Page 44 of Hearts of Briarwall

“I don’t think anything I could’ve said today would’ve swayed Andrew.”

“Perhaps you’re right, but I have an idea. Please?”

Spencer pinched the bridge of his nose, then nodded. “Alrigh,” he growled. He winced at his rolledrand droppedt, the Brummie in him coming out as it did when he was agitated. He took a breath. “But do you have a lady’s maid? A chaperone you trust?”

She frowned but nodded.

“Bring ’er, then.”

She nodded once more and turned to go. He moved to close his door, placing a barrier between him and her captivating scent, when she turned back.

“I’m nearly twenty-one,” she said, frighteningly above a whisper. “It’s important you understand that.”

He opened his mouth to respond with heaven-knew-what, but before he could get a word out, she hurried away down the corridor.

He stood rooted to the spot, unsure what to make of that information, and chiding himself that he’d been a full year off in guessing her age.

Not that it mattered.

The house creaked above his head, and he retreated into his room and shut the door. Her fragrance, however, followed him in.

“Blast it.” The girl would be the death of him.

The following morning, Spencer approached the temple, hurrying his stride. He’d had a restless night and slept later than he meant to. He’d no idea when he’d finally drifted off, but when he’d jolted awake with a slight headache, the sun was already on the rise. He’d splashed himself with cold water, tidied up as best he could, and headed straight outdoors. It was still early for a country household. He only hoped he hadn’t kept Lydia waiting long.

He approached the temple and ran up the steps. “Lydia?” he called, wincing as the echo aggravated his headache.

“Ahem.”

He skidded to a halt and found himself under the scrutiny of a woman he did not recognize. She wore a servant’s uniform and sat on a stone bench, mending in her hands. He suddenly remembered he’d required Lydia to have a chaperone. “F-Forgive me,” he stuttered. “I did not see you there. Er—Miss Wooding, is she here?”

The woman narrowed her gaze, her disapproval obvious. “Down the back stairs at the pond.”

“Thank you.” He moved to go, noting the woman was gathering up her things and would likely follow him. Well, good. This needed to be on the up-and-up.

He walked through the temple, passing the rows of columns, his steps echoing on the stone. He kept his eye on the rear entrance—a sort of walk-through annex. The opening framed the provincial scene of the pond, its bulrushes, and the misted woods surrounding it. As he drew nearer, he noticed a rhythmic plopping and ensuing ripple effect of stones being tossed into the water.

He exited the temple and found Lydia at the edge of the water in a white, billowy blouse, a loose necktie, and her breeches again. A high-buttoned vest seemed to hold her all together and specifically made for her curves.

He slipped his hands into his pockets, leaned against a column at the top of the steps, and watched her select a few stones from the narrow shore and throw them one by one into the pond. A few waves of hair had slipped from the loose knot at the back of her neck, but she’d tied a wide, yellow ribbon around it all and, like the vest, it seemed to be holding everything together well enough. Indeed, watching her eased his concern for rushing, while at the same time making him utterly aware of each heartbeat in his chest.

Just before she threw the next rock, he cleared his throat.

She yipped as the rock slipped from her windup, flipped up high, and landed with akerplunkin the shallows next to her. She turned.

“Your form could use a little work,” he drolled.

She set her hands at her waist, her shoulders thrown back. “Who are you to criticize my form?”

He swallowed, attempting to maintain a collected demeanor, especially as he realized he’d meant it as less a criticism and more wishful thinking on his part. “I take it back. Obvious lapse in judgment. By all means, toss your rocks.”

“Why does that sound impertinent?”

“Because you’re a cheeky girl?”

She laughed, brushing a curl out of her eyes. “I am not. It’s that accent of yours.”

“My accent?” Had he let it slip again?

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