Page 27 of A Secret Correspondence
“Oh?” His heart thudded madly in his chest. “I’m wondering how she was able to have roses so late in the year.”
“The greenhouse, undoubtedly.”
Roses were her favorite flowers. Two correct answers. Final question. “Tell me, Miss Farrow, when did you learn to ride a horse?”
She blinked up at him, surprised. “When I was quite young. Perhaps before I could walk.”
Samuel could hardly breathe. “In earnest?”
“No.” She grinned. “Though it was likely soon after.”
That was it. This had to be his friend.
“Do you enjoy riding, Mr. Harding?” she asked.
“I do, very much. So long as it is not terribly early. I value my sleep nearly as much.”
Miss Farrow gave a gentle, feminine laugh that swept through him, giving him a warm glow. Her eyes were a soft green, and beneath her dark lashes, they remained on him.
“Samuel, darling,” Mother said, breaking through the haze of their conversation. The din of the room came back to him in a sudden rush, and he recalled how many people surrounded them. “Father would like to introduce you to a friend of his.”
“I’ve just had the pleasure of making Miss Farrow’s acquaintance,” he said.
Mother smiled kindly, but the flash of glee in her eyes revealed she hadn’t known the identity of the woman he had been speaking to. “How lovely. I have not seen your mother inan age. I was very sorry to hear about the passing of your father last year.”
“Thank you.”
“Is your mother present? I should like to greet her.”
“Not tonight, no. I’ve come with my aunt, Mrs. Kimball.”
“Of course.” Mother looked back over her shoulder.
“I look forward to speaking with you again,” Samuel said.
Miss Farrow dipped in a curtsy, holding his gaze. “As do I.”
Samuel dutifully followed his mother away so he could meet a handful of other wealthy women, but all the while, his mind was back with Miss Farrow and the many letters they had passed over the previous year. She knew him better than anyone else in the room, and he believed he could say the same about how well he knew her.
Each new lady was polite, pretty, had a ready list of accomplishments, and conversed well. But all the while, Samuel knew with a finality that he would not be pursuing any of them. There was no purpose.
His heart was with Miss Farrow.
He’d found his secret correspondent.
Chapter Ten
Marguerite set out early Monday morning for Locksley. She placed a sign in her window to inform patrons she was not in for the day, tied her bonnet ribbons beneath her chin, and pulled on her warmest pelisse over her long-sleeved dress. Her breath clouding before her face in puffs of chilly air, but the exercise was enjoyable. By the time she reached the Locksley inn, she had a quarter-hour to spare before the post-chaise would arrive.
She hadn’t intended on visiting Paul today, so he was not expecting her. It was entirely possible Marguerite would arrive at an empty house, but Paul had retired long ago from his work tutoring schoolboys, so the journey was worth the risk. All throughout Saturday, after receiving the perfume-scented letter, then on Sunday, she had been pegged with the consistent, niggling thought that something was not right.
If anyone could look at these items and see what she was not seeing, it would be Paul. He was the only other person with all the knowledge Marguerite possessed—furthermore, he also had all the memories of their escape. What was hazy in Marguerite’s mind was solid and clear in Paul’s.
“Madame Perreau,” a voice called, slicingthrough her thoughts like a sharp knife and pulling her attention into the street. Mr. Harding sat upon his curricle high above her, smiling down like she was a shiny ha’penny he’d found in the road. His hat was placed at an angle over his golden hair, and a dark greatcoat covered what appeared to be a navy jacket and fawn breeches. “What a pleasure it is to find you here this morning.”
A pleasure? Goodness, but the man would make her blush if she even remotely believed the things he said to her. It took a great deal of effort for Marguerite to remind herself that Mr. Harding was a charmer. Instead of giving him validation, she admired his horses and curricle. “What a fine carriage you have, monsieur.”
“Thank you.” He glanced behind her, seeming to notice where she was and likely why. “Are you travel—that is, may I convey you somewhere?”
