Page 37 of Miss Determined
Sycamore was interested in the horse, but he was also, Sycamore-fashion, stirring up trouble.
“Gavin is traveling,” Amaryllis said, taking a bite of eggs. “Has been for some months. When next we hear from him, I will forward word of your interest in Roland, but truly, Mr. Dorning, I doubt you have a prayer of owning that colt.”
“Then I’d like to put some mares to him. Spring is upon us, now is the time, and all that. Instead of investing in a beer venture, I can make a fortune with a racing stud.”
“And is that your definition of a successful life?” Trevor asked, crossing knife and fork over a now empty plate. “Turn a spare coin at every opportunity?”
Trevor’s father had certainly been concerned with coin—and with the self-indulgence that saw so much of that coin spent.
“My family is vast,” Sycamore said, “as you well know, sir. By the time we get all the nephews educated and the nieces dowered, the pensioners looked after, and the cottages repaired, no coin of mine will consider itself spare. Is there any more cream on the table?”
Phillip set the cream pot by Sycamore’s elbow. “Will you invest in Mr. Trevor Dorning’s beer venture? He’s taking a rather scientific approach to the matter. I admire that.”
Heyward spoke quietly and without the thread of pugnacity Sycamore so often defaulted to. The support was even more effective for being rendered in polite tones.
“Science is all well and good,” Sycamore replied. “My father was quite the botanical investigator, but intuition and imagination should also receive due respect.”
“I agree with Mr. Sycamore Dorning,” Amaryllis said, finishing her eggs. “Science can be so many excuses for a ruthless parody of reason that ignores all but the most convenient evidence. There is no evidence, for example, that girls are less intelligent than boys—and plenty of evidence to the contrary—and yet, as Mr. Sycamore Dorning notes, it’s only the men who get the education, and thus only men who define what constitutes science and decide where that science will poke its nose.”
Phillip groaned, Sycamore’s brows drew down, and Trevor saluted with his tea cup.
“If you must hoist me on my own petard,” Sycamore said, “then please do call me Sycamore, or Cam, as my friends do. With this fellow at table,”—he gestured in Trevor’s direction—“we’ll be Dorning’d to death ere we rise.”
“If we were in London…” Amaryllis began.
“We’re not,” Trevor said, “and if this presuming bounder is your new bosom bow Cam, then I am Trevor.” He wanted Amaryllis calling him by name not only for the bold familiarity of it, but also for the honesty. He was no sort of Dorning, but in very friendly company—say, when private with Jeanette—he was still Trevor.
Though even she had taken to milording him.
When every crumb of food had been consumed and the teapot was empty, Trevor rose. “Thank you, Heyward, for a fine meal and for rousing yourself at an early hour to indulge in a lark. Might I trouble you for a tour of the house? I do enjoy these old Tudor dowagers. They stand the test of time for the most part, and you’ve taken good care of this one.”
“I’ve seen the house,” Amaryllis said, getting to her feet. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ll collect Jacques and be on my way.”
“Nonsense,” Sycamore said, coming around the table. “You showedTrevorhalf the shire, I’m told. You can tolerate my company on the hack back to Twidboro Hall. You might not need the escort, but I suspect we will enjoy a lively conversation about the rights of women, Miss DeWitt.”
That was Trevor’s cue to elbow Sycamore aside, though being Sycamore, he’d not yield without a verbal tussle, and Amaryllis and Heyward would witness the whole stupid exchange.
“Any of the three of us would enjoy seeing you home, Miss DeWitt,” Trevor said. “Choose your escort, and we will graciously yield to your decision.”
Amaryllis crooked her finger at Sycamore. “Come along, sir. Mr. Heyward and Mr. Trevor Dorning will get into a fascinating discussion about oak beams and thatching methods. You and I will spare them an audience.”
Damn and blast, though Amaryllis had chosen the best course. If Trevor was to properly inspect Lark’s Nest, he didn’t want Sycamore underfoot causing trouble.
He also didn’t want to let Amaryllis out of his sight, but now was not the time to burden her with awkward revelations.
“We’ll see you off,” Heyward said, leading the procession to the front terrace.
The sun had gained strength, and the day was making a good bid to be mild, if not warm. Trevor wanted nothing so much as to spend the whole of it walking hand in hand with Amaryllis, talking with her, and kissing her. That the kissing was only a complement to the talking and hand-holding gave him pause, in a good way.
“A leg up, if you please,” Amaryllis said, taking Trevor’s arm. “Jacques is wonderfully steady, but Lark’s Nest is in want of a ladies’ mounting block.”
Sycamore was blessedly occupied with the stirrups and girth on his own horse, and that gave Trevor a moment to…
Whisper something witty and endearing, though nothing inspired came to mind.
Arrange another private walk by the Twid, though how did one do that?
He boosted Amaryllis into the saddle and got her skirts sorted out while she took up the reins.
