There's Something About Lady Mary (7 page)

“I see. Then you certainly do have a very busy season ahead of you, it would seem.”

“It does appear so, doesn’t it?” he replied, locking his gaze with hers.

Turning away from Rotten Row, the carriage continued along an alley for a while before slowing to a steady halt. “There is a nice patch of grass over there where I thought we might be able to sit and enjoy a bit of a picnic,” Ryan said, stepping down from the carriage and turning to offer first her ladyship and then her maid his hand.

“I hope you did not pack too much,” Lady Steepleton said, smoothing her skirts while Emma stepped down onto the gravelly path. “After all, I just ate. Remember?”

“Just some tea and cake,” Ryan replied. Taking the basket in one hand and draping a large rolled up blanket across his other arm, he walked over to a patch of sunshine and proceeded to spread the blanket on the ground. It wasn’t as warm as he’d hoped; in fact, whenever the clouds blocked out the sun, it was really quite chilly. A good thing he’d settled on tea rather than wine.

“So, tell me about your studies, Mr. Summersby,” Lady Steepleton asked with genuine interest once they were seated on the ground. “When we last spoke, you mentioned that you have been studying medicine at Oxford.”

“And you told me that I do not strike you as a typical medical student. As I recall, you mentioned that your father was quite the physician.”

“That is true,” Lady Steepleton agreed. “And I am sorry about what I said; I was upset.”

“Then perhaps I ought to be the one apologizing,” Ryan told her with a warm smile. She returned it, and his heart swelled. It would seem that her firm facade was already beginning to crack a little, and while he still didn’t know her well enough to form a detailed opinion of her, he had to admit that their conversations thus far had sparked his interest with alarming speed. He glanced at Emma. “More tea?” he offered.

“Thank you, my lord.” Presenting her cup, the young woman suddenly raised her hand and waved.

Ryan turned, spotting two women approaching along the path. “Someone you know?”

“It is my younger sister with one of her friends.” Emma turned her attention toward her mistress. “Would you perhaps permit me to go and greet them, my lady? I shall not go far; I promise.”

“I. . .” Lady Steepleton hesitated as she darted a look in Ryan’s direction, but if she had any misgivings about being left alone with him, she quickly hid them and forced a smile. “Yes, of course,” she told her maid, with a pink blush to her cheeks.

Thanking her mistress, Emma got up and went to speak with her sister and her friend.

Ryan sat in silence for a while, acutely aware of the fact that their chaperone was no longer within earshot. He regarded Lady Steepleton with growing interest. She looked frazzled. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes averted, and she was nervously toying with the fabric of her dress. “Does it bother you?” he asked her suddenly.

She looked startled at the sound of his voice, as if he’d just intruded on a private thought. “What?” she asked.

“Being alone with me; does it bother you?”

“No,” she chuckled, albeit with an underlying hint of nervousness. “Not at all.”

“Good. Because you are perfectly safe with me, you know. I would not dream of doing anything that might damage your reputation or compromise you in any way. You have my word on that, as a gentleman.”

She stared back at him as if surprised by his sudden declaration. Her mouth formed the shape of an
O
. “It never occurred to me that you would,” she told him at last.

Did he detect the sound of disappointment in her voice? She’d said she didn’t think he’d act inappropriately, but had she secretly hoped? A rush of unexpected heat buzzed through him at the thought of it. He regarded her quietly as he tried to make sense of what he was feeling. He had a job to do: that was the only reason why he was even sitting there talking to her in the first place. After all, she wasn’t at all the type of woman to strike his fancy. The sort of women he’d been with in the past were far more striking and alluring than Lady Steepleton.

Yet there was something that he couldn’t quite define, an attraction so strong that he felt an urgent need to push her down onto the blanket and kiss her breathless.

“Mr. Summersby?”

Ryan blinked, then noticed that she was looking at him in wonder. Her hand was gently touching his arm. When had that happened? He didn’t know, but it felt wonderful. “My apologies,” he said. “I fear I got a bit lost in my own thoughts there for a moment.”

“That is quite all right,” she told him with a smile. “As I recall, you were just about to tell me about your studies.”

“Well, the truth of it is that I have been studying for years without finding the discipline to focus on any one topic.”

“The eternal student on his quest for knowledge,” she remarked with a twinkle in her eyes. “It is a journey that knows no end, you know; each time you find the answer to a question, another problem presents itself, and you end up tossed about between any number of different subjects, always searching and never quite satisfied.”

Ryan stared at her for a moment as if she’d just discovered the key to unlocking the universe. Perhaps she had—to his universe, at least. Nobody else had ever shown more understanding of him as a person than this woman whom he’d only just met. It was absolutely astounding.

He took a moment to compose himself before continuing. “I have covered practically everything from mathematics to art history, law to literature. My brother eventually insisted that I get a degree in something, and since I would like to make a comfortable living for myself, it really came down to a tie between law and medicine.”

“So then, what was the deciding factor?” Lady Steepleton asked with growing interest.

“Well, in the end I suppose that medicine won out because it will always be able to present me with something new. It also incorporates a variety of different areas of expertise: anatomy, biology, chemistry, botany, perhaps even philosophy, to some extent. In short, it is the one area of expertise that I am least likely to grow weary of.”

Lady Steepleton laughed at that, and there was a ring to her voice that lifted his soul. “You certainly have thought this through, haven’t you?”

“To some degree,” he admitted as he took a sip of tea.

“Would you mind if I tried a piece of the cake?” Lady Steepleton asked rather suddenly.

“Oh, how terribly rude of me; I quite forgot to offer.” He quickly reached for the knife and cut a slice of cake that he then placed on a white plate, offering it to her with a tentative smile.

She studied him as he did so, the trace of a smile beginning to tug at the edge of her lips. “Are you always this forgetful and preoccupied?” she asked.

He frowned. “Why, Lady Steepleton, I do believe that you are mocking me.”

“Surely not,” she said, grinning, before turning quite serious. “I would never dream of it.”

“I see,” he muttered rather skeptically. “Then perhaps, in answer to your question, I ought to confess that I do not generally find myself in such remarkable company—hence the tendency for my mind to wander.”

“Is that an attempt at flattery?” she asked, as if surprised he’d bothered to make the effort.

“That depends on whether or not it is working,” he told her slyly.

“Well, it is certainly a better attempt than the one you made last night,” she said. “In fact, I daresay that you hardly made any attempt at all.”

“My apologies once again, my lady.” He’d been a damned fool when she’d finally introduced herself to him the previous evening. Indeed, he’d looked at her as if she’d just dropped from the sky, but the truth of it was he’d been confounded. Looking at her now, he still considered her a conundrum. Her dress was quite plain, while her hair was pulled back so sharply he imagined the roots must be screaming. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. Truthfully, she looked prim and unapproachable, but when she opened her mouth and spoke, he couldn’t help but be impressed by her sharp rejoinders and wit. She clearly had character.

The marchioness suddenly laughed. “I am merely jesting with you,” she said. “Although I must admit that your initial reaction to my true identity was somewhat upsetting, I really cannot blame you. In fact, you were quite right to be surprised. After all, I do not exactly look like a lady of the
ton,
much less a marchioness.”

Ryan was momentarily startled by her sudden show of self-deprecation. “Well, at least that is something that can easily be rectified by a visit to Bond Street,” he said. “All you need are a few extravagant gowns.”

Lady Steepleton let out a short sigh. “I suppose that might help.” She started fidgeting again, and it occurred to him that he’d not only drawn direct attention to her attire, but voiced his disapproval, when all he’d meant to do was offer her a little help and advice. He groaned inwardly. It was remarkable that she was still sitting there and hadn’t decided to storm off.

Hoping to draw her attention to something else, he decided to make an attempt at changing the subject. “You seemed to be quite understanding of my predicament in regards to settling upon one singular area of study. It forces me to wonder if you are to some degree a student too.” Well, what was she to say to that? Of course she was, for she had never stopped studying. She nodded faintly in response, unwilling to be completely dishonest with the poor man who, it seemed, was eagerly attempting to make her happy.

“Really?” Mr. Summersby remarked with renewed enthusiasm. “And what, pray tell, has a lady such as yourself determined to study? The arts, perhaps?”

Mary could have choked on her cake at that question. Not only could she not imagine herself studying anything as dull as paintings or poetry, but she would now have to come up with an appropriate answer that wouldn’t be nearly as appalling as the truth. After all, they didn’t know each other well enough for her to drop
that
cannonball in his lap just yet. “I. . .er. . .I study people, Mr. Summersby,” she told him, hoping he might be content with that answer, however vague it might be.

He looked at her quizzically. “People?” he asked. He seemed momentarily confused, but when she didn’t elaborate any further, he eventually chose to draw his own conclusion. “Oh, I see; you have an interest in philosophy and the inner workings of the mind, I take it?”

Mary forced herself to hold back her reply. As it happened, she’d studied quite a bit of philosophy, but it was more of a hobby of hers than anything else. There was no doubt about the fact that Mr. Summersby had made a serious error in judgment. However, it was an error not only that she had helped him make, but one that she was not about to correct—at least not yet. “Yes,” she heard herself say, increasingly horrified at how easy it had become for her to lie.

“Then you must be quite familiar with Descartes,” he said as he took a sip of tea.

“Indeed, I am,” she replied, brightening at the possibility of telling him something truthful for once. “I have read several of his works.”

Mr. Summersby nodded appreciatively. “Then at least we have that much in common,” he told her with a smile as he put his cup down. He glanced over her shoulder, and, following his line of sight, she spotted Emma, still busily chatting with her sister and her friend. Uneasiness wafted over her; they seemed to be farther away than before.

“How do you feel about that walk?” Mr. Summersby asked, forcing her attention back to him. He’d begun piling their things into the picnic basket.

“To be honest, I think I will be relieved to get up off the ground before I catch a chill,” she said, waving for Emma to return. She could hardly walk off with him alone.

He gave her a sidelong glance as he carefully arranged the teacups next to the cake. He seemed so unexpectedly gentle. “I am sorry about that. I did not realize that it would be quite so cold. Perhaps we would have been better served if we had remained in the carriage.”

“Whoever heard of a picnic in a carriage?” She looked back at him, her eyes meeting his in a deadpan stare. “If you and I are to get along, Mr. Summersby, then you really must stop apologizing all the time. Though I do appreciate your attempts at gallantry, I am not a fragile porcelain doll in need of constant coddling. In fact, I would rather enjoy good banter—if you are up to it.”

“You don’t mince words, do you?” His voice was serious, but she detected a smile behind his eyes.

“Direct conversation has always served me rather well,” she quipped.

“Then I shall endeavor to refrain from apologizing further.” He offered her his arm, which she quickly accepted with a warm smile, and led her down toward the path that ran along the embankment of the Serpentine. The wind had picked up a bit, making the few ducks on the river bob even more, while the ribbons on Mary’s bonnet had begun to wave with increasing fury. “Do you think that we are at all likely to have a few warm days this summer?” Mr. Summersby asked as he watched her pull the shawl she’d brought along more tightly about her shoulders.

“Do you really wish for us to discuss the weather?” she asked with no attempt at hiding the smirk that played upon her lips.

“Not particularly,” he told her plainly. “But since that is what most young ladies prefer to talk about, I fear that I have made a habit of it.”

Mary chuckled. “Please refrain from doing so with me. I would be much obliged if we might discuss something of a little more substance than whether or not there will be clouds in the sky tomorrow.”

“I see,” Mr. Summersby muttered, frowning a little at her remark.

Oh, dear.

Had she been too forward?

“Would you mind telling me what you
would
like to discuss?”

She pondered that for a moment, then turned her face to look at him, her skin tingling with sudden excitement. “Do you believe in chance, Mr. Summersby, or do you suppose that things happen for a reason?”

The question must have stunned him, for his eyes widened in response. She knew it was an odd question to ask, but what better way to discover his true character than through thought-provoking conversation?