Page 38 of Miss Dignified
For him to have lost his way in the stews had been unforgivable. He’d gone so far as to ask Corporal Miles Bamford for directions and had still ended up turned around. With Henry Sutherland, Dylan had simply asked which way to the river, and Sutherland had apparently been confused himself.
But then, Sutherland’s wound had been to the head, and he was reported to be unable to recall the name of his sovereign when a megrim was upon him.
Dylan never got lost, not in open terrain. His misfortune had been authored by a combination of worry for William Brook, fretfulness caused by the sisters’ upcoming visit, and the foul London air that obscured even the path of the sun.
Also by fondness for Mrs. Lydia Lovelace. A gentleman did not importune women in his employ, and the conundrum of how to be a gentleman and also be fond of Lydia—and her kisses—had vexed Dylan sorely.
He considered that conundrum unresolved, but he’d at least raised the issue with her. She had not admitted that a conundrum existed, which struck Dylan as odd. A woman in service had to guard her reputation more fiercely than did a highborn lady.
Damn Sycamore Dorning for planting a seed of doubt where only curiosity had been.
When Dylan joined Lydia on the terrace, she allowed him to hold her chair, but had brought one of her preferred weapons to the meal.
“I am not discussing another menu with you,” Dylan said. “You can plan all the meals you like, but Tegan and Marged have been known to wander the kitchens and pantries. They have recipes without limit and will likely ask for some of them to be prepared, despite your menus.”
“I will inquire about your favorite dishes,” Lydia said, taking a spoonful of pepper pot soup. “It’s not really warm enough for a picnic yet, is it?”
“Two months from now, such a day would not be warm enough, but coming off winter, we are inured to the cold. Tell me about your mare. Did you ride hell-bent all over Shropshire?”
Lydia had referred to kissing her mare. Notourmare, notthemare, but rather,mymare. Horses were endlessly expensive and required care, shelter, fodder… A squire’s daughter might have her own horse, but a yeoman’s would not.
Lydia patted her lips with her table napkin. “Her name is—was, rather—Demeter, but I call her Demi.Calledher. Her name was a joke, because she was quite up to my weight. Seventeen hands and endless bottom. My brother got first pick of the mounts on offer, and when he instead took a black gelding for his own, I was relieved. Demi was the best of the lot, and my brother couldn’t see that, because she was a mare and a bay rather than a dashing black.”
Lydia’s family had the means to keep not one but at least two saddle horses. “Do you miss riding?”
“Terribly. What of you? Did you have a favorite mount in Spain?”
The soup was not excessively spiced, an improvement over the usual pepper pot before Lydia had taken the household in hand.
“One learned not to get too attached to any mount. There was one game fellow of the golden breed the Spanish regard so highly. He was given over for army use because of some spectacular scars around his chest and neck. His name was Lobo—wolf—so I assume the scarring was a result of tangling with a pack.”
“And living to tell about it. What became of your Lobo?”
“When MacKay transferred, I asked him to take the horse with him. The last I heard, Lobo was enjoying a life of relative ease pulling a gig for some Spanish general’s mama. What became of Demi?”
Lydia finished her soup and set the bowl aside. “You asked MacKay to take the horse so the beast would be safe from your commanding officer.”
And MacKay had obliged, thank God. “Dunacre would ride his horses to death. In the heat, over the hard terrain, that was easy to do if the animal was denied rest and water. The lieutenant colonel thought it gave him a reputation for toughness to be able to outlast his mounts.”
Lydia took a sip of cider. “Why didn’t it give him a reputation for stupidity or abusiveness? Horses are expensive, and if Wellington impressed one thing upon Parliament, it was the need to keep his soldiers well supplied.”
How would she know that? The duke’s published dispatches were often little more than lists of commendations for his direct reports. His Grace’s grumbling, lecturing, and importuning was reserved for letters to his peers and their official parliamentary committees.
“Dunacre was charming when he wanted to be,” Dylan said, “and the senior officers saw him only in meetings or at banquets.”
Lydia held out an epergne that had sandwiches arranged on one level and fruit tarts on another, a prettier presentation than a mere tray.
“I know the type,” she said. “All polished manners and clever quips in the buffet line, but not to be trusted with a waltz. Take two, because you will doubtless go off looking for your lost lamb again, and the food in some taverns is not to be trusted either.”
Dylan took two sandwiches, because he was hungry, and she was right. “Would you tell me if you had a husband, Lydia?”
Without helping herself to any of the epergne’s offerings, Lydia returned it to the center of the table.
“Yes, I would tell you, and no, I do not have and have never had a husband. I have adopted the standard form of address for housekeepers. Are you being honorable again?”
“I hope I am always honorable.” Dylan was also in that moment profoundly relieved. “The sandwiches are good. Not too heavy a hand with the mustard.” Another improvement since her arrival. “Tell me about this brother of yours. Was he a perfect pest growing up?”
She rearranged her linen on her lap, took another sip of her cider, and studied the epergne.
