The Convenient Arrangement (16 page)

She chuckled. “Mayhap, but you should realize that when one leads such a public life, one comes to appreciate small privacies.”

“I shall have to rethink my opinions on this.”

“Which is not a bad thing.”

He motioned for her to sit in the other chair. “Fortunately, for you cause me to rethink my opinions quite often, Valeria.”

“Here is something that may cause you to think.” She cupped the vase in her hands, holding it out so he could see it.

His mouth grew as round as his eyes. “Where did you find this?”

“By the wall up along the hill that runs parallel to the front wall of the manor. I suspect it supports our assumption that some of these walls were built during the Roman occupation of Britain.”

“It's a lovely piece, Valeria. Better than anything I have found among my uncle's collection at the house.”

She placed it in his hands. “Enjoy it.”

“You are giving it to me?”

“It is yours, Lorenzo. That hill belongs to Moorsea Manor.”

“But treasure customarily belongs to whomever finds it.”

She smiled. “Then it belongs to two dogs who joined me on my walk. They dug it up. As they have no use for it, it is yours.”

“But, Valeria—”

Closing his fingers over the neck of the vase, she said, “It is yours, Lorenzo.”

He turned the vase over and over in his hands, examining it from every angle. She smiled as she saw how gentle his fingers were as they outlined the painted design. Mayhap she once had considered him gruff, but she could not now. Yes, he might appear stand-offish or shy. She knew better. He simply kept his tongue between his teeth, evaluating every situation before he spoke.

Again her gaze was drawn to his fingers, and once again her imagination wandered in directions it should not. She looked away before she was caught up in the fantasy of those fingers touching her with that same tenderness.

“This is a wonderful piece,” he said, and she knew he had not noticed how she was staring at him. “I'm not sure what to say, Valeria, except thank you.”

“If you wish, I can show you where I found it.”

“I would like that after I have a chance to study this.”

“Mayhap tomorrow if the weather cooperates.”

He started to smile, then sighed. “Tomorrow you have other plans.”

“I have made no other plans for tomorrow.”

“Mayhap not, but I fear I made other plans for you.”

Valeria slowly sat. “What do you mean?”

Dropping into his own chair, he said, “While you were enjoying your walk, we had a caller from Oates Hall.”

“So that is how Tilden knew where to find me.”

“Sir Tilden?” He frowned. “The caller was Miss Oates. She called for you, but when you were not here, came to speak with me. She wished to extend an invitation for you to join her for a gathering at Oates's Hall tomorrow evening. I believe it is to be an evening of music and conversation.”

Valeria ignored the warmth along her face. As flushed as she was from her climb and the breeze and the sunshine, she doubted if embarrassment could make her face any redder. At least, she hoped not. “She invited just me?”

“Yes.”

“But why didn't she invite you? This is most peculiar.”

He shrugged. “You will have to ask her. She seemed very eager to extend the invitation to you.”

“Mayhap I was mistaken about Miss Oates's intentions toward you.” Coming to her feet, she locked her fingers together and went to look out the window. Storm clouds were rising out of the sea. She hoped they did not herald another tempest in her life. “It seems you have a cohort in your attempt to play the matchmaker, Lorenzo.”

“Why are you acting like this?” He set himself on his feet. “First, you state that life here is certain to fill you with endless
ennui
because you have no one to call upon or to receive. When Miss Oates offers you such an invitation, you react with dismay.”

“I don't know.” That was a lie. She knew all too well. While Miss Oates had been here extending this invitation, Tilden had sought her out on the hill. It was so clear now. Brother and sister must have come to Moorsea Manor together, and, when they were told Valeria was out for a bit of air, Tilden had gone looking for her while Miss Oates delivered the invitation.

“Valeria, if you have no wish to go—”

“No, I would like to spend an evening listening to music and conversation.” That, at least, was the truth.

“Do you want me to go with you to the gathering at Oates's Hall?” he asked as he came to stand next to her by the window.

She could not help comparing him to Tilden Oates. Lorenzo did not crowd her, for he left her space to make her own decisions. He saw her as a person, not just a possible wife. No man had ever treated her like this before, and it was confusing and heady at the same time. Without the familiar rules of the Polite World, she had no conventions to use as a crutch. She had to, as he was, rethink her opinions on so many things.

“You would go with me?” she asked.

“Yes.” He leaned one shoulder against the wall. “I do profess a fondness for music. It allows for discussion between each performance, so that one might understand the artist's goal in creating the piece.”

She suddenly laughed.

“What is so funny?” he asked with a perplexed expression that had become so familiar.

She did not resist the temptation to reach up to smooth the lines furrowing his brow. He caught her wrist between his fingers, but he did not draw her hand away.

“You and I are what's funny,” she said, but her voice had dropped to a whisper as his thumb brushed the inside of her wrist.

“What do you mean?”

“Listen to you. You are so intrigued with the idea of an evening of music and conversation that you are willing to make a
faux pas
and present yourself uninvited at Miss Oates's door. She may very well have guessed that you would offer to escort me to Oates's Hall.”

“She may have.”

“So she need not have asked you, and she could keep from seeming too brazen that way.” She gazed up into his blue eyes and saw something flicker within them. It slipped through him to fly along her, leaving a tremor as if she stood too close to a bolt of lightning and its thunder.

“There is nothing brazen about inviting a neighbor to an evening of music.”

“There is, if one's intentions have more to do with marriage than music.”

“That's an assumption on your part.”

“Yes.”

“You should be careful of assumptions.” He tilted her wrist toward his lips. Her own parted with an eager sigh as his breath glided along her skin, a sweet, moist caress. “You scratched yourself, Valeria.”

“I what?” She stared at him.
That
she had not expected him to say.

“You need to be more careful along the old walls.”

Jerking her arm out of his hand, she said, “I believe I can take care of myself, Lorenzo. Or are you worried that I might contract some disgusting disease that will keep you from marrying me off to Tilden?”

“What are you talking about?”

She knew she was being outrageous, but she could not halt herself. The daydream, fleeting though it had been, that he might be drawn to her as she was to him was precious. She had not wanted it destroyed by commonplaces and prittle-prattle.

“I need to decide what I shall wear tomorrow evening,” she said as she turned away. “And I told David I would spend the rest of the afternoon with him. Enjoy your vase, Lorenzo.”

She said nothing more, because she was not sure whether she would have spoken a lie or the truth. Both she feared she would regret.

Ten

Oates Hall seemed modern in comparison with the ancient walls of Moorsea Manor. Made of brick and with windows marching in neat precision across its front, it brought a sense of civilization to the untamed moors. Lights glowed at each of the windows, and torches blazed along the curved drive and on either side of the double doors that had been thrown open to welcome all the guests attending tonight's
conversazione
.

Lorenzo handed Valeria out of the carriage. Her gown tonight was a subdued, for her, shade of blue that made her eyes a deeper purple. The gems in the simple necklace at her throat he guessed were paste, for he knew she had sold everything of value to settle her brother's debts after the carriage accident. No matter, the fake stones glittered in the torchlight as brilliantly as her smile, but he wondered if her smile was any more real than the fake gems. She had been oddly quiet on the trip from Moorsea Manor. He doubted if she had said more than a handful of words during the hour's journey.

When her fingers quivered as he drew them into his arm, he murmured, “I hope that is anticipation, not fear.”

“Some of both.” She snapped open a surprisingly fashionable fan that Miss Urquhart had found for her. “There will be people here I have not seen since I left London. Once I was their hostess. Now …”

“Now they can return the favor.”

She glanced up at him, a grateful smile warming her eyes. “Thank you, Lorenzo. That was kind of you to say.”

“And it's kind of you not to say how seldom we exchange anything but strong words with each other.” He put his other hand over hers as they climbed the steps to the front door in the wake of other guests. “For tonight, at least, shall we pretend that we are the best of friends?”

“I believe I can pretend that.” She looked back at the house, and he sensed how she tensed.

He had not thought she would be so anxious about this evening when she had spoken often of spending her time in London attending events much like this. He should be the one anticipating this with dread. His mother had badgered him to go to London for a full Season. His cousin had repeated the same suggestion, but Lorenzo had not gone for more than a fortnight. Everything he had heard of the bustle and the attempts to better one in someone's eyes by belittling another had been true. That single encounter with the Polite World had convinced him to remain at Wolfe Abbey. Mayhap tonight would change his mind, but he doubted it.

As he nodded to the maid who took his hat and cloak, his thoughts were focused on the vase Valeria had brought him yesterday. It was an excellent piece, and he guessed it might have been imported from what was now France, in the early days of the Roman occupation. If he had not agreed to escort Valeria here tonight, he might have put a certain identification on it. He believed he had found the book among his uncle's collection that would provide the information he needed, but had not had time to peruse it. He barely had had time to dress in his seldom-used evening wear.

He longed to snatch his hat and cloak back from the maid, bid Valeria to enjoy her evening, and take his leave to continue his studies. He could send the carriage for her, so it waited when she was ready to return to Moorsea Manor.

Glancing at her face and seeing the strain dimming her smile, he knew he must resist doing as he wished. What he wished right now, he realized with a start, was that he could devise some witty remark to bring a genuine smile back to her. For the first time ever, he regretted his lack of skill in aimless conversation. A chap with Town polish would know what to say to ease her disquiet. He could only pat her fingers as he drew her hand within his arm again.

When she looked up at him, she said, “Don't fret about me. I shall be quite fine, Lorenzo.”

“I have no doubts of that.”

She gave him an effervescent smile, and he was amazed that he had succeeded in spite of himself. The ways of the
ton
seldom included honesty. Mayhap he did not need a Season in London to soothe her distress. Mayhap honesty was the best cure.

As he led her up the stairs, which seemed cramped in comparison with the ones at Moorsea Manor, he admired the silk wall coverings and the
objets d'art
decorating the cozy space. He had become accustomed to the unrestrained chaos of his uncle's possessions. This serenity where each item was arranged in utmost perfection seemed sterile.

Music and voices coursed down the steps, and Lorenzo turned to his left and an arch where Miss Oates was receiving her guests. Her eyes narrowed as he walked with Valeria toward her, so he could not guess if she was pleased or disturbed at seeing him.

No matter. Valeria needed an ally tonight when she should have been comfortable among friends. He would not abandon her.

Miss Oates's gown was of the palest pink, a shade that made him think of looking at one's fingers through an icicle. However, her smile was warm.

“I am so glad that you joined Lady Fanning in accepting our invitation for this evening,” she said as Lorenzo bowed over her hand.

“Where is your brother?” Valeria asked.

He knew she regretted the question as Miss Oates brightened. “How kind of you to be asking for him, my lady. Tilden will be so pleased when he returns from checking the wine for this evening.”

“He is checking it only now?”

Miss Oates blushed. “He was dealing with matters of a tenant farmer this afternoon, and the time completely slipped away from him. We are lucky he was able to return in time to be presentable tonight.” She reached out and took Valeria's hand. “I know he will be extra glad now.”

Valeria's response was only a weak smile.

“This,” Miss Oates continued, drawing an older lady forward, “is my mother.”

Lorenzo bowed over the gray-haired lady's hand. She was still as handsome as her son and was no bent dowager. In a gown so stylish it must have only just been delivered from London, she outshone her daughter.

“Mother, this is Lord Moorsea.”

“Good evening, madam,” he said as he raised his head and met her steady gaze.

“So you are the new earl,” Mrs. Oates replied. “We are glad you have called tonight. Aren't we, Mary?”