Chapter 8

"Skating?" Andrew repeated. He'd been eating a late breakfast when his cousin found him.

"Yes, it is an activity one does in winter—especially around Christmas. A person straps on a—"

"Very droll, Sylvester."

"Needham has a pavilion complete with braziers, a feast, and plenty of warm blankets for those who want to come and watch—like Hyacinth and Lady Shaftsbury."

"The duchess does not skate?"

"Oh, she does, but I forbade it."

Andrew raised his eyebrows. "That must have been an interesting conversation."

"I must admit I was reduced to playing the lord and master and issuing a ducal command."

Andrew laughed. "I'm sorry I missed that."

"Come with me. Even if you don't skate, you can keep the ladies company."

"I'm sure they would both adore that," he said with a roll of his eyes. "But yes," he added when Sylvester gave him a pained look. "I will come."

"Excellent! Go fetch your things. We are leaving soon."

A large group had assembled in the great hall by the time Andrew had returned with his coat and hat. He joined Chatham and his duchess, who were standing off to one side. "Where the devil did all these people come from?" he asked as he pulled on his gloves.

"Some are new arrivals, but many are neighbors," Chatham said.

The majority of the people milling about were between the ages of twelve and twenty.

Andrew suddenly felt ancient. "Have other, er, adults been invited to this house party?"

The duke laughed at his plaintive tone.

The duchess turned to him and did something she rarely did, which was to address him directly. "There will be even more young people meeting us at the pond. You have been brought along to chaperone."

Andrew gave a startled snort. "I must admit that is a first for me."

The duke gave his wife an affectionate look and said, "My wife is teasing you, Drew."

"Ah." Andrew saw no hint of anything playful in either her unnerving eyes or her expressionless face.

His attention was snagged by a solitary figure standing at the far edge of the group. Yet again, Miss Martin was conspicuous for being alone.

Several carriages rolled up and Chatham turned to him. "Hyacinth and I will be riding over in one of the carriages."

"Is it far?"

Her Grace rolled her eyes. "No, but Chatham will not allow me to walk. The carriages are just for the invalids."

Sylvester grinned at his wife's sour expression. "We will see you there."

"Abandoning me already," Andrew muttered as the two left.

The large, boisterous group set off, Lord Needham leading the way.

Evidently the skating pond was only a ten-minute walk from Wych House. Although the sun was out, the wind was biting, and the big group moved swiftly.

Miss Martin, with her far shorter stride, soon fell behind the crowd.

When she did, Andrew dropped back to walk beside her.

***

Stacia was hunched over and walking at a full trot to keep up when she saw booted feet fall in beside hers.

She looked up to find Lord Shelton smiling down at her. "How is your patient?"

"Patient?" she repeated stupidly, her heart pounding.

"The dog."

"Oh. Yes, well, Mr. Higgins believes he will be fine after a week of rest."

"That is good news."

"Yes, it is." She bit her lower lip.

"What is wrong?" he asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because you made this expression"—he caught his lower lip with his teeth and pulled a mournful face.

She caught her laugh just in time. "I did not."

"Did so."

She just shook her head and tried to suppress her smile. Of course she failed.

"So, what is wrong?"

"Have you ever been told that you were pertinacious?"

"I don't know. Is that another word for handsome?" He grinned.

This time she couldn't hold back her laugh. "There is nothing wrong, I am just concerned about what will happen to the little dog."

"Lady Addiscombe does not need a lapdog."

Stacia snorted at the thought of her rigid employer even allowing such an unprepossessing little mutt into her townhouse. "She is not fond of dogs. Or cats. Or birds." Or people.

"How astonishing," he said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.

Stacia didn't respond to his comment, already feeling guilty over her disloyal words.

"If he is a good ratter, maybe Higgins will keep him," the marquess suggested.

"I asked and they don't need him. There are four terriers already, not to mention all the other dogs."

"Hmm. Maybe you could try and find his owner?"

"He is terribly thin. I think he has been on his own for quite some time."

"Still, it could not hurt to put the word out in the village. Perhaps at the post office and the Weasel," he said, using the locals' name for the small pub.

"Oh. I had not thought of that."

"You have not spent much time in the country."

"No, hardly any. But how did you guess?"

"If you had, you would know that post offices and pubs are the two social hubs in village life."

"What about the church?"

He made a scoffing sound. "There is no gossip and ale at church, Miss Martin."

She snorted.

"Do you want me to do it for you?"

"Er, that is very kind of you." Indeed, suspiciously kind. "But I will do it myself after skating."

He lifted an eyebrow. "You have a day of leisure?"

"Lady Addiscombe has a migraine."

Lord Shelton grimaced. "I would not wish those on anyone. Not even the countess."

"You are familiar with them?"

"Unfortunately."

When he did not offer anything more, Stacia said, "Lady Needham said they are quite awful and often last for days."

"They are and they can," he said grimly.

The walked in silence.

Stacia had no idea why he was beside her. Guilt, perhaps?

Just then they crested a slight rise that overlooked the pond. Beside it was a giant blue and white striped pavilion.

"My goodness!" Stacia said.

"It looks like something out of a medieval tale," Shelton said. "One almost expects a fool wearing motley to come cartwheeling out."

Stacia was delighted by the enchanting scene. There were huge copper braziers filled with glowing coals, a dozen tables with fluttering white cloths held down with yards and yards of ribbon, bunting, and greenery, and the centerpiece on each table was an enormous silver bowl heaped with nuts, sweets, and oranges.

"Ooh, oranges," she said before she could stop herself.

"Would you like one?" he asked.

"Perhaps in a little while," she said, not wishing to appear greedy.

Chairs and benches abounded and there were warm-looking lap rugs in piles.

"What say you, Miss Martin? Shall we skate?"

Stacia turned from the magical scene to the man beside her, who was equally magical, his golden hair glinting under the pale winter sun and his eyes so bright and beautiful they were like pieces of a summer sky.

"You don't need to keep me company, my lord."

"I don't have to do anything I don't wish to do," he retorted. "I am asking because I want to."

"Because you feel guilty."

"I am not proud of what I said the other night, Miss Martin. But I would not burden myself with a tedious companion to make amends. I am not that self-sacrificing." He cocked his head. "Can you not forgive my cruel, ignorant, and idiotic comment? If you truly cannot, then I promise to go away and leave you in peace."

Her heart lurched unpleasantly at the thought of him leaving. "Fine. I forgive you. But you don't need to flirt with me, my lord—you never have before."

"Before?"

She shook her head in amazement. "You truly do not remember, do you?"

"If you are asking if I recall meeting you before this house party"—she nodded—"then my answer is no . I take it that is not the truth?" Before she could answer he gestured to one of the many benches. "Come, let us sit. We are attracting notice just standing around."

Stacia willed herself to say no, thank you. Instead, she nodded and meekly allowed him to lead her to a seat.

"I will fetch us skates," he said, heading off before she could tell him that she could get her own skates.

All around her people were hurriedly donning their skates. A nearby trio of children tottered excitedly toward the ice. They could not have been more than nine or ten and she couldn't help smiling when one took a tumble and pulled the other two down with her. All three laughed and scrabbled about clumsily as they struggled to get up again.

A shadow passed over her and Lord Shelton dropped to his haunches in front of her. "Here, let me put them on for you."

"I can—"

"I am sure you can," he said, removing his gloves and tossing them aside before deftly unbuckling the straps without even looking.

His hands, she noticed—not for the first time—somehow managed to be beautifully elegant and yet powerfully, distractingly, masculine.

And they were reaching for her.

"Give me your foot," he ordered.

Stacia glanced around at his scandalous command, to see who was watching. But everyone was too busy either donning skates—or helping others put them on—or making their way to the ice. Nobody was paying them any attention.

She clamped her jaws tight to keep a fatuous smile from taking control of her face and extended her booted foot.

She was impressed that he had chosen exactly the right size. But then why would that surprise her? The man probably knew women's bodies better than they did.

"What is it?" he asked.

"What is what?" she asked coolly.

"You were smiling and then suddenly you looked as if somebody had just broken your favorite toy."

"I am not a child, Lord Shelton. I don't have toys."

His eyes swept over her in a bold way that stole her breath. "No. You are not a child."

Stacia's heart stuttered and she could only be grateful that she was seated.

"You are not going to answer me, are you?" he asked, closing the last buckle and holding out his hand for her other foot.

"No."

He laughed, squeezed her ankle, and then strapped on the skate before sitting beside her, his big body pressing against hers although she could see he still had at least three inches of bench on his far side.

So, she thought, this is what it was like to be flirted with and pursued by an expert.

It was…intoxicating.

Don't become too accustomed to it, the wry voice in her head warned. He will lose interest quickly enough as soon as somebody prettier comes along.

For once, Stacia refused to allow the voice to dampen her pleasure. Why not enjoy the moment?

"You seem to be very comfortable with skates," she observed.

"I grew up in Yorkshire," he said, pulling on his gloves. "We had frozen ponds every year."

"I am not very good," she warned him. "You might want to find somebody more your—"

"Nonsense." He stood and held out a hand. When Stacia hesitated, he smiled down at her. "Come, come, Miss Martin. It is Christmastime."

Whatever that had to do with anything.

But Stacia heaved a sigh and grabbed his hand, wobbling badly as they trudged across the frozen ground.

There were at least thirty skaters already on the ice, mostly gliding together in twosomes and threesomes.

"Hold on to my arm until you feel comfortable," he said when her ankles buckled, and her feet felt like they might slide out from under her.

She clung to him as he slowly pushed away from the shore.

"Not too fast," she warned.

He slowed his speed until all the other skaters were flying by.

"Don't lift your feet," he told her after a moment. "Just shift your weight from leg to leg. Here, watch." He lifted her hand from his arm and twined their fingers before skating ahead a foot or so to demonstrate, his movements smooth, his skates never leaving the ice.

Stacia tried it for a moment, lurching from side to side.

"Try to bring your feet a bit closer together—yes, that's good. There, see? Much better."

Stacia laughed. "I'm doing it!" She risked a glance up from her feet to find him skating backward. "Oh! You are so good at this!" she cried enviously.

He merely smiled, skating slowly and casting periodic glances behind him. "Chatham and I used to skate every winter." His blue eyes were distant, and a fond smile curved his lips. "This is the first time I have been on the ice in years." His gaze suddenly sharpened and his smile faded. He gracefully swung around until they were skating side by side.

"Where have we met before?" he asked after a moment.

"London and then Bath. Not one place, my lord, but at least a few dozen times."

"I'm sorry," he said after a long moment, the habitually amused glitter in his blue eyes nowhere to be seen.

His regret was worse than his ignorance had been. Why hadn't she just kept her mouth shut? When would she learn?

"When did we meet in London?"

"Four years ago."

He nodded. "And I know when we must have met in Bath because I've only been once in the past twenty years." He gave her a wry look. "I didn't go voluntarily. I was in such hot water with dunners that I felt like a hunted fox. I went to Bath to…" he paused and skated for a moment, as if searching for the right words.

"Hide?" she suggested.

Rather than be peeved, he laughed. "I was going to say lick my wounds but the word hide serves just as well. Regardless of my intentions, I'd scarcely been at my Great Aunt Lydia's house for five minutes when there was an announcement in the newspaper. Naturally, she asked me to escort her to the Pump Room and I could hardly say no . And when the invitations started flooding in—" he broke off and shrugged at the memory. After a moment he said, "My great aunt has no children and never married. Suffice it to say that I could scarcely deny her the small pleasure of escorting her about Bath, despite the fact that it had not been part of my plans."

Stacia recalled his visit with crystal clarity. He had looked rather haggard, although a haggard Lord Shelton had merely looked even more romantic, mysterious, and gorgeous.

"So, I saw you then, did I?" he asked.

"I was a companion to a friend of your aunt's, a woman named Lady—"

"Lady Hamilton!" he said, giving her a look of triumph. "Now I remember where I have seen you. You used to take her nasty little dog for walks."

Stacia told herself not to feel pleased that he'd successfully dredged his memory.

He snapped his fingers. "Lord, what was that ill-tempered creature's name?"

"Mr. Bunch-and-Stuff."

Lord Shelton laughed. "That is right! What a horrid little dog."

"He was," she agreed. He'd been a fat, whiny pug prone to nipping, and he had once peed on her shoe while she'd had him out on a walk. "I cannot believe you recall the dog."

"I remember him because he bit me once—years ago, on an earlier visit. And he pis—er, urinated on my best pair of boots."

Stacia laughed. "I'm sorry," she said at his reproachful look. "He did the same to me."

"Vile beast. I'm amazed that you didn't secretly throttle him."

"You mustn't speak ill of the dead, my lord. Mr. Bunch-and-Stuff passed on to his Eternal Reward shortly after your visit. And before you ask, no , I did not have a hand in that." She paused and then added, "Although I must admit the notion occurred to me more than a few times."

He laughed. "Lord, he must have been ancient."

"Just shy of twenty."

"No! Impossible."

"Lady Hamilton was adamant on the matter." She had also been broken hearted when the ill-tempered little dog had died.

They skated in companionable silence and Stacia realized she was gliding smoothly, no longer huffing along like a frantic calf after its mother.

"I recall my great aunt writing to tell me that Lady Hamilton had died," Shelton said after a moment. "Is that when you took a position with Lady Addiscombe?"

Stacia thought about the job she'd briefly held after Lady Hamilton and pushed the unpleasant memory away. "I had a small gap in employment between Lady Hamilton and the countess." That was not a lie, but neither was it the unpleasant truth.

"Kathryn said the previous Viscount Clayton was your father?"

"Yes."

"Where is your family seat?"

"Devon, but we never lived there." At his enquiring look, she explained. "My grandfather was…improvident."

Shelton nodded and Stacia saw not only comprehension on his face, but something that looked very much like guilt.

***

The last thing Andrew wanted to do was talk about improvident landlords, but he'd been the one to broach the subject. Besides, he was curious about her and how she'd gone from life as a gentlewoman to slaving for a shrew like the Countess of Addiscombe.

"Was your father forced to sell?" he asked after a moment.

"The property is entailed and so he leased it to a wealthy shipbuilder and his family who have occupied it for most of my lifetime. We kept small lodgings in London, near the museum. My father was a scholar."

"Ah. Probably why I didn't know him."

"You are not bookish?" she asked.

"Lord, no! Brains have never been my strong suit. Our tutor was fond of saying I had a great deal of vacant room in the old bone box."

She gasped. "What an extremely unkind thing to say to a child!"

"Perhaps, but that does not make it less true," he assured her. "I was a dreadful student from the beginning." That was an understatement, but it was far too mortifying to confess that he'd not learned to read until he'd been eight. "I couldn't wait to leave school and escape into the army. My uncle—Chatham's father—exercised his ducal influence and so I was able to join even though I was only fifteen."

"Fifteen! That seems very young."

"It was. But it also turned out to be a very good place for me."

"How long did you serve?"

"Almost eight years."

"A long time."

That was one way to put it. Andrew changed the subject. "How about you? How many Seasons did you spend in London?"

She laughed and Andrew happened to be looking at her when she did so. It transformed her from moderately attractive to startlingly pretty. "What is so amusing?" he asked.

"Just that you asked about London Seasons right after I asked you how many years you'd been in the army."

Andrew smiled. "Yes, I suppose that speaks to a rather telling mental connection. So, how many?"

"Just the one."

"And did you—"

"Shelton!" Kathryn skated up alongside them, twin blonde women on her far side and a trio of dark-haired young women trailing in her wake. Andrew bit back a groan.

"Kathryn, how delightful," he said flatly, wanting to strangle her for interrupting what had been a pleasurable tête-à-tête .

Her green eyes twinkled maliciously. "My neighbors desperately wish to make your acquaintance. I told them it would be anticlimactic—that you were better enjoyed from afar—but they insisted."

"Kathryn!" the blondes exclaimed in horrified unison.

Andrew turned to Miss Martin. "Let us move off to the side as we are impeding traffic."

She nodded, an anxious notch forming between her large brown eyes.

"Do you remember how to stop?" he asked. "You just push your toes slowly together," he said before she could answer.

"Push my toes together," she muttered, watching her feet. A smile slowly spread over her face as they came to a halt.

Andrew waited until they'd fully halted and Miss Martin had released his arm before turning to Kathryn and her friends. He recognized their eager, adoring looks and suppressed a sigh, his mask already sliding into place. "And who are these delightful young ladies?" he asked, smiling from face to face.

The twins giggled immoderately, and Kathryn gave Andrew a wry smile. "Miss Lowery and Miss Susannah Lowery are our neighbors—Sir Thomas and Lady Lowery's daughters—and these ladies," she gracefully slid aside and gestured to the other three, "are their cousins who are visiting. Miss Moore, Miss Arabella Moore, and Miss Coraline Moore." Her smile grew. "All of them begged me to introduce them to the most notorious rake in England."

Her last words were drowned out by the protests of the five young women, who were clearly mortified.

"We did not say that, my lord," one of the twins insisted—he'd already forgotten which was which.

Andrew gave the flustered young women a reassuring smile. "I recognize Lady Kathryn's words when I hear them. I am charmed to meet all of you." Now skate away , he wanted to add.

Unfortunately, rather than move off, more young people drifted up.

Bloody hell.

Lord Bellamy, the two lads he'd brought with him—whose names Andrew had already forgotten—and Bellamy's little blonde familiar, Miss Lucy, skated up.

"I say, Miss Martin," Bellamy said, "Kathryn says Lord Clayton—er, the former viscount—was your father. Hornsby here is from Devon—right next to your family's seat."

"I'm afraid it has been many years since my family occupied Clayton Abbey," Miss Martin said.

"Your c-c-cousin has recently moved b-b-back," Hornsby, informed her. "He cut down the rose garden and built a Greek folly," he added, apropos of nothing.

"Oh. I did not realize—"

"How are you finding our little corner of Hampshire, my lord?" one of the twins asked Andrew, forcing him to turn away from Miss Martin.

"I am enjoying myself very much." Or at least I had been, up until a few minutes ago. He turned to the three silent cousins, who were watching him with wide-eyed curiosity. "Of course I am even more pleased to be here now," he felt compelled to add.

The twins giggled—they were gigglers, that much was apparent—while the far more sensible cousins merely blushed and smiled at his ham-fisted flirtation. Lord. When had exchanging mindless pleasantries become such drudgery? He had obviously been mired in the country too long.

"Are you ladies visiting for long?" he asked the cousins, hoping to stem the giggling.

"Until the beginning of the year," the eldest said.

"And then we are all going to London," the youngest piped up. "It will be our first time."

Andrew smiled at her innocent enthusiasm. "Coming out, are you?"

The girl—Caroline or Catherine or something with a C—laughed. "I'm not old enough, sir. But Emma and Daph will be launched." She pulled a face, her freckled nose wrinkling. "Sounds rather like joining the navy."

Andrew laughed. "What will you do while they are attending balls and the like?"

"Lessons," she said glumly, but then brightened. "Although Miss Brambly has promised that we will visit the Tower and the British Museum."

He opened his mouth, but one of the twins decided her young cousin had been the center of attention long enough. "Our Papa says the Thames is frozen and there might be a frost fair if this cold weather continues. He has promised to take us to London, too."

This news caught the young males' attention. "I hadn't heard that," Bellamy said, and then fixed the Lowery girl with a look of mild scorn. "Are you sure you got it right, Twin?"

Both girls scowled at his form of address.

"It's true, Bellamy," his other mate—not Hornsby— said before either of the twins could lash into the young viscount. "I heard Lord Needham mention it at breakfast."

"We must go," Bellamy immediately said.

"The only place you're going is back to school," Kathryn taunted.

Bickering commenced.

The twins gave the arguing siblings disdainful looks, and one said to Andrew, "You probably think we are terribly rustic, my lord." She fluttered what were, he had to admit, impressive eyelashes.

"Er, why would you believe that?" Andrew asked, not telling her what he really thought, which was that they all seemed terribly, terribly young.

"Because we are so excited about a frost fair. You must have gone to dozens."

He opened his mouth.

Lord Bellamy gave a loud guffaw. "What a pea goose you are, Twin!" The viscount gave the girl a look of amused contempt. "He can't have been to more than one, can he?"

The other twin bristled on her sister's behalf. "Whyever not?" she shot back, her sophisticated disdain of only a moment earlier nowhere in sight as she squared up against the young lord.

Bellamy opened his mouth, but one of the cousins—the truly beautiful one—said, "Because the Thames hasn't frozen enough since 1789. And the time before that was in the 1740s."

Bellamy nodded approvingly at the cousin and gave the twin a derisive sneer. " That's why, Twin. Shelton ain't that old," he added, giving Andrew a look that clearly said, girls!

"Thank you, Bellamy," Andrew said dryly.

The young lord blinked in confusion as his mates jeered at him, but Kathryn gave her brother an approving nod and said, "Well done, Doddy."

The viscount's pale cheeks darkened when he realized just how his comment had sounded. "Oh, I didn't mean—"

One of the Lowery sisters discarded what little sophistication that remained, looked down her nose at the blushing lad, and said, "Your oafish comment is merely more proof that little boys should be seen and not heard."

Her salvo managed to get under the skin of not just one, but all three young gentlemen.

Andrew sighed as a battle of the sexes flared to life and the argument blazed.

He turned to Miss Martin to suggest they slip away while the others were brawling but found himself facing an empty space.

He frowned and glanced around him. But he saw no sign of her long gray coat—noticeable for its dowdy functionality, especially among this group, many of whom sported festive reds, greens, and blues.

"Excuse me," he murmured to nobody in particular—not that any of the others heard him—and left the ice, trudging toward the pavilion, thinking perhaps she had gone to enjoy an orange and some hot chocolate.

He saw Sylvester and the duchess and a few dozen older guests, but no Miss Martin.

Well. Where the devil had she darted off to in such a hurry?