Chapter Three

The futile task given by her teammates was still fresh in Myfanwy’s mind the following day as she readied to meet her aunt.

She tried tying her bonnet ribbon into an aggravating knot three times before she could finally get it into a suitable bow underneath her chin. Myfanwy loved it when her father’s sister came to visit her, but today she couldn’t bolster her heart to feel anything but stiff, unyielding discontent. Usually, she loved being proven correct, but she didn’t relish going back to the club and telling the members that they still didn’t have a coach to help them beat the matrons.

“My dear,” Mrs. Abigail Moreland said grandly as she waited at the base of the staircase for her niece, “pick up your feet. You trudge any harder and you’ll fall right through.”

Myfanwy attempted to lighten her steps, but it was a paltry effort. “I’m sorry, Aunt,” she replied glumly. “I’m in a mood.”

“On a day such as this?” Mrs. Moreland replied, snatching her niece tight for a quick peck on each cheek. “It’s marvelous outside. The perfect weather for a garden party. I demand you cheer up immediately.”

A smile fought its way onto Myfanwy’s face. It was difficult to stay curmudgeonly around her aunt, who was the late Viscount Newton’s one sibling and the only relative that Myfanwy held any type of relationship with. Though she’d married Sir Richard Moreland, Aunt Abigail never had any children of her own and doted on Myfanwy something fierce. Oddly enough, they disagreed on virtually everything under the sun—from politics to art to women in sport. However, the ladies maintained a strong bond, most likely because they both knew what it was like to navigate through the world alone. Sir Richard died soon after they’d wed fifteen years ago, and Aunt Abigail had never cared to consider another husband, even when she’d been pressured by her family. Myfanwy would never consider herself a romantic, and yet she’d always appreciated that conviction in the older woman.

“Oh, Aunt,” Myfanwy said, her expression as gloomy as the day was fine. “I just don’t think I’m up for a garden party today.”

“Pish!” her aunt answered. “You absolutely must go. It will look poor if we don’t show and play nice. I won’t have people saying you’re bitter about the whole thing.”

Bitter?Myfanwy hadn’t even thought about that.

Her aunt went on, “It’s the viscount’s first garden party. Can you believe that? He took over your father’s title a whole year ago, and this is the first time he’s invited anyone in. Most likely nervous, the drab thing, his being a newspaperman and all that before this was all thrust on him. He probably doesn’t have the faintest idea how to act and what to do.”

“I suppose,” Myfanwy answered slowly. In all honesty, the moment she moved into Mr. Everett’s home, she’d barely given a second’s thought to the new viscount or how he was settling into his role. All she knew was that he was a distant cousin who’d written for one of the daily newspapers before he was notified of his stroke of luck. At least, Myfanwy assumed that the new Viscount Newton considered the title good fortune. Most people would, anyway.

It occurred to Myfanwy that her aunt thought she was reluctant to go back home because it would be her first time returning since her father’s funeral. She adored Holly Lodge and always would, but Myfanwy had always known that it wouldn’t be her forever home, and she didn’t begrudge the new viscount his due.

“Please don’t think I’m upset about going home—I mean to Holly Lodge,” Myfanwy began. She turned to accept her parasol and reticule from the maid waiting behind her. “I just don’t feel like standing around talking to people. So, you have nothing to worry about on that account.”

“Nothing to worry about?” her aunt retorted, quite aghast. The pale red curls framing her round face shook with her vehemence. “How can you say that? It’s all I ever do, poor girl. How can I not when you’re living in this house with that…with that man!”

Myfanwy sighed, sliding a few feet toward the door, hoping her aunt would follow instead of breaking out into a fresh tirade. It didn’t work.

“I loved my brother,” the older woman continued. “He was everything an older brother should be. Gallant and beautiful. But for the life of me, I will never understand what he was thinking when he wrote his will. I should never have listened to you; I should have contested it.”

“You know as well as I that it wouldn’t have done any good. Father was in perfect health and of sound mind when he created it.”

Aunt Abigail droned on. “I take solace in the fact that you won’t be here much longer. Only twelve more weeks until you reach your majority. Although, what you have planned next makes me even more tormented. Dearest, please tell me you aren’t actually going to live alone.”

“That’s the plan,” Myfanwy announced with a grin. “Which reminds me, I still haven’t found a house that’s perfect. The one we toured in Hampstead Heath didn’t sing to me. Will you go out with me to look some more next week? Nothing feels quite right.”

“Because there’s no husband attached to it!” her aunt scoffed, shivering at the thought. “How can a house feel like a home when you’re planning to live in it all by yourself? Come live with me. I won’t take no for an answer.”

“You’ll have to,” Myfanwy said. “I told you. I don’t care about my reputation or my social standing or a husband. All I care about is starting a cricket club for single ladies. Once I reach majority and take control of my dowry, I’ll be able to purchase a small house with a proper spot of land for a cricket pitch. There we’ll be able to play and compete without always asking for permission to use the men’s fields. It’s the only way.”

Aunt Abigail appeared positively crestfallen. “But you are the daughter of a viscount. You can’t just do whatever you want.”

“Why not?” Myfanwy asked pointedly. “You do.”

“Yes,” her aunt replied drolly, “but I got married first. You have to do one before you can do the other. Those are the rules.”

“Not my rules. If I marry, then all my money belongs to my husband. What if he decides to change his mind one day? What if on a whim he feels like betting it all on a hand of cards? I can’t risk that. Men can’t be controlled.”

“What about love?”

“Ha!” Myfanwy laughed, aghast. “From what I hear, love is the very opposite of control. There’s no place for it in my life.”

Aunt Abigail tugged at her gloves. “I don’t know who’s giving you these horrible ideas. It’s the golfer, isn’t it? I knew he’d be a bad influence. Wicked, wicked golfer—”

“He’s a cricketer.”

The older woman sucked in a heaving breath. “He’s lascivious—”

“You mean he’s a bachelor.”

“—he comes from Lord knows where—”

“He’s from Sutton.”

“—and who knows what kind of parents he had?”

“His father is a bricklayer, and one of his brothers is a physician and the other is a barrister.”

Aunt Abigail humphed, acknowledging Myfanwy with a pointy arch of a brow. “Well, they can’t be any good at their jobs if they choose to live all the way out there in the middle of nowhere.”

Myfanwy tossed up her hands. “It’s Nottinghamshire, not Siberia. Some people enjoy the country.”

“Odd people. Odd people prefer the country.”

“And yet here you are, dragging me to a garden party.”

“Oh stop.” Aunt Abigail chuckled grimly. “Garden parties aren’t the country. They are, however, the only sensible way to experience the outdoors. With tents and shade and drinks and entertainment. If you’re determined to ruin your reputation, I have to do my best dragging you into decent Society as much as you’ll allow—” She stopped, surveying her niece’s ensemble shrewdly. “You aren’t really wearing that, are you? You’re going to catch a cold. Go upstairs and change at once. Honestly, Myfanwy. We don’t have time for this.”

Myfanwy shook her head. She’d been trying to herd the loquacious woman out the door for the past few minutes. “Of course I’m wearing this. Why? What’s wrong with it?”

She followed her aunt’s gaze and looked down at her pale yellow muslin dress. It was simple and plain, but the sleeves added a bit of a punch with their short, flowing ruffles. Most importantly, it was cool and airy for a late June day.

“You’ll catch your death,” her aunt said.

“I will not!” Myfanwy replied. “You said it yourself: the sun is out. I don’t want to spend the day sweating.”

Aunt Abigail’s eyes rounded as large as cricket balls. Her pert nose went straight up in the air. “What are you talking about? Ladies don’t sweat.”

Myfanwy laughed and then sobered quickly when she realized her aunt was not joking. “You’re not serious?”

“Of course I am!”

“Everyone sweats.”

“Ladies don’t.”

“Yes, they do!”

Aunt Abigail made a sound from the base of her throat that could only be categorized as a growl. “Although I consider myself extraordinary in all things, alas, I am an average woman, and I do not sweat. It’s physically impossible.”

Myfanwy continued to gawk at her aunt, incredulous. “Well…I do!”

“Fine, fine,” the older woman said, putting her hands up between them as if worried that her niece might sweat on her. “Just don’t tell anyone.”

“I only told you!”

“Well, don’t do it again.”

“Believe me, I won’t!”

Fortunately, steps could be heard coming down the stairs, and the two women were diverted from their unsavory disagreement. Aunt Abigail craned her neck around Myfanwy and lit in a generous smile. “Ah, Mr. Everett, how lovely to see you this afternoon.”

Myfanwy rolled her eyes. Her aunt was never at a loss when describing her guardian’s numerous faults, and yet she lit up like Vauxhall Gardens whenever the man graced them with his presence.

It was a very nice presence, though, Myfanwy had to admit. She twirled around as her guardian made his way to the foyer. Samuel looked nothing like the barman he was the night before. Instead, he was the picture of gentility with his freshly pressed white shirt and impeccably tailored jacket. His trousers were a dark brown, and though loose as the style dictated, they weren’t loose enough for Myfanwy. Her gaze traveled along the long lines of his leg muscles that hinted just below the surface like an Egyptian treasure waiting to be discovered underneath the hot desert sand.

Plus, he’d combed his dark blond hair. Which was usually enough to turn a vagrant into a gentleman for a day.

Samuel’s smile was tight and in no way made it up to his eyes. However, it was enough to bring out the dimple on his left cheek, though not the one on his right. Myfanwy hadn’t seen that one since she was very young.

“Mrs. Moreland, always a pleasure,” he replied adequately, following it with a curt bow.

“Awfully dressed up for the tavern,” Myfanwy drawled. She was baiting him, naturally, but she received no satisfaction when Samuel continued to focus on her aunt.

“No tavern today. I suspect we are traveling in the same circles,” he said stiffly, keeping his gaze averted from hers. This shy action remained a considerable curiosity for Myfanwy. She’d noticed his lack of eye contact with her when she first moved into his townhome. Assuming it was because of his embarrassment over his injured eye, she’d gone out of her way never to stare at the white spot. But it didn’t matter how nonchalantly she behaved. Samuel made it a point to not look at her as much as possible.

He didn’t mind looking at her aunt, though. Samuel wasn’t charming the older woman in the slightest, but he wasn’t avoiding her either.

“You’re off to Viscount Newton’s garden party?” Aunt Abigail asked, trying and failing to hide her amazement.

Samuel nodded, amused at her failure. “Indeed. I’ve known him for a long time, ever since he used to write cricket features for the Standard. He was ruthless but fair.”

Myfanwy stepped forward. “And you’re…friends?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he answered, ducking his head, giving Myfanwy a good view of the bump in his nose. Surely he’d broken it—a few times. “We’re acquaintances. I’m only going because Sir Bramble told me he would be there, and he wished to speak to me about investing in my new business.”

“The sporting goods business?” Myfanwy asked.

Samuel’s jaw clenched. “The very one.”

Aunt Abigail chuckled, obliviously unaware of the tension between the two younger people. Perhaps only Myfanwy was aware of it. Samuel seemed as at ease as ever—or as at ease as he could ever seem.

“You are an interesting man, aren’t you, Mr. Everett?” Aunt Abigail remarked. “So many eggs in so many baskets. An inn, a tavern, and now a sporting goods business. Whatever can’t you do?”

“Oh, I have my limitations,” he said. Wrinkles fanned out from the corners of his eyes as he winced at the flattery. He tapped his hand against his left thigh. “If you ever asked me to dance, we might have problems.”

Aunt Abigail’s cheeks went red, and she giggled like a schoolgirl. “Oh, I doubt that. You forget, my brother used to drag me to your matches from time to time. I bet those legs still have life in them. I might ask you to dance just to prove you wrong. Something on the slower side.”

Was Myfanwy’s aunt flirting? With Samuel Everett? And worse yet, was he blushing?

While her stomach curdled, Myfanwy watched as Samuel’s Adam’s apple bobbed over his starched collar. “I should be going,” he said with another stiff bow. “I don’t plan to stay long, so I want to get there early.”

“You can ride in my carriage with us,” Aunt Abigail said, perhaps a little too eagerly.

“Ah, no thank you,” Samuel replied, perhaps a little too quickly. “The fresh air would do me good after spending the evening in the tavern.”

And as if he vanished into thin air, he escaped seconds later, his bad leg not hindering his swift exit.

Both Myfanwy and Aunt Abigail were quiet for a long pause, finding themselves alone again. Then, in a frenzy of movement, Aunt Abigail dug into her pelisse and located her fan. She utilized it instantly and furiously.

“I can’t believe it,” she said, her brow reaching up to her hairline. “It seems you were right, niece. Ladies can sweat after all.”