Page 2 of His Spirited Lady
“How far does your father’s estate stretch?” Ethan asked.
“On this side of the property, it stops here.” Amelia called on years of training to keep from snapping her answer. Oakdale was not the largest estate in the county, but it was one of the prettiest. Even their neighbors said so.
“I suppose it is difficult to expand if you are competing with the Duke of Rushford,” Ethan said.
“There is no competition,” Amelia said. “This estate provides a more than adequate income, and Father keeps it small so that he can relax when away from London. And,” she added in defense of her friends, “the Duke and Duchess of Rushford are excellent neighbors. They have done a great deal for…the village.”
“Rushford’s interest in trade has become well-known,” Ethan said with a slight frown. “It’s odd.”
“I think it’s admirable.” Amelia drew her spine straight. “Why shouldn’t people use their talents, regardless of birth or rank? Why should they be forced to idleness if that isn’t their preference?”
Ethan’s frown deepened. “Most would find the duties of title and family sufficient to prevent idleness. And most would be respectful of their neighbors so as not to allow business to encroach on boundaries.” He swept his hand to the small building that had garnered Amelia’s attention. “I’m assuming that’s one of his concerns.”
“It is not.” Amelia bit her tongue and drew a deep breath to keep her temper from running away with her. “Eamon Brewer rents it from my family.”
“The distiller of the whiskey your father and I drank last evening?” Ethan asked, his disapproval waning slightly. “I assumed that it was bottled closer to the northern border.”
“The water here is better for—”
“No wonder your father is so fond of it,” Ethan mused.
He was fond of it because it was flavorful, smooth, and easy to drink. All things a lady shouldn’t know.
“Do you think we could visit?” Ethan asked even as his horse stepped forward. “I would like to take a few bottles back to London.”
Molly made to follow down the hill, approving the plan as much as Amelia would have liked to have done. However, it would be difficult to explain how the mare knew her way to the stable at the back of the building, how there was hay waiting, and how the young men working there knew Amelia by sight. Not to mention, Miss Graves would swallow her tongue if Amelia set foot in a distillery.
“I’ll ask Father to send a few bottles from his next order. Shall we return to the house, Mr. Raymond?” Amelia turned a reluctant Molly toward home. She met her chaperone’s relieved sigh with an encouraging smile.
Ethan came along side, and they began the plodding trek back.
“Miss Chitester—Amelia,” he began after a long while. “Before we reach the house, I wanted to tell you again how much I have enjoyed our time together this week, as well as in London, and it is my hope—”
Amelia resisted the urge to knee Molly’s ribs for an easy escape, but the horse sensed her panic and danced to the side anyway, making Ethan choose between shouting his proposal and silence. To Amelia’s relief, he chose silence. Though it would be short-lived without further distraction.
She found it in a lone rider at the gate, a man atop a gleaming sorrel horse. He spied them at the same time, raised his hand as if to wave, but then stopped. Instead, he cantered toward them at an enviable pace.
As he neared, details emerged. He was a newcomer to the village because Amelia would have remembered someone with eyes that blue. The wrinkles in his clothes combined with the shadows under his eyes hinted that he’d been traveling some distance. His clothes, however, were finely tailored and fashionable for the Season. Where Ethan had chosen wheat and teal, the newcomer had chosen gray and navy, which highlighted both his arresting eyes and the shadow of stubble across his jaw. When he removed his hat and bowed, his short hair was a crown of wavy curls most women would envy. There was something about them Amelia recognized.
“I beg your pardon,” he said in a deep, pleasant voice. “I seem to be lost. Could you direct me to Felton House?”
Felton House…that curly black hair. “You’re Simon’s uncle Richard, aren’t you?” Amelia asked, smiling.
The stranger’s smile was wide and friendly as he dipped his head. “Richard Ferrand…Miss?”
“He speaks of you so often, and looks a great deal like you,” she continued. “It’s a pleasure. I am Amelia—”
“This is Miss Amelia Chitester.” Ethan spoke over her. “Her father is Baron Kilverstone, and this is his estate. I am Ethan Raymond, heir to the Earl of Barnsley. And this is Miss Chitester’s chaperone, Miss Graves. The Rushford estate is over the next rise.”
“That isn’t entirely correct,” Amelia said, tilting her chin in defiance of the silence and deference expected of her. “It’s several rises.” She urged Molly forward. “Oli—the duke and duchess are family friends, and I would never forgive myself if you got lost again on the way. We’ll take you ourselves.”
“Amelia—”
“Miss—”
Amelia ignored her companions. She knew better than to hope they’d stay behind, but at least Ethan wouldn’t propose in front of another man. “Shall we, Mr. Ferrand?”
*
