The Regency Season: Shameful Secrets. Louise Allen

Prior certainly had a view on the subject and had left a promising nursery of elm saplings behind her, but she was beginning to wonder if the absence of a Lady Dereham was due to his lordship’s obsession with agriculture and an inability to converse on any other topic. ‘I believe them to be very suitable for that purpose. Marmalade and a scone, my lord?’

      He shook his head as he tossed his napkin on to the table and gestured to the footman to pull back his chair. ‘If you have finished your breakfast we can begin.’

      Can we indeed! Was the man unhinged in some way? Had his illness produced an agricultural mania? And yet he had shown no sign of it last night. As she emerged into the hall she saw the maid who had helped her dress that morning was at the foot of the stairs, holding her cloak, and a phaeton waited at the front steps with a pair of matched bays in the shafts. Her consent had been taken for granted, it seemed.

      Julia closed her lips tight on a protest. Without Lord Dereham’s help she was back where she had been the night before. With it, she had some hope of safety and of earning her living respectably. It seemed she had no choice but to humour him and to ignore the small voice in her head that was telling her she was losing control and walking into something she did not understand.

      ‘I am at your disposal, my lord,’ she said politely as she tied her bonnet ribbons.

      ‘I do hope so, Miss Prior,’ Lord Dereham said with a smile that was so charming that for a moment she did not notice just how strange his choice of words was.

       Chapter Four

      Were his words strange, or sinister? Or quite harmless and she was simply losing her nerve and her sense of proportion? Lord Dereham handed her up to her seat in the phaeton and then walked round and took the reins. The groom stepped back and the baron turned the pair down the long drive. They looked both high-bred and fresh. A more immediate worry overtook her concerns about his motives. Could he control them?

      After a few minutes of tense observation it appeared that skill was what mattered. As Julia watched the thin hands, light and confident on the reins, she released her surreptitious grip on the side of the seat and managed not to exhale too loudly.

      ‘The day I cannot manage to drive a phaeton and pair I shall take to my bed and not bother to rise again, Miss Prior,’ he remarked, his voice dry.

      How embarrassing, he must have sensed her tension and probably showing a lack of confidence in a man’s ability to drive was almost as bad as casting aspersions on his virility. And, safe as he was in his weakened condition, she had a strong suspicion that Lord Dereham’s prowess in the bedroom had probably been at least equal to his ability as a whip. The thought sent a little arrow of awareness through her, a warning that Lord Dereham was still a charismatic man and she was in danger of becoming too reliant on his help.

      She repressed a shudder at the direction of her thoughts: she was never going to have to endure a man’s attentions in bed again. Another blessing.

      ‘Cleveland bays?’ she asked. Best not to apologise. Or to speculate on the man beside her as anything but a gentleman offering her aid. Or think about that inn bedroom, not if she wanted to stay calm and in control.

      ‘Yes, they are. They were bred here. Now, Miss Prior, what do you think I should do about this row of tenants’ cottages?’ He reined in just before they reached a range of shabby thatched cottages. ‘Repair them or rebuild over there where the ground is more level, but there is less room for their gardens?’

      ‘Why not ask the tenants?’ Julia enquired tartly, her temper fraying along with the dream-like quality their conversation was beginning to assume. ‘They have to live in them.’ Really, she was extremely grateful to Lord Dereham for rescuing her, but anyone would think she was being interviewed for the post of estate manager!

      He gave a grunt of agreement that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. Julia bristled as he drove past the cottages with a wave of the whip to the women hanging out sheets and feeding chickens. Was he making fun of her because she claimed to have run her family estate? He had been polite enough about it last night, but most men would find her interest in the subject laughable, if not downright unfeminine.

      ‘I also have views on poultry, the management of dairies, sawmills and crop rotation,’ she said with false sweetness. ‘I know a little about sheep, but more about pigeons, pigs and the modern design of farm buildings, if those are of any interest to you, my lord.’

      Again that scarcely repressed chuckle. ‘They are, but I think I had better explain myself before you lose all patience with me, Miss Prior. Would you care to look at the view from the temple over there?’

      They had been climbing a low hill and the temple was revealed as a small folly in the classical style overlooking the lake. Julia closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. If she was not so tense and, under the surface, so scared, she would be able to cope with this perfectly adequately. Perhaps he was simply gauche and had no idea how to make conversation, although there had been no sign of that last night.

      She mentally smoothed her ruffled feathers and replied with dinner-party graciousness, ‘I am sure it will be a delightful prospect, my lord. And you have no need to explain yourself to me. I must apologise if my nerves are a little...’

      ‘Frayed?’ he enquired as he brought the pair to a standstill and climbed down. Julia sat tactfully still while he tied the reins to a post and came round to hand her from her seat. ‘Well, I hope I may ravel them up again, a little. I have a proposition for you, Miss Prior.’

      Proposition. That was a word with connotations and not all of them good. She closed her teeth on her lower lip to control the questions that wanted to tumble out, took his arm and allowed herself to be guided towards the curved marble seat at the front of the folly. She could at least behave like a lady for today—this was surely the last time a gentleman would offer her his arm. And if he proved not to be a gentleman?

      When they were seated side by side Lord Dereham crossed one leg over the other, leaned back and contemplated the view with maddening calm.

      Julia attempted ladylike repose at his side, but all that relaxation did was to allow the waking nightmares back into her head. ‘My lord? You said you had a proposition? You have thought of some post I might apply for, perhaps?’

      ‘Oh no, not...exactly. You, I believe, are in need of some time to recover from your precipitate flight, to rest physically and to collect yourself mentally.’

      ‘Yes,’ she agreed, wary. ‘That would be an agreeable luxury, I must admit.’

      ‘And I would appreciate the company of someone who is knowledgeable about estate management. I have ideas I would like to talk through. If you would accept my hospitality for, let us say, a week, it would give you breathing space and allow me to think of some respectable employment I might suggest.’

      The baron did not look at her as he spoke and she studied his profile as she considered, trying to imagine him with the weight back that he had lost, with colour in that lean, hard face and a gloss on that thick hair. He had been a very attractive man and his character still was. He might have autocratic tendencies, but he seemed understanding, intelligent and his actions, right from the start, had been gentlemanly and protective.

      She would be in no danger from this man, she knew. But was it safe to stay, even for a few days? Safer than wandering around with no plan and no money, Julia told herself. ‘Thank you, my lord. I would appreciate that and I will do my utmost to assist you.’

      ‘Excellent. Shall we begin by being on rather less formal terms? My name is Will, I would like you to use it. May I call you Julia?’

      In for a penny, in for a pound... ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I would like that. Can you not discuss your thoughts with your...I mean, the man who will...’ Goodness, it was hard to think of a tactful way of saying, The man who will take over when you die.

      ‘My heir, you mean?’ His lips curled