Page 50 of Hearts of Briarwall

He swallowed hard. “Lydia, please don’t turn this into something it’s not.” His voice had taken on the tone of begging, and he winced. “I’m astonished at your offer. I only wish for you to be certain—”

“And I cannot be certain without a man’s permission.” She turned and stomped to the bicycles, hefting hers upright. “Well, right now I’m so very uncertain I can remain and clean up this misguided picnic. Whatever shall I do?” She positioned herself on the bike and shot him a look, her eyes wide. “I hope I can manage to make it down this treacherous hill with my frail womanly form. If only there were a real man about to ask for direction. Ah well.”

He stood, silent, humiliated by her brilliant performance.

She placed her foot on the pedal and blew a stray lock of hair from her eyes. “I have a new sign for you, Mr. Hayes.” She swept her fingers in the air before her as if reading. “‘Lacks the courage to take money from anyone in a skirt—though claims women are an inevitable part of the motorcar industry.’” With that, she lurched the bicycle forward, down the path, and away.

He stepped forward, his own hypocrisy feeling like lead in his feet. “You’re not wearing a skirt,” he called lamely and to no avail. “Lydia!”

When there was no response, he threw his hands out, letting them flop down at his sides. He took in the remnants of their picnic with a deep sigh, then set to work clearing things away.

This.Thiswas why he’d vowed never again to mix the volatile emotion of romance with business. It became a powder keg in a pile of dead leaves near a crackling fire.

Spencer looked down the path where Lydia had ridden away, whisps of her hair fluttering behind her, her blouse billowing. He closed his eyes, and his insides tightened.

Her skin might very well have been the softest thing he’d ever touched, the loveliest thing he’d ever smelled.

Done forwas a severe understatement.

Chapter 10

After returning to the house, Lydia ordered a tray of drinking chocolate to her room then immediately regretted it as her stomach had knotted itself in a fine twist. She changed clothes, and Fallon wordlessly brushed the remaining leaves from her hair before rolling it into the latest pompadour, smoothing the curls at her temples and the nape of her neck around her fingers to soften the look further.

Lydia watched herself in the mirror, wondering not for the first time what her parents might think of her. She knew so little of them. What would they think of her picnic on the hill? Of the way her heart had hammered as she’d offered Spencer her investment, how it had leaped at his weight and his touch, and how it had flared in anger as she’d been spurned—been made to feel like such a child after such an adult ...everything.

She lowered her gaze, not knowing if they’d be ashamed or proud.

“There you are, miss. Pretty as a picture.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Fallon.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you, miss?”

Lydia hesitated. Fallon had been a new upstairs maid when Lydia’s parents had died, then filled in as Lydia’s lady’s maid when she left the nursery at age thirteen. Fallon had done so well with it, Andrew hired her for the position. Fifteen years older than Lydia to the month, the woman was quiet and confident, exhibited good taste, and had proven trustworthy when Lydia’s world took the odd swipe at her adolescent hopes and dreams.

The woman waited patiently. Often, Lydia felt Fallon was more a gentlewoman than she could ever hope to be, but it wasn’t an intimidating or discouraging thought. Indeed, Lydia often leaned on the woman’s steadiness to fortify her own. She knew herself well enough to own that steadiness was not one of her strongest traits.

Lydia straightened. “You remember my parents, Fallon.”

“Some, miss.”

“I only wondered ... Had you ever observed my father—what I mean to ask is ... Was my father a very progressive man? Or more entrenched in tradition?”

Fallon tipped her head. “In what aspect, miss?”

“Specifically, in the way he viewed my mother. Or ... women in general.”

A gleam lit the maid’s eye as if she had expected that direction. “’Twould be inappropriate to share an opinion of that, miss. But factually speaking, Mr. Wooding showed Mrs. Wooding every respect and often deferred to her when it came to matters outside the household. Anyone who observed them together knew he held your mother’s opinion in high esteem.”

“What kind of matters?”

“Oh, matters of the property and the livery, for example. Or politics. If you don’t mind my saying so, I was pleasantly shocked when I first observed them sharing the daily papers every morning, discussing happenings and articles as though they were great colleagues and not husband and wife.” She lowered her gaze. “At least, no husband and wife I’d ever witnessed.”

Lydia drew in a breath of pleasure at the image of her parents engaged in lively conversation. “Did they ever speak of money?”

Fallon’s eyes widened, and she took a half-step back. “’Tis not my place, miss.”

Lydia flushed. “Of course. Forgive me.”

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