Page 74 of Hearts of Briarwall

It felt traitorous not to defend Mr. Wooding. But Spencer had been taken for a jaunt, and though the contraption only reached fifteen miles per hour that day—roads were not built yet for the likes of a motorcar, and a number of pedestrians, sheep, and wagons were evaded with little more than a honk—Mr. Wooding rarely slowed down, not even for oncoming vehicles.

Could the fatal accident have been brought about by Mr. Wooding’s own recklessness? It certainly would add a layer as to why Andrew was so cautious, so deliberate in turning away from all things automotive—

Andwhy he would forbid Lydia from driving. Lydia, who was so much like her father in temperament.

Spencer closed his eyes and exhaled.

“You can see how it is as I say, can you not?” Sir Lawrence asked.

Spencer nodded, not wanting to discuss it further. He fought the urge to leave the room, to clench his fists, to pace the temple until he felt calm. Instead, he shrugged. “We will never know the truth of the tragedy, only that it caused great grief to their children and all who knew and loved them.”

Sir Lawrence pursed his lips. “It has been my observation that Miss Wooding has not dwelt on the matter, nor does she seem possessed of any excessive feeling toward it as her brother does. I quite admire her for it and sense her to be a ... kindred spirit, if you will.”

Spencer stared at the man, not knowing whether to bark out a laugh at the absurdity of such a statement or earnestly ask if he’d mistaken Lydia for someone else of his acquaintance. The empty suit of armor in the gallery, for instance.

But no, the man was quite serious. “Hm,” was Spencer’s benign response. He took a moment to walk toward the desk, collecting himself and any “excessive feelings” he had. He rounded the desk and stood beside Andrew’s chair. “Shall we discuss the matter of my shops?” Spencer suddenly felt possessive of Hayes Motor Supply. Indeed, the more he came to know Sir Lawrence, the more the idea of doing business with him soured. But there was the matter of the man’s money. And his influence.

“But of course. I seem to have led us off topic.”

Several times, thought Spencer.

Sir Lawrence sat in the chair opposite the desk and pulled a folded stack of paperwork from his dinner jacket. “I have here pledges to the sum of one hundred fifty thousand pounds.”

Spencer sat down hard in his chair, swallowing loudly. “That’s a start,” he said, an unusual rasp to his voice.

Sir Lawrence dropped his chin and squared his gaze at Spencer. “A very good start.”

Over the next two days, Lydia avoided Spencer, which was easy to do as she was sure he was avoiding her also. Church couldn’t be helped, but Andrew sat between them like a castle wall—so straight was his posture and definite their separation. At least, it felt that way.

However, after service, Sir Lawrence encountered no such obstacle and directly made his way to where she waited in the sunshine while Andrew lingered in the church with Spencer, making introductions.

As Sir Lawrence strode toward her, two young gentlemen of her acquaintance passed by, and she looked to them, hoping that they might stop and converse, but they merely touched their hats and nodded to her before continuing on.

“Miss Wooding, you are looking fine today.” Sir Lawrence took her hand and pressed a kiss to her glove, a new gesture in his greetings.

Her hand stiffened, and she wondered if he noticed. She wished he did. “Thank you, Sir Lawrence. Many young ladies are looking fine today. Is that not what Sundays are for? To promenade after church and be admired?” Her sarcasm seemed to be lost on Sir Lawrence.

“Indeed. But you are particularly fine today.”

“I am particularly fine today, as opposed to other days? Or I am particularly fine, compared to the other ladies?”

He paused, his smile—if one could call it that—drooping. “Eh, that is to say, I am drawn to your particular ... fineness.”

“How kind of you to say,” she said, extricating her hand. How was it his touch was so off-putting and Spencer’s was so ... not? Her thoughts flew to the memory of Spencer’s lips pressed to hers, his hands encircling her waist. A pleasant shudder coursed through her spine, and it took focus to suppress it.

“ ... if I do say so.”

She blinked, swallowing hard. “Pardon?”

“Come, come, Miss Wooding. Let’s not pretend that a pair of fine horses, when properly matched, do not turn heads with admiration and, dare I say, envy?”

Lydia stared, clearly having missed this turn of subject. “No,” she said, scrambling for a response. “Fine horses. Who would pretend such a thing?”

“Yes. Exactly.” He bowed again. Then he leaned closer, speaking in a whisper. “Though, I admit no person can match the beauty your blush brings to your visage.”

“There you are, Lydia.”

Lydia spun in relief to find Ruby Burke approaching, her parasol shading her delicate features and gentle green eyes from the sun despite the olive satin toque she wore over her deep-brown curls.

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