Scandal's Virgin. Louise Allen

Alice is a delightful child,’ she said. ‘Such charming manners and so pretty and bright. A credit to you, my lord. I do hope she soon makes some little friends in the area. Do you have grandchildren, Mrs Trimmett?’

      The vicar’s wife looked as though she had been poked with a pin. ‘Er...no, they are all in Dorset. Such a pity.’

      ‘Mine will be coming to stay next week,’ Mrs Gordon said. ‘My two dear granddaughters, aged six and eight. Perhaps Miss Alice would like to come to tea?’ Her expression was such a mixture of smugness and alarm that Laura almost laughed. She could read the older woman’s mind—an earl’s daughter...but illegitimate. The chance of an entrée to the Big House...but the risk that her neighbours might disapprove.

      Laura told herself that she had defended Alice and perhaps made some amends for her tactless remark about Lord Wykeham, which, whatever she thought about him, had been inexcusable.

      ‘I am happy to accept on Alice’s behalf,’ he said.

      Laura risked a sideways glance and encountered a pleasant, totally bland smile with just the faintest hint of mischief about it. Or was she imagining that? ‘Well, this has been delightful, thank you, Mrs Trimmett. I am hoping to find Mrs Philpott at home,’ she added as she got to her feet. Lord Wykeham stood, looming far too close for comfort in the feminine little parlour.

      ‘I called on her about an hour ago,’ Mrs Gordon said. ‘So you will certainly find her at Laurel Lodge. Such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Jordan.’

      With a further exchange of civilities, and a slight bow to the earl who was holding the door for her, Laura left, hoping it did not appear such a flight as it felt.

      A smart curricle with a groom in the seat stood outside the vicarage. The earl’s, she assumed, sparing the pair of matched bays an envious glance as she passed. The groom touched his hat to her as she set off around the green that led past a group of cottages and towards the turning that Mab had told her led to Laurel Lodge.

      Laura dawdled, hoping that fresh air and time would do something to restore her inner composure. She touched the inside of her wrist above the cuff of her glove to her cheek and was relieved to find it cool and not, as she had feared, flaming with embarrassment. What had possessed her? Probably, she concluded, a desire to hear Wykeham abused by the other women, to hear some scandalous gossip about him to confirm her in her dislike of him. And now all she had done was to ensure he would not dream of inviting her to the Manor again. She had quite effectively cut herself off from her daughter.

      * * *

      ‘Very rustic this, my lord,’ Gregg observed, his arms folded firmly across his chest; his face, Avery knew without having to glance sideways, set in a slight sneer.

      ‘That is one of the characteristics of the countryside, yes,’ he agreed.

      ‘Hardly what we’re used to, my lord.’

      ‘No, indeed.’ And singularly lacking in theatres, taverns, pleasure gardens and other sources of entertainment for a good-looking, middle-aged groom with an eye for a pretty girl and a liking for a lively time, he supposed. ‘We’ll be off to London in a week or two,’ he offered his brooding henchman. Tom Gregg had been with him for over ten years and enjoyed a freedom not permitted to any of his other staff.

      Gregg gave a grunt of satisfaction and Avery went back to pondering the mystery that was Mrs Jordan. Just what did she find so objectionable about him? Other than his eyebrows, which could hardly be provocation enough to make a well-bred lady express a dislike to two near strangers. Her manner to him had been impeccable, if cool, and yet he was constantly aware of a watchfulness about her and, ridiculous as it might sound, a hostility. Perhaps she was like that with all men. It could be, he supposed, that her marriage had been an unhappy one, but his instincts told him it was more personal than that.

      Which was a pity, as well as a mystery. Mrs Jordan was an attractive woman and Alice liked her. And, he supposed, with a wry smile at his own vanity, he was not used to ladies taking against him.

      ‘You turn right here, my lord.’ Gregg gestured towards a lane leading off the green.

      So now he had a choice. He could allow himself to be routed by a sharp-tongued widow in drab weeds or he could endure her dislike for half an hour at Mrs Philpott’s house. No, damn it, he thought, guiding the pair into the lane, Mrs Philpott had young relatives, so he had been told, and he was not going to deprive Alice of some possible playmates because of Mrs Jordan’s prejudices.

      And there she was, strolling along the lane in front of him as though she did not have a care in the world. No maid with her again, he noticed, and certainly no footman. But this was broad daylight in a placid little village, so perhaps there was no conclusion to be drawn from that about her resources, her respectability or her background.

      His horses were walking, the ground was soft and it seemed she had not heard him. Avery allowed the pair to draw alongside her without speaking and noticed the start she gave when one of them snorted. She was so composed in voice and expression and yet her body seemed to betray her feelings as though she had no command over her nerves. He recalled the flush of pink at the nape of her neck when she realised he was in the room and must have heard her cutting words. He had wanted to touch that warm skin, he had wondered how far the blush had spread...

      ‘Mrs Jordan. Good afternoon once more. May I take you up as far as Mrs Philpott’s house?’

      Her eyes flickered to Gregg’s sturdy figure. ‘Thank you, Lord Wykeham, but I am enjoying the exercise.’ She turned and walked on.

      So, she did not want to talk in front of his groom. Fair enough. ‘Gregg, take the reins,’ he said. ‘Be outside Laurel Lodge in half an hour.’ This needed settling.

      She did not glance at it as the curricle passed her, but he made no attempt to keep his long stride silent, so her lack of surprise when he reached her side was only to be expected. This time she was completely in control of her reactions. ‘My lord? I hardly feel I require an escort for a few hundred yards up a country lane.’

      ‘But I require a conversation.’

      ‘And an apology, no doubt. Please accept my regrets for my discourteous words at the vicarage, my lord.’

      ‘I wish you would stop calling me my lord.’ It was not what he had meant to say and her startled glance showed he had surprised her as much as himself.

      ‘And what should I call you?’

      ‘My name is Avery, Caroline.’

      ‘And are we on such terms that we call each other by our Christian names? I believe I would recall it if we were childhood friends or cousins.’

      ‘I would be friends. I am unclear what I have done to make you dislike me. If I have offended you in some way, I would like to repair that.’

      ‘How could you have offended me?’ she asked without looking at him. ‘We have only just met. And why should you wish me as a friend?’

      ‘Alice likes you. More feminine influence in her life is desirable, I think.’

      She caught her breath and something in the whisper of sound seemed to touch him at the base of the spine. So that’s what this is... I desire this prickly, difficult, wan-faced widow. Avery stopped and, as though he had put out a hand to restrain her, she did, too. ‘Look at me.’

      Caroline half-turned to face him and studied his face, her own expression grave. As she had in the park, she seemed to look with an intensity that probed not just his appearance, but his thoughts and his character. Every muscle under the fine skin of her face seemed taut, there was wariness, almost fear in the dark eyes, and now something else. Something he would wager she did not want to feel at all.

      ‘Whatever else there is between us,’ Avery murmured, thinking out loud, ‘there is physical attraction.’

      ‘You flatter yourself!’ She looked as outraged as he might have expected and also utterly taken aback.