Page 22 of Hearts of Briarwall

She brushed away a tinge of disappointment that he hadn’t touched her hand again.

“Oh please,” Florrie said. “We are all friends now after this successful venture. Let us call one another by our Christian names. Mr. Hayes?” she said, gesturing as she spoke. “Spencer, was it? Lydia. Lydia? Spencer. Spencer? Florrie. Florrie? Andrew. Andrew? Your lovely sister, Lydia. There. Oh, don’t look at me that way, Andrew. We’ve known each other since I was five, and you were what—sixty?”

Spencer chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose there’s no undoing that.”

Andrew folded his arms, silenced on the matter.

Florrie batted her lashes at the men and walked away, head held high.

Lydia could only watch, overcome with gratitude that her friend was so very good at flying.

Chapter 5

Spencer woke early. He rolled onto his back and blinked at the wide ceiling.

Lydia Wooding.

He drew an arm over his eyes and growled at himself.

During the “hunt,” he’d come to recognize how easy a friendship with a woman like her would be. She spoke plainly, laughed genuinely, and appeared artless in her allure. It was only a friendship that had sparked last night. But when she’d wrapped her arms around him in that embrace—an innocent, triumphant embrace—friendshipwas not the desire that had coursed through him like the rumbling of thunder.

He’d distanced himself for the remainder of the evening. He’d told himself she hadn’t noticed. He’d brushed away the questioning look in her eyes. He’d avoided addressing her directly. He couldn’t even allow himself the familiarity of calling her by her given name.

Ruddy mess that was. He always fell too easily, too fast. Even when he was a lad, his mother had warned him of his tendency to fall too fast for the fairer sex. His “lover’s heart,” his father had called it, a teasing glint in his eye. He was not a womanizer nor took advantage. He just gave his heart easily. And had it crushed often.

And while he knew he hadn’t fallen for Miss Wooding, the signs were blazing that he could—and soon. And that would muddle everything.

He’d sooner flirt with the effervescent Miss Janes. That action, instinct told him, would be harmless.

But this wasn’t a pleasure trip, as pleasing as his return to Briarwall had been. Today was a new day, and he would refocus. The perfect day for it, too. Miss Wooding had mentioned that she and her friends would be in London most of the day while he and Andrew attended a horse auction and lunched at Andrew’s club. Tomorrow, Spencer would approach Andrew with the framework of his proposal. Though Andrew seemed content to postpone talking business, Spencer didn’t feel comfortable infringing on his friend’s hospitality without setting to his purpose here. Yesterday he’d been able to put it aside. Tomorrow he would be ready.

He threw off the covers and crossed to the window, drawing away the heavy drapes, allowing in the morning light still sifting through mist. A brisk walk was what he needed.

His boots crunched on the gravel path encircling the green. A solitary morning bird sang the same series of notes again and again from the woods to the north. Ahead, easterly, he spied the golden sandstone pediment of the temple and turned his steps toward it.

It had always seemed otherworldly to him, that place. As if a piece of an ancient civilization steeped in myth had been broken off and planted at Briarwall. There was a reverence about it, as though its mere design were a conduit for deep thinking and meditation. Which was what he needed.

Climbing the steps to the wide entrance, he reached out and ran his hand along a cold, fluted column. Wisteria wrapped itself around the lower section, and he thumbed the thick vining trunk where the plant followed smooth stone.

A sharp, clear bark interrupted his inspection, and he turned to meet its source.

A collie loped toward him, but he hardly noticed, his attention immediately claimed by Lydia Wooding, sitting astride a black stallion, her hair in a loose knot and as wild looking as the horse she rode.

“Is it as you remembered?” she asked.

He opened his mouth, stuttering on his reply as she dismounted without effort. She sported buff-colored riding breeches, her white blouse tucked into the small, belted waist, her tall black boots meeting her knees.

He’d seldom seen a woman in breeches, and he’d given little thought to it before. He was having thoughts now.

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Are you well, Spencer?” she asked as she approached him, adjusting her sable riding gloves.

He blinked his eyes open, taking in fresh, cool air to clear his head. Right. First names. “I’m well. Thank you.” He directed his attention to the familiar collie, now circling about his legs. He offered a hand, and the dog sniffed enthusiastically. “Champ?” he asked. But that couldn’t be.

“Champ’s son, Hero. Dear Champ passed on a few years ago.”

He scrubbed the dog’s head and neck, resulting in great wags of a tail. “I’m sorry to hear it. He was the best dog.”

---