Page 4 of The Viscount's Pearl
The meadow was full of autumn’s long grasses, through which were threaded the delicate blue of harebells and forget-me-nots, the pinks of cranesbill and red clover, as well as the vibrant yellow of hawkbit, while the walls of the nearby vegetable garden were draped over with ivy and old man’s beard.
“I wish I lived here,” said Frances.
Lord Barrington paused on the walkway. “Your mama still determined for you to marry?”
“Yes. And I don’t care to! All the young men I meet during the season are dreadful. They’re either boors or they fawn over me until they realise I don’t wish to make small talk and then they run away. Can none of them be companiable without twittering on?”
Lord Barrington chuckled. “Not looking forward to your fourth season?”
Frances rolled her eyes. “Must everyone keep count?”
“I am afraid they do.”
Frances sighed.
“There.”
Frances looked where he was pointing and brightened at once. “A swing!”
From an ancient oak had been hung a large wooden swing, already tantalisingly moving in the warm breeze. Frances hurried towards it, carefully took her seat and then pushed off with her feet, the swing lifting her up towards the green leaves and blue sky before returning her back towards the grass beneath her feet.
“Happy?” asked Lord Barrington, watching her.
“It is wonderful,” she said, without opening her eyes, a contented smile on her face. The smooth rhythm, the steady to and fro, was much like the rocking chairs she so enjoyed. The air rushing past her face, bringing delicate scents of the flowers around her and the faint tang of salt air from the nearby sea, was a delight to her sensitive nose, so unlike the overly-heady perfumes of theton’s ladies. Here at Northdown House she could be herself and not be endlessly disappointing to anyone, for Lord Barrington always seemed happy with her. If only these two months would last forever.
Chapter 2
The Rake
The gentle autumn sun had made for a pleasant morning’s sport on Lord Ludlow’s estate and the four young men and their loaders would soon be finishing for the day, but the beaters had just regrouped to start the last drive to flush out the remaining partridges, so there was a brief pause in the shooting, which had lead to conversation.
“LadyMontsbourne? You rogue!”
Laurence gave a lazy smile and handed his gun to his loader for reloading. “I escorted her to the opera. It is a perfectly respectable entertainment.”
“The opera is. What she allowed you to do to her in the carriage afterwards, is another matter entirely!”
“Who said I did anything in the carriage?”
“Anyone who knows you, Mowatt.”
“I escorted her home to her husband, like a gentleman.”
“You’re a rogue and a rake, Mowatt, admit it.”
Laurence gave a laugh. “I admit nothing.”
“Andthatis why the married ladies are so fond of him,” pointed out Lord Ludlow, taking aim and firing. “He admits nothing, only smiles and bows. The perfect gentleman.”
“The married ladies either want him in their bed or want him for their daughters,” rejoined Lord Beauchamp. “He may be Mr Mowatt now, but it can’t be long until he’s a viscount, and a future Lord Barrington sounds quite fine on the marriage mart, don’t you agree?”
“Uncle Barrington is not dead yet,” admonished Laurence.
“He’s an old man and an invalid,” said Lord Ludlow. “Whereas you are a young man and rich enough already even if you aren’t titled. The viscountcy, whenever it comes along, will just be that extra flourish the mamas are after for their daughters. I wonder you haven’t been snapped up already.”
“Having too much fun with the married ladies,” said Lord Beauchamp. “Why would he want a simpering miss who has to be taught everything when he can have a lady who knows what she wants and isn’t shy about it, eh?”
“Enough of your nonsense,” said Laurence. “Might have to marry this season anyway, my father keeps mentioning it.”
