Chapter Eight

M irella held on to the fury she felt because it kept her from thinking about Lord Bridgewater’s heavenly kisses. At this moment, it was more important to dislike the man thoroughly. She was now certain that she did not want to become involved with him. He was not in any way the type of man she was looking for in a husband.

Even if his kisses sent her into the stars.

No, she would not reflect on those kisses. At least not now, with him riding just ahead of her. She needed to pay attention to where she was going. While Lady was an extremely gentle mount, Mirella knew that a skilled rider never let her concentration flag, especially when riding a new horse in an unfamiliar place. When she was in bed tonight, she would open up the memories. Perhaps having a bit of distance as she reflected upon what had just occurred would help her understand her conflicting feelings.

Lord Bridgewater was not for her. Ever.

Again, she was grateful that he had kissed her. She had been eager for her first kiss, seeing how her married relatives seemed to engage in kissing all the time. Mirella hadn’t the slightest clue what to do, but she knew enough to allow the marquess to take the lead. His experience in kissing was obvious, and she had learned the lessons he showed her. It was to her benefit that the kisses had been of different varieties. That way, when she eventually did kiss other men, she would have a better idea what was going on and how to compare their kisses to Lord Bridgewater’s.

“Absolutely not,” she muttered under her breath.

She could not allow herself to compare his kiss to other gentlemen’s. It would be unfair to her other suitors.

Because Mirella suspected not only was Lord Bridgewater’s kiss superior to any she might receive in the future, it would make him seem the only likely candidate for her hand. And she did not want that. She wanted an optimistic, happy husband, one who appreciated family, not the sober, reserved marquess. Yes, he was quite handsome and had a lofty title and could kiss like the devil himself, but that could not influence her decision regarding her future.

Mirella only prayed that any other man she kissed might make her feel half as special and desirable as Lord Bridgewater had. Of course, he had spoiled everything for her with his insipid apology. Just thinking about that apology got her stirred her up again. Yes, better to keep to her anger and disappointment in him than become starry-eyed over a man who was most unsuited for her.

They rode for about three miles, bypassing the village. She kept quiet, not bothering now to engage him in conversation. The time for drawing him out was over and done. Lord Bridgewater would get little from her, only a polite smile without any kind of discussion over any topic.

Grasmere Lake came into sight, and he led them to a two-storied cottage of white stone. It had several windows, which would let in an abundance of natural light.

They remained on their horses as she studied the place where a genius had once worked.

Finally, the marquess said, “Many buildings in the Lake District are made of stone which comes from the surrounding area. Those white walls are limestone, which helps to keep the damp out. This area receives more rain than any region in England, so that is important when building a home here.”

He pointed up. “The roof’s tiles are slate, another product mined in this region. Even the chimneys have arrangements of slate about them to prevent smoke from blowing back down them into the house. I have not been inside Dove Cottage, but Aunt Flora and Uncle Hugh have. She said the downstairs floors are all made of slate. Though they did not go upstairs, Wordsworth’s study was located there, in order to give him a better view of the gardens and landscape while he penned his poems.”

“I wish we could see the gardens,” she said longingly. “Miss Feathers told us that Mr. Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy created them from local plants and that the gardens were a place of solitude and tranquility for him. Aunt Matty mentioned that he composed many of his poems sitting in them during the ten years he lived here.”

“The current tenant is Thomas De Quincey, a friend of Wordsworth and a fellow writer, though I do not believe he writes poetry. Shall we go and knock upon his door and see if he would allow us inside?”

“No,” she said firmly. “If he is a writer, he deserves to write in peace and not be pestered by the likes of us.” She gazed at the cottage. “But thank you for bringing me to see it.”

“You are welcome,” he replied, taking up his reins and turning Apollo.

This time, Mirella brought Lady into step next to him, regretting her churlish behavior before. Just because he had hurt her feelings dreadfully did not mean she should retaliate in any manner. She would be the gracious, kind woman Mama had raised. Lord Bridgewater would find no fault with her or her behavior during the limited time they would be together at Benbrook.

They entered the village of Grasmere and rode to the center of it, where St. Oswald’s Church stood, its tall tower rising high into the sky. She noted the roughcast stone and slate roof. The churchyard stood next to it, and Mirella wondered if Mr. Wordsworth might one day return to Grasmere and spend the rest of eternity here in the place he loved.

“The church is named in honor of St. Oswald,” Lord Bridgewater shared. “He was a Christian king of Northumberland in the seventh century and is said to have preached on the site where the church was built. Part of the current building dates from the fourteenth century. Would you care to go inside?”

“I would,” she said, eager to soak in the history of the structure.

He helped her dismount, and Mirella tried to calm the rush that ran through her at his touch.

After they tethered their horses, they walked to the front doors, and Lord Bridgewater said, “The tower, the porch, and the south wall are all that is left of the original church. St. Oswald’s is unique in that it still celebrates with a rushbearing festival.”

She frowned. “I am not familiar with that term, my lord.”

“It dates back to the custom from the medieval era, when rushes would be strewn about the earthen floor. The purpose was twofold. The rushes provided warmth and also added a layer of cleanliness. Many churches kept up the custom until the turn of this century. It is dying out now, but not in Grasmere.”

“You are a font of knowledge,” she remarked.

He shrugged. “I told you that I am an academic at heart. History has always been fascinating to me, and Uncle Hugh shares in that interest. Actually, four churches have been built where the current one now stands. Come, we can enter at the South Door. It is one of the three entrances and has always served as the main door for worshippers.”

They entered the building, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust after the bright sunshine from outside. He explained about the construction of the nave and pointed out the nave windows, giving her the history of each, and then leading them to the chancel, where the altar stood.

“See the stone head above the chancel?” he asked. “That supposedly dates from 1250 AD.”

He allowed her to wander about, taking in the architecture, before leading her outside again.

“The tower, from what the locals believe, was built from boulders carted from the riverbed of the nearby Rothay River. The walls are up to four feet thick. Come look at the chest.”

He led her to the base of the tower and said, “This is the old Parish Chest from the mid-sixteen hundreds. Inside it, they kept the registers and warden accounts. Obviously, those have been relocated indoors now, but they left the old chest as a reminder of the past.”

Mirella was very moved by her visit to the church. “Thank you for bringing me here, my lord. I apologize for my abrupt behavior earlier. I would not have wanted to miss an opportunity to see this.”

His gray eyes pinned her. “I hurt you with what I said. You have no need to apologize, my lady.”

The air between them became charged. Mirella knew she must break the spell—or she would fling herself into his arms and kiss him again.

“We should locate a bakery so that we might purchase the gingerbread for Effie,” she said, brushing past him and heading back to where they had left their horses.

She wished he did not have to help her mount Lady, but she accepted it, trying to ignore the way his touch caused the blood to sing in her veins.

“There is an inn nearby. We have been gone a long time. Perhaps we could stop there first and get something to eat and drink before we head back to Benbrook.”

Her belly gurgled in response to his suggestion, and Mirella couldn’t help but laugh. The marquess joined in, and she felt a burden lifted from her. While she would not consider him as a husband, she might want to keep him as a friend.

“Lead the way, my lord,” she said cheerfully.

The inn was only a quarter-mile from the church. At two in the afternoon, no patrons were in sight in its supper room.

Lord Bridgewater greeted the proprietor and told him, “We have been to the top of Helm Crag and have worked up both an appetite and a thirst.”

“Ah,” said the bespectacled innkeeper. “Did you spy the lion and the lamb it watches over, my lady?”

“I did,” she replied. “I found them quite easy to make out. On the other hand, that old woman and her organ had me nonplussed,” she admitted.

He gave her a smile. “My wife says the same thing. She can easily make out the first, but she believes it to be a joke, calling the other profile anything at all. She tells me it’s merely a pile of rocks and nothing more. Come, have a seat. I will bring you something refreshing to drink. We still have a hearty stew left, along with fresh bread.”

“Yes, please, bring us both,” she said.

The food and drink appeared quickly, and Mirella found herself opening up to the marquess about life at Shadowcrest. She told him of James becoming the duke and the changes he was making to the estate under Cousin Caleb’s direction.

“I would like to see Shadowcrest,” he told her. “You describe things well, my lady. Perhaps it is your painter’s eye which helps me to see it so clearly.”

“Where is your country seat, my lord? I believe I heard the name was Bridgefield?”

“Yes, Bridgefield is northeast of Maidstone.”

“Why, we are also in Kent. Shadowcrest is southwest of Maidstone. We are practically neighbors, Lord Bridgewater.”

Mirella couldn’t help but think of how it would be nice to wed a man whose property would be close to her family’s home, but she could not choose a husband based upon his estate’s proximity to Shadowcrest.

Especially Lord Bridgewater. She had already deemed him unfit as a husband. Well, at least not her husband.

They finished their meal, and he said, “This was the respite I needed. Thank you for agreeing to spend a bit more time with me, my lady. I hope our falling out will not be permanent.”

Gazing at him, she said, “I have forgotten what we even quarreled about.”

But she had not forgotten those drugging kisses.

The marquess paid the innkeeper for their meal, and Mirella said, “We would like to purchase some gingerbread. Might you recommend where we could do so?”

He directed them to a bakery about half a mile away, and when they entered, the sweet smells of gingerbread mingled with the yeast of fresh bread. They wound up purchasing a large box filled to the brim with gingerbread, as well as three loaves of the bread which they hoped would be served at dinner this evening.

Lord Bridgewater attached the sack of goods to the horn of his saddle and turned, helping her to mount Lady. She decided this would be the final time he touched her because each time he did, she pined for more. She was glad they had met because she now understood she could be attracted to a man—even enjoy his kisses—but find he would not make a good husband for her. It was something she would keep in mind going into next Season.

He swung up on Apollo, and they returned to Benbrook, where a groom took their horses.

“Oh, Lady must get an extra ration of oats,” she warned the groom. “I promised them to her. She was lovely to ride.” Mirella stroked the horse’s neck, resting her cheek on it. “You are a lady through and through,” she told the horse.

As they returned to the house, Lord Bridgewater asked, “Do you always converse with your horse as if it were a person?”

She laughed. “It is a habit I picked up from my sister. Effie adores animals and is always bringing home strays and wounded ones, nursing them back to health. She is in the habit of conversing with them, especially her cat. She brought Daffy with us on this trip.”

He frowned. “I have not seen a cat.”

“That is because Daffy has been exiled to our bedchamber,” she explained. “Apparently, your cook is allergic to the fur of cats, so Daffy has spent her time at Benbrook indoors and away from the kitchens. But as to your question, I do think talking to your horse is important. Especially if you are new to one another, as Lady and I were today. Establishing a bond of trust between rider and horse is important.”

“I suppose I will have to try it sometime,” he said.

As they entered the house, Mirella thought perhaps the Marquess of Bridgewater wasn’t quite so bad, after all.