The reluctant cavalier (13 page)

She frowned slightly to herself. Was there some enmity between the duke and Mr. Wentworth? She had heard nothing of such a thing ... perhaps it was merely some dispute over property. Whatever it was, it was no concern of hers.

Instead, Annabella bent herself to the task of her breakfast and being pleasant to those guests who spoke to her. She tried to draw out Mr. Wentworth a little, but it seemed he had retreated into himself again. Though he was pleasant enough and answered her cordially, he did not volunteer much of himself. At first she thought perhaps she had said something that had put him off, but then saw that he was the same to the lady to the other side of him. Annabella smiled wryly to herself. It was clear Mr. Wentworth was not at his best in company.

A slight touch upon her shoulder at the end of her meal made her look up. It was Stratton, and he smiled slightly at her.

"I was wondering, Miss Smith, if you would care to walk about the grounds with me?" he asked.

Annabella was conscious of the speculative looks from the other guests around her and the stillness of Mr. Wentworth beside her. A stifled feeling came over her, and she could not help feeling a little angry that the duke had asked her in the presence of so many people, making it difficult to do anything but to accept. She felt half inclined to refuse. But she suppressed the inclination and the resigned sigh that came to her lips. She had promised her mother she would consider the duke's proposal and try her best to come to know him.

She looked away briefly and then made herself smile at him pleasantly. "Why, I would be most pleased to do so, Your Grace."

"In perhaps an hour, ma'am?"

"Yes . .. although perhaps an hour and a half would be better," Annabella replied. She could not help wanting to delay their meeting; it was petty of her, perhaps, but she did not wish the duke to dictate all the terms of their acquaintance.

Stratton smiled slightly. "An hour and a half, then."

Annabella nodded and returned to her breakfast when he turned away from her. She looked to her left, intending to attempt more conversation with Mr. Wentworth, but he was not there. He must have excused himself while she was talking to the duke ... and she did not hear him. She felt sorry for it and hoped that she might see Mr. Wentworth again, perhaps after her walk with the duke.

She pushed the remainder of her breakfast about on her plate, her appetite gone. She excused herself and rose from the table. It was no use staying when the company seemed so dull; she might as well ready herself for her walk. As she left the dining room, she saw that the sun had come out of the clouds, and felt oddly discontent that it was so bright that it caused the duke to think that a walk outside in the sun would be a pleasant thing.

"A pleasant day, is it not, Miss Smith?" the Duke of Stratton said.

"What—oh! Yes. Yes, it is." Annabella brought her attention back to her companion and felt her face grow warm. She had been ready far sooner than the amount of time she had told the duke she needed, but she had purposely made him wait the whole hour and a half. Now she was being more rude than ever. "I... I am sorry. It is just that I am distracted by worry over my mother."

Stratton gave her an inquiring look.

Annabella swallowed down tears and looked away. "My ... my mother was attacked by someone last night at the masquerade and has been badly hurt. I feel I am to blame; I begged to come to this masquerade, and I should not have."

The duke took her hand and patted it. "It is true, you should not have come, but I suppose if your mother chaperoned you, it is not such a bad thing. But see what has come of it, even so. It is an activity that encourages licentiousness, and even the most sterling of characters are tempted to go beyond acceptable behavior."

The tears that had threatened to overcome Annabella dried up as a fiery irritation replaced them. She removed her hand from his grasp and raised her eyebrows haughtily. "Surely, you are not saying my mother was tempted to act in a manner unbecoming to a lady, and encouraged the attack upon her?"

Stratton raised his hands in a gesture of mock-surrender and his smile was amused. "Did I say that?"

"No . . . not precisely," Annabella admitted. "But it sounded as if you were implying it."

"I am sorry if it seemed so." The duke's voice was apologetic, and yet there was still a hint of humor in his voice. Annabella felt a mix of chagrin and irritation, at once sorry that she had attempted to put him in the wrong, and wishing he were not a duke and that she had not been raised to mind her manners so that she could snub him thoroughly.

How contradictory she was! And she was hardly giving him the chance to know him better as she had promised her mother. She made herself smile at him.

"And I am sorry that I have been rude. An irritation of the nerves ... the incident last night upset me, and I am not thinking clearly as I should."

"I understand. You might have been attacked also and are rightly frightened."

Annabella bit her lip to keep herself from snapping at him. How was she to answer that? It was not fright for herself, but her mother that she had felt, and yet if she corrected him, she would seem defensive.

"It is an unpleasant subject," she said at last. "Let us talk of other things ... the grounds we are walking upon, for instance. Have you grounds like these?" She gestured at the green lawn before them and the bursts of color that came from the rhododendron bushes nearby. It was a pleasant view, the arrangement of trees and plants seeming to come from nature's dictates rather than that of human planning.

"My estate is comparable in size to Wentworth Abbey,but you must excuse my pride if I say that it's better planned than this."

"You like a less natural setting, then?"

Stratton waved his hand at the bushes and the tumble of roses that coursed over one corner of the house. "I prefer a more formal, classical style. There is something pleasing in neatly ordered rows of shrubbery and a distinct design."

"Perhaps," Annabella said. "But do you not think that an arrangement that blends with that of nature is easier and more pleasant to the eye?"

The duke smiled slightly. "That which is easier and pleasant is not necessarily good. Purity in line and conception—in all things, in fact—is far preferable."

There was little to argue with in his statement, but Annabella felt a deep discontent. His words made her wish to do something contrary, untidy and riotous, like the sprays of roses that climbed upon the walls of Wentworth Abbey and flung their trailing branches wantonly across their path.

The path narrowed somewhat, and His Grace stepped neatly over one rose branch. But Annabella's skirt caught in it, and she had to bend and release it from the thorns. When she rose and met his eyes, his smile had turned ironic.

"You see?" he said. "Such untidiness cannot be anything but troublesome. These roses should be removed, for they are clearly a nuisance, and ruin the straight lines of this finely built house if you were to look at it from a distance."

She disagreed and wanted to tell him so. But she had promised to be pleasant, and she supposed it would be best if she learned more about his opinions, especially if she was going to consider him as a potential husband. She gave a little sigh and smiled pleasantly.

"Perhaps," she said, and turned the conversation again.

"Lady Smith and her daughter to stay with us—a
week?
 

Or more?" Lady Grafton stared at Parsifal in consternation, her hand halting in the act of dropping a sweetmeat into the jaws of her pug dog. The dog's whine echoed loudly in the large drawing room, but she ignored it. "To be sure, it cannot be helped, but I am surprised you did not tell me at the outset, Parsifal!"

Parsifal eyed the dog, wondering if the animal ever wished to bite the sweetmeat from his mother's fingers. It was a well-trained dog, however, and never did so. He drew in a deep breath and let it out again. "I did not, Mother, because you were abed by the time Doctor Robinson made his diagnosis. I trust it will not cause an inconvenience?"

"No, no, of course not," replied Lady Grafton and frowned a little. "It is just that I like to be consulted on such things, so that I may let Geoffrey know when he comes home. He is the head of the household, after all."

Parsifal reflected it was not likely that his brother would care who stayed at their home since Geoffrey was rarely in it himself, but did not say so. A surge of discontent accompanied the thought, a thing he had not felt before. He blinked, surprised at himself. He was feeling quite unlike himself lately, impatient and impulsive.

"However, I do not mind it, really," his mother was saying, and the sudden complaisant note in her voice brought his focus back to her. Parsifal gazed at the smug smile on her face and his suspicions rose. He did not trust that look on his mother's face. It usually meant she had a scheme— usually ill-conceived—on her mind.

"Indeed, Miss Smith is a very pretty-behaved young lady, is she not?" she continued. The pug whined again, and she dropped the sweetmeat at last. With a snap the pug's jaws closed—like a trap, thought Parsifal. "To be sure, her lineage is not as old as ours, but it is quite respectable. Indeed, I have thought how ... convenient it is that her father's land marches with ours." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Parsifal, my dear, has Geoffrey said when he might return from London? I thought he would be here by now."

Parsifal almost groaned, but suppressed it and the surge of despair that came with it. His mother's matchmaking efforts with Geoffrey had always failed in the past, and there was no reason to think that he would abandon his mistress and marry the very meek and compliant misses she brought before him. Inevitably, Geoffrey would leave, and it was left to Parsifal to act the host and try to soothe any ruffled feathers or shocked sensibilities—which rarely worked, anyway. But now it was Annabella she was thinking of—
oh, God.
 

Anger flared suddenly in him, and he bit back a heated retort. Taking a deep breath, he said: "My brother did not inform me exactly when he would return. I think, Mother, that it would be inappropriate for you to encourage Geoffrey's attentions upon Miss Smith. She cannot be in a state to appreciate his troub—his attractions. Her mother has just been attacked on our grounds and badly injured. It has been a severe shock to Miss Smith, I am certain. She will not be in a state to contemplate a courtship of any sort. I think it would be better if you wait until her mother recovers before you make any matrimonial plans."

"How inconvenient that he did not tell you!" she replied, frowning. "However, I am sure if I wrote to him, he would come forthwith!" She pulled a bell rope. "I shall send a letter to him today. Surely, he will see he cannot pass up such a chance as this!"

It was useless. Parsifal turned on his heel and left the drawing room. She would not listen, and there was no reasoning with her, Parsifal thought, and he fought back a fiery irritation. He did not know why he even tried.

The house closed in on him, the air was stale and stifling. Quickly, he ran down the steps and went to the back of the house and out of the doors to the stables. There was the new bay, as yet untried. He would ride it, away from the house into the woods.

The stallion gave him a wild look when Parsifal came near. He took in a deep breath and let it out again, and calmed himself. Trying out a horse when the rider's emotions were not under control could make a horse's training more difficult than usual, later. He patted the bay's neck in a reassuring manner, and gave it a piece of dried apple he had snatched from the kitchens on his way out. The horse was descended from one of the Darley Arabians, and it showed in its graceful lines and proud head. He rarely purchased stallions or rode them, for geldings were more practical and easier to train. But he could not resist buying this horse when he saw it, for it was truly a magnificent beast. He'd use it for stud was his excuse at the time, but he knew it was not for that reason he bought it. Regardless, it deserved to be treated with care.

The horse eyed him warily and instead of taking the apple, it bit his hand, gently. Parsifal laughed.

"You are an unforgiving one, aren't you? I suppose that was a warning, eh?" He pushed at the horse's nose, and it released his hand, delicately taking the apple at last. He put on the bridle, halter, and saddle, the horse giving only a token protest.

At last Parsifal sat upon the bay and set off at a canter toward the woods. The impatience to be gone from the house made him press his knees into the horse's side and lean forward, and the horse leaped into a gallop. The stifled feeling fell away. Parsifal grinned, feeling the wind upon his face and through his hair. It was a good day for this, riding through the fresh and verdant fields. The sky was a brilliant azure, the sun a gold splash upon it, and the woods ahead were darkly green and welcoming. Sitting in a carriage was nothing to this, though his brother, Geoffrey, would say differently. How could one feel the raw power of muscle and speed, or the sure but sensitive link of man and animal through a thing of wood and wheels? No, riding on a fine and responsive horse as this must be the next best thing to having the power and strength of the animal itself.

He could see a stile far ahead of him. Parsifal was inclined to rein in the horse and take it gently. But the horse must surely have caught his exhilaration, for it shook its head and pulled at the reins. He could almost feel it thinking,
no, no, let me go!
Parsifal grinned.
Very well!
 

He readied himself, felt the bay's muscles bunch beneath him, then let the horse go, flying, flying into the sun. A laugh broke from him for the sheer joy that filled him. Then the horizon rose up in front of them at last, and they were down, earthbound once again. He had always loved this, flying through the air with a good horse beneath him, and he knew he would never tire of it.

The woods were near now, and Parsifal slowed the horse to a canter, then a walk. A cool breeze blew from the trees in front of him, smelling of earth and bracken. It felt good after the hard ride, drying the sweat upon his brow. He would go to his favorite tree, an old oak with broad, low limbs, and sit, letting the sound of rustling leaves soothe his thoughts and calm his emotions, as they had always done since he was a boy. Perhaps he would also take out his pennywhistle that he hid in a hole in the oak and play it for a while. It was something his father had given him long ago, a careless gift when he returned from London once. But Parsifal had treasured it, and slowly learned to play it, away from the gibes of his brother and sister.