Chapter 12

12

F or a pristine summer day, on which the sun shone unobstructed by even a single cloud, a gentle breeze blew off the lake, and an endless array of refreshments lay spread out before them, none of the picnic-goers looked especially content. Lady Burville excepted, perhaps.

Phoebe took another sip of lemonade, peering over the rim of her glass at the formidable woman sitting at the wrought iron table placed lakeside for the occasion. This was no ordinary picnic involving a basket of sandwiches and a blanket spread across the grass. Rather , footmen had been traveling between the house and grounds all morning, setting up the table and chairs along with a large canopy to provide a shield from the sun. They’d carried on with their steady stream of activity once the picnic started, too, delivering dish after dish of hot, cold, sweet, and savory dishes alike.

Lady Burville’s lips curved, and she uttered a comment about the excellent quality of the scones. A compliment she paid sincerely, in Phoebe’s estimation, for each item upon the table truly was prepared to perfection. If only everything Phoebe tasted didn’t seem to stick in her throat.

She set her glass down so she could replenish it from the pitcher, her eyes still not leaving Lady Burville . There was something about the woman—not unlike the dowager—that commanded attention. Whether it was her perfect posture, her rich dark hair, her evenly set features, her height, or a combination of all those things, she was unquestionably a lady of the ton, dignified in every regard. Visibly older than the marquess, but not in a way that made them appear ill-matched. In fact, they would be quite the impressive pair.

Phoebe took extra care not to let her gaze linger at Lady Burville’s right, where the marquess had taken his seat and was silently drinking claret. She had enough trouble managing the visions of him that kept turning through her head without adding a live reminder. Even without looking at him, she could picture the shadows that had traveled across his face in the dim attic last night. His eyes upon her as she’d taken her pleasure in his study the night before. Most vivid of all, even after all these years, she could envision his body gliding through the lake beside them, his muscular torso breaking through the surface?—

But it was all irrelevant. The images in her memory were no more conspicuous than the words she’d overheard upon going down to the kitchen yesterday to fetch more milk for Emily’s tea. The two kitchen maids, busy at the worktable chopping an inordinate number of asparagus stalks, hadn’t heard her come in, thus continuing their conversation without interruption.

A four-course luncheon all brought down to the lake ? one of them had grumbled. This Lady Burville must be someone special .

The other had paused with her knife hovering above the asparagus, her voice growing animated. The Dowager Lady Rockliffe is matchmaking again. I daresay we’ll see the marquess married once more before the end of summer .

Phoebe had hurried forward, then, making her footsteps heavy so they caught the maids’ attention before she had to endure another word of gossip on the subject. She’d already heard enough. Already received a crushing reminder that she could desire all she wished, but the marquess would never be for her. Their liaison , as she’d called it, had driven her out of her head with longing, but it would lead nowhere in the end but trouble. She , of all people, should know that.

“ How I wish I’d brought along my watercolors. It would be such a splendid day to capture the scene.” Lady Burville’s measured words cut into her thoughts, and Phoebe realized, to her horror, that the lady’s gaze had turned upon her. “ Do you paint, Miss Windham ?”

Phoebe straightened in her seat, tilting her head in a way that made Lady Burville’s hat block out her view of the lake. “ A little.” Although if I were to paint the lake, I would have a difficult time not including an unclothed body emerging from it .

“ I see. Did you ever have instruction?” Lady Burville didn’t miss a beat, her tone remaining as placid as ever. Why , then, did this feel somewhat like an interrogation?

“ Not officially, no.” It seemed a poor time to mention that during afternoons spent outdoors as a child, Phoebe had far preferred searching through the grass for insects than sitting at an easel. “ My governess taught me a few things, but her painting skills were adequate, nothing more.”

Lady Burville took a sip of lemonade, and the tables turned, for now she was the one peering at Phoebe over her glass, her dark eyes focusing unapologetically. “ Windham ,” she murmured as she set down her glass, her brows drawing closer just a shade. “ Are you a relation of Sir Ambrose Windham ?”

As always, the name made Phoebe’s stomach curdle, and the back of her neck grew cold despite the sun’s persistent warmth. “ He’s my father’s cousin,” she managed to say without her voice turning frosty. “ He inherited the baronetcy after my father’s, Sir John Windham’s , death.”

“ Indeed ? Sir Ambrose was an acquaintance of my late husband. Pity that he’s found himself a widower.” Lady Burville’s upper lip twitched, and Phoebe couldn’t help but suspect she found the man distasteful as well. Who wouldn’t ? However , that was secondary to the intent way Lady Burville peered at her. Almost like she was calculating, digging through the far recesses of her brain.

Almost like she knows my secret .

Which was impossible. Ambrose and Eugenia both, for all their faults, had treated the situation with the utmost discretion. Phoebe pressed her clammy palms into her lap, trying to prevent them from shaking. In addition to being caught beneath Lady Burville’s shrewd gaze, she could feel the dowager’s eyes upon her. The marquess’s eyes …

“ And you, Lady Emily ?” All of a sudden, Lady Burville broke the stare, causing Phoebe to release a shuddering breath. How foolish she was to have such an overreaction, to let her imagination get carried away in creating unfounded fears. For Lady Burville was smiling upon Emily as if Ambrose’s name had never been spoken. “ Do you enjoy painting?”

Emily looked up from beneath the brim of her bonnet, the new sunny yellow ribbon doing nothing to mask the fact that her face looked like a thundercloud. “ It’s fine.”

While Emily had made no protest to the initial revelation that her papa requested they join him for an outdoor luncheon, she’d appeared grim from the moment she learned it would also include her grandmother and the new guest, and that Marigold was to stay indoors. Her conduct as they all sat around the table left something to be desired, for she stared at her plate unless spoken to, and even then, she answered with only a clipped word or two. Phoebe could hardly fault her, though, when the marquess himself was only marginally more effusive.

Yet Lady Burville wasn’t dissuaded by any of it. “ Perhaps you prefer other pursuits.” The lady’s voice grew a note cheerier as if to compensate for Emily’s sullenness. “ Do you sing?”

“ No .”

“ Do you play the harp or pianoforte, then?”

“ No .”

“ What about needlework?”

“ No .” Emily folded her arms across her chest, leaning back in her chair in a manner that would have earned Phoebe censure from her own former governess.

“ A pity.” Lady Burville pursed her lips, and for a terrible moment, her attention returned to Phoebe , the disapproval in her expression no longer so veiled. But ultimately, she must have decided that the hostile girl and her incompetent governess weren’t worth the trouble, for she snapped her head in the other direction, focusing on Lord Rockliffe . “ Have you considered a ladies’ seminary, my lord?” She waited until he looked up, then softened her features once more, reaching forward to daintily pick a strawberry from the dish in the center of the table. “ I’m aware of one or two where the instruction is purported to be of the finest quality, and it would provide a wonderful opportunity for Lady Emily to garner the company of other suitable young ladies.”

“ An interesting proposition.” It was the dowager marchioness, who’d acted as a surprisingly silent bystander during the exchange, who answered the question, her brow creasing in thought. “ I hadn’t considered it.”

“ I’d be happy to make inquiries.” Lady Burville flashed an unnervingly pleasant smile, first to the dowager and then to the stony-faced marquess. “ I could write some letters this very day, and the arrangements could be made and Lady Emily off within a matter of a fortnight?—”

“ Stop .” Lord Rockliffe’s voice, low and a little foreboding, cut into her speech, but it was overshadowed as the young lady in question scrambled to her feet so quickly that her chair toppled to the grass.

“ What are you doing?” The dowager turned to her granddaughter with a frown. Phoebe had once heard Clara whisper about how the dowager marchioness’s infamous expression of displeasure caused grown men to tremble in terror. Emily , on the other hand, gave her a split second of notice before spinning away, bestowing her with the cut direct and marching across the lawn.

“ Where are your manners?” The dowager grabbed the cane that rested against her chair, giving it an indignant knock against the ground. “ One does not simply bound from the table in the midst of a conversation. It’s unseemly, and?—”

She stopped mid-sentence, for with each word she spoke, Emily only got farther away, her strides increasing in speed as she hit the walking path, nearing the footbridge that crossed the lake.

Phoebe’s heart sank, the lemonade she’d consumed suddenly burning the back of her throat. Once again, she could envision the breathless, tearstained girl she’d encountered in the field, only now, the nature of what troubled her was so much clearer.

She pushed back her chair and bolted to her feet, mumbling an excuse that she doubted anyone listened to. Frankly , she cared little if that made her ill-mannered as well.

“ Really .” From behind her, the dowager gave an incensed sniff. “ What can Emily mean by such a display? My own children wouldn’t have dreamed of exhibiting such behavior?—”

“ I assure you, Mother ,” the marquess cut in, his voice like ice, “we did.”

And suddenly, more chair legs skidded across the grass, and heavy footfalls joined with her own as she started at a half-run toward the footbridge.

Lord Rockliffe gained on her quickly, the sound of his breaths loud enough to reach her ears above the swish of grass and her skirts, the heat of his approaching body something she could just sense . But instead of picking up speed, she maintained the pace she’d set from the beginning, turning to shoot him a warning glance. She had no intention of letting Emily out of her sight, but nor did she want to stop her and cause a scene while they still had Lady Burville and the dowager as an audience.

He must have understood, for he kept his position behind her, letting his daughter stay well in the lead. Emily made it across the bridge, veering off the walking path and dashing behind a showy purple rhododendron. For someone still experiencing the aftereffects of illness, she could run impressively fast when she set her mind to it. However , as she left the rhododendron and slipped around the oak tree behind it, her shoulders began to sag, and her steps grew shakier.

That’s when Phoebe allowed herself to start sprinting, following Emily’s route through the bushes and to the oak, where, thankfully, the girl had paused to catch her breath.

Phoebe halted as well, going just far enough to ensure the thick cover of branches and leaves would make her undetectable from the lakeside table. “ Lady Emily ?” She called her name softly, unsurprised when she received no response. This would require patience, and a great deal of finesse.

“ Emily .” One of the branches rustled, and Lord Rockliffe stepped within the giant tree’s shade, moving toward the trunk. Yet , like Phoebe , he seemed to think better of it, stopping abruptly before he got too close. The marquess was so large, so commanding. In the shadow of the tree, though, he appeared dwarfed, and his features twisted into a look of obvious uncertainty. “ Will you tell me what’s wrong?” he asked in a murmur, seemingly as cognizant as she that a single wrong sound or motion would detonate this fragile moment of stillness.

Emily didn’t run; at least they could say that much. However , her slender fingers tightened into fists, and when she finally looked up from staring at the ground, her eyes flashed with anger. “ That woman is horrid. I despise her already. And you’re going to let her send me away!”

“ No .” Lord Rockliffe gave his head a vehement shake. “ That’s not going to happen, Em . Not if you don’t want it to.”

He took a long step forward, halting again when Emily jerked her body away from the tree trunk, staggering backward to maintain the same level of distance between them. She appeared not unlike Marigold , warning him away, ready to reach out and attack the second he drew too close. Yet beneath the defensive facade, her chin began quivering, and her eyes developed a watery sheen.

The sight wrenched Phoebe’s heart; it had to do the same for Lord Rockliffe . It lasted only an instant, though, before Emily pivoted away. “ Oh , just leave me alone!” she shouted without looking back, resuming a half-hearted run deeper into the trees.

The marquess started forward and froze, the beginning of her name forming on his lips before dying off, replaced by a muttered curse.

“ Give her a moment.” Phoebe came up beside him, watching as Emily found the shelter of a yew tree not far away and tucked herself behind it. “ She’ll feel more even-tempered once she has a chance to catch her breath in private.”

“ I don’t know what to do!” He careened to the side, slumping against the oak trunk where his daughter had just stood, his voice quieting so much that she scarcely heard the next words. “ Nothing is right.”

For a silent moment, she shifted her gaze between the two figures who found refuge in the trees. Perhaps they didn’t realize how similar they were. Both determined to present a distant, impenetrable exterior to the world. Both vulnerable—and hurting—in ways she didn’t think they liked to admit.

In fact, as he stood pushing back the hair that tumbled onto his forehead, watching the white ruffle of Emily’s skirt—the lone part of her visible from behind the thick tree trunk—his vulnerability shone clearer than ever she’d seen it. He looked lost.

She inched her way over to him, keeping her slippers noiseless against the grass. After the intimacy they’d shared, could she not at least give him a comforting touch? A hand upon a hand, an arm around a shoulder …

No , she couldn’t. Not when another woman waited for him.

“ Please , don’t trouble yourself, my lord.” She intertwined her fingers before they could get other ideas and made her best attempt at keeping her tone light. “ I’ll see to Lady Emily . You should return to the luncheon.”

He let out a sound that nearly rang like a laugh except far too hollow. “ God forbid I miss another second of that.” Then , his body made a rapid turn, so fast and unsteady that it nearly collided with hers.

Surprise made her startle, not backward but forward, and a strong hand landed upon her arm to keep her from falling. They were far too close, her chest hovering alongside his, her skin burning beneath her sleeve from his touch.

And still, she didn’t shrink from the position like she should have. Instead , she let him hold her wrist, let his blue eyes bore into her and his heat sear her, until he abruptly released his grasp.

“ You’re correct, Miss Windham , I should go.” He pulled away like he was the one burned, giving his coat a few quick tugs to right it where it had wrinkled. “ I’ll not interfere any longer.”

Time , which had slowed down as she experienced his touch, sped up again, for in little more than the blink of an eye, he was stalking away from the oak, around the rhododendron, back toward the walking path until all that remained of him was the fading stomp of his boots.

Leaving her to draw in a shaky breath and press her palm to the rough bark of the oak he’d just vacated, trying to rein in a pounding heart and a stomach twisted in knots.

He was doing just as she’d suggested and going back to the picnic. To his possible intended. I daresay we’ll see the marquess married once more before the end of summer . The kitchen maid’s careless words floated through her memory, causing an acerbic taste to creep up in the back of her mouth.

She sucked down the bitterness, her fingernails pressing into the bark. What right had she to mind? To form ill judgments of the lady’s character or wish things were different?

None whatsoever.

But it didn’t matter. She did mind, nevertheless.