Bound By A Scandalous Secret. Diane Gaston

her fit of giggles.

      ‘I am acquainted with Glenville,’ he remarked. ‘A good man.’

      ‘Glenville is a good man,’ she agreed.

      He could not speak of why he knew Glenville, though.

      He’d sailed Glenville across the Channel in the family yacht several times during the war when Glenville pursued clandestine activities for the Crown. Braving the Channel’s waters was about the only danger Ross could allow himself during the war, even if he made himself available to sail whenever needed. This service had been meagre in his eyes, certainly a trifle compared to what his friend Dell had accomplished. And what others had suffered. He’d seen what the war cost some of the soldiers. Limbs. Eyes. Sanity. Why should those worthy men have had to pay the price rather than he?

      He forced his mind away from painful thoughts. ‘I had not heard Glenville’s marriage had been forced.’

      ‘Had you not?’ She glanced at him in surprise. ‘Goodness. I thought everyone knew. I should say they seem very happy about it now, so it has all worked out. For the time being, that is.’

      ‘For the time being?’

      She shrugged. ‘One never knows, does one?’

      ‘You sound a bit cynical.’ Indeed, she seemed to cycle emotions across her face with great rapidity.

      Her expression sobered. ‘Of course I am cynical. Marriage can bring terrible unhappiness. My parents’ marriage certainly did.’

      ‘One out of many,’ he countered, although he knew several friends who were miserable and making their spouses even more so. His parents’ marriage had been happy—until his mother died. In his father’s present marriage happiness was not an issue. That marriage was a political partnership.

      ‘My sister Lorene’s marriage to Lord Tinmore is another example.’ She glanced away and lowered her voice as if speaking to herself and not to him. ‘She is wasting herself with him.’

      ‘Has it been so bad? She brought him out of his hermitage, they say. He’d been a recluse, they say.’

      ‘I am sure he thinks it a grand union.’ She huffed. ‘He now has people he can order about.’

      ‘You?’ Clearly she resented Tinmore. ‘Does he order you about?’

      ‘He tries. He thinks he can force me to—’ She stopped herself. ‘Never mind. My tongue runs away with me sometimes.’

      She fell silent and stilled her legs and became lost in her own thoughts, which excluded him. He’d been enjoying their conversation. They’d been talking like equals, neither of them trying to impress or avoid.

      He wanted more of it. ‘Tell me about your painting.’

      She looked at him suspiciously. ‘What about it?’

      ‘I did not understand it.’

      She sat up straighter. ‘You mean because the sky was purple and pink and the grassy hills, blue, and it looked nothing like December in Lincolnshire?’

      ‘Obviously you were not painting the landscape as it was today. You said you painted a memory, but surely you never saw the scene that way.’ The painting was a riot of colour, an exaggeration of reality.

      She turned away. ‘It was a memory of those bright childhood days, when things could be what you imagined them to be, when you could create your own world in play and your world could be anything you wanted.’

      ‘The sky and the grass could be anything you wanted, as well. I quite comprehend.’ He smiled at her. ‘I once spent an entire summer as a virtuous knight. You should have seen all the dragons I slew and all the damsels in distress I rescued.’

      Her blue eyes sparkled. ‘I was always Boadicea fighting the Romans.’ She stood and raised an arm. ‘“When the British Warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods...”’ She sat down again. ‘I was much influenced by Cowper.’

      ‘My father had an old copy of Spencer’s The Faerie Queene.’ It had been over two hundred years old. ‘I read it over and over. I sought to recreate it in my imagination.’

      She sighed. ‘Life seemed so simple then.’

      They fell silent again.

      ‘Do you miss this place?’ he asked. ‘I don’t mean this folly. Do you miss Summerfield House where you grew up?’

      Her expression turned wistful. ‘I do miss it. All the familiar rooms. The familiar paintings and furniture. We could not take much with us.’ Her chin set and her eyes hardened. ‘I do not want you to think we blame Lord Penford. He was under no obligation to us. We knew he inherited many problems my father created.’ She stood again and walked to the edge of the folly. Placing her hand on one of the columns, she leaned out. ‘The snow seems to be abating.’

      He was not happy to see the flakes stop. ‘Shall we venture out in it again?’

      ‘I think we must,’ she said. ‘I do not want to return late and cause any questions about where I’ve been.’

      ‘Is that what happens?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes.’ Her eyes changed from resentment to amusement. ‘Although I do not always answer such questions truthfully.’

      ‘I would wager you do not.’

      * * *

      Rossdale again pulled Genna up to sit in front of him on his beautiful horse. How ironic. It was the most intimate she had ever been with a man.

      She liked him. She could not think of any other gentleman of her acquaintance who she liked so well and with whom she wanted to spend more time. Usually she was eager to leave a man’s company, especially when the flattery started. Especially when she suspected they were more enamoured of the generous sum Lord Tinmore would provide for her dowry than they were of her. No such avaricious gleam reached Rossdale’s eyes. She had the impression the subject of her dowry had not once crossed Rossdale’s mind.

      They rode without talking, except for Genna’s directions. She led him through the fields, the shortest way to Tinmore Hall and also the way they were least likely to encounter any other person. The snow had turned the landscape a lovely white, as if it had been scrubbed clean. There was no sound but the crunch of the horse’s hooves on the snow and the huff of the animal’s breathing.

      They came to the stream. The only way to cross was at the bridge, the bridge that had been flooded that fateful night Tess had been caught in the storm.

      ‘Leave me at the bridge,’ she said. No one was in sight, but if anyone would happen by, it would be on the road to the bridge. ‘I’ll walk the rest of the way.’

      ‘So we are not seen together?’ he correctly guessed.

      She could not help but giggle. ‘Unless you want a forced marriage.’

      He raised his hands in mock horror. ‘Anything but that.’

      ‘Here is fine.’ She slid from the saddle.

      He unfastened her satchel and handed it to her. ‘It has been a pleasure, Miss Summerfield.’

      ‘I am indebted to you, sir,’ she countered. ‘But if you dare say so to anyone, I’ll have to unfurl my wrath.’

      He smiled down at her and again she had the sense that she liked him.

      ‘It will be our secret,’ he murmured.

      She nodded a farewell and hurried across the bridge. When she reached the other side, she turned.

      He was still there watching her.

      She waved to him and turned away, and walked quickly. She was later than she’d planned to be.

      She approached the house through the formal garden behind the Hall and entered through the garden door, removing her