Page 106 of The Heiress's Daughter
As he climbed into bed he wondered what she wanted. It sounded quite serious.
By quarter to eight the following morning he was shaved, dressed in buckskins and high boots, and on his way to Leo’s place.
With a knowing smile, Matteo, Leo’s majordomo, let him into the shared garden behind the house. Race could have used the other entrance to the gardens, but he wasn’t willing to reveal his hand just yet.
It was the kind of morning where the sky was a soft pearly gray, glowing with incipient sunlight that hadn’t yet managed to break through. The garden was hushed, motionless, the silence broken only by a blackbird singing joyfully in a tree somewhere.
He quickened his pace.
He glanced into the summerhouse, but it was deserted. The rose arbor then.
His boots crunched on the gravel path as he approached and when he rounded the bend leading to the rose arbor there she was, pacing, looking anxious and adorable in the palest of pinks.
Seeing him, she flew to meet him. He opened his arms to gather her in a hug, but she skidded to a halt and held up her hands as if to ward him off. All color seemed bleached from her skin, her eyes were huge and she eyed him with trepidation. What the devil was going on?
“Miss Studley?”
She swallowed on a gulp, then said, “I’m sorry, Lord Randall, so very sorry. I never meant it to happen. I didn’t want it, but my sister—oh, she meant it for the best, but—oh, please don’t be angry with her, it’s my fault, I should have been firmer. But I didn’t know, and I’m truly, truly s-s-sorry.” Her voice wobbled and he was troubled to see her glorious eyes were swimming with unshed tears.
“Tell me what has distressed you, and if I can do anything—”
“But that’s just it, you can’t do anything. It’s too late for that.”
Race stepped forward to draw her into his arms but she stepped away from him, again holding up her hands as if to rebuff him. “No, you don’t know what we—what a shocking thing I have done.”
He was feeling more and more disturbed. What on earth could she have done? “Then tell me.”
She was silent for a moment, biting her lip, then wordstumbled out of her in a torrent. “It’s all my fault. I should have trusted you—I did, but she didn’t know that. But I should have been firmer, clearer—braver—because she doubted I would have the courage, you see, but I did, only she didn’t know that, so she decided—but if I’d known, I would never—but I should have realized and stopped it. But I didn’t and now it’s all too late. So you see, it’s all my fault.”
He didn’t see a thing, except that she was too upset to be coherent.
“Come, let us sit down, and you can tell me all about it.” He led her to the rose arbor and they sat down. “Now then,” he said, “tell me what has distressed you and I promise you, if I can, I will fix it.”
“You can’t.” She drew in several long, shuddery breaths, produced a damp and crumpled lace-trimmed handkerchief and blew her nose fiercely, then turned to him, pale and resolute. Even with her nose all red and her eyes drowning in unshed tears she was beautiful to him.
“It’s my fault,” she said again. “It was Izzy’s idea, but she would never have thought of it if only I had trusted you. And I do, I promise you, though when you hear what I have to tell you, you probably won’t believe me. But when she thought of this, I didn’t—we hadn’t yet had our talk, you see. In the curricle, I mean. Only she didn’t know that and so she did it.”
“Did what?” he asked gently, cutting to what he hoped was the heart of the tangled speech.
“Began her…I suppose you could call it an investigation.”
He picked a fallen rose petal from her shoulder and rubbed it between thumb and finger. As soft as her skin. “Investigation into what?”
“Into your rakishness,” she said tragically. “And your, yourb-b-bottom!” One tear rolled down her satiny cheek. She dashed it away and told him a long and tangled story, in which one thing eventually became clear to him—thereason women in society had been speculating about his arse.
“You mean that your sister asked all those women whether I had a heart-shaped birthmark or tattoo on my backside?” he asked unsteadily when she had finished.
“Yes.” She gazed at him, her face utterly woebegone. “The left cheek. I’m so sorry.”
“And they all said it was one or the other? A birthmark or a tattoo?”
She nodded, biting her lip, the picture of nervous contrition. Braced for his righteous outrage, if he was any judge.
Race couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He threw back his head and laughed.
Incredulous, she stared at him. “You think it’sfunny?”
“I do. Preposterous, ridiculous, outrageous and very funny,” he managed when he’d brought his mirth under control. There was relief as well as amusement in his reaction, he knew: he’d been sure something truly disastrous had occurred and that she was going to tell him the betrothal was at an end. But this…He laughed again. All those women, discussing his arse. It was too ridiculous for words.
