner, then.”

“Dinner?” Lucius repeated, looking vaguely horrified at the notion. “Oh, very well. Dinner too. If I must.”

He shook his head as if the idea of sharing a meal in company was one that baffled him completely and then returned to the book he’d been studying.

A clock ticked somewhere among the chaos.

Hawkney was fairly certain he’d forgotten they were still there.

“Come along,” he said to Sheringham. “Let’s see if we can find our way back out.”

“Did you happen to leave a trail of breadcrumbs?” Sheringham asked dubiously.

Hawkney shook his head. “No, but the ostrich is this way. We’ll just have to take our chances.”

Chapter 4

The Reconnaissance

Seagull Heights, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 22nd September 1816

Marcus drew his mount to a halt and just sat for a while, admiring the view and the front façade of Eustacia’s home, still some way farther up the hill. Reaching down, he absently patted the horse’s neck. It was a magnificent beast, a fine gelding from Hawkney’s own stables. He’d gone to hire himself a hack that morning, only to discover the interfering duke had already provided him with a mount which had been awaiting his pleasure.

He might have been insulted if he didn’t well know that it was just Hawkney’s way. He was too used to managing vast estates and hundreds, if not thousands, of people, and he sometimes did things without considering the effect it might have on a fellow’s pride. Still, the enjoyment of riding out on such a magnificent animal, on a morning where the countryside seemed to have been dipped in gold and the rising sun burst over the skies in shades of rose and peach, was such that he let it go.

He urged the horse back into motion and was soon trotting into the disused stables around the back of the house. Clearly, despite Mrs Wildblood’s success, they were not living in clover. Marcus wondered at it, but it was not his affair.

Once he had seen to the horse, he made his way to the front door and knocked.

A few moments later the door was opened by a large, round lady with a pleasingly plump face, flushed with the heat of the kitchen. Her hands were floury, and she hastily wiped them on the tea towel she was carrying.

“Oh, beg pardon, Colonel, you caught me in the middle of baking, and Miss Eustacia can’t hear a blessed thing when she’s working. Do go on up. Would you like coffee? There’s a fresh pot brewing.”

Marcus hesitated, rather surprised by the warmth and familiarity of the greeting. “Er… Yes. Why not? Coffee would be most welcome.”

“Excellent. I’ll send up some of my scones too, they’ll be ready in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. You look like you could do with them.”

She bustled off again before Marcus could decide if he was offended or not, leaving him to close the front door behind him. Rather shocked by this lackadaisical way of treating guests, not to mention the lady of the house’s security, he shut the door and made his way up the stairs.

“Miss Foxworthy?” he called, knocking on the door to her studio, which was ajar. No answer. Uncertainly, disliking the notion of trespassing upon her privacy, he stuck his head around the door. “Eustacia?”

The faint sound of humming reached him, and he moved towards it, only to gasp and turn around as sharply as if he were back on the parade ground.

“I beg your—”

“Oh! Forgive me—”

They both spoke at once, and Marcus focused his attention firmly on the wall opposite, studying the little portrait he’d once admired of the lady’s dog. Yet the sight of her sprawled on the floor, her shapely legs bare to mid-thigh and her nightrail bunched up around her, was burned into his brain.