Mistress in the Regency Ballroom. Juliet Landon

away from the direction of the Temple, feeling rather like a hind evading a dominant stag.

      ‘Out of the frying pan into the fire,’ she snapped. ‘I came here to avoid the commentary, but perhaps I should have braved it, after all. Don’t captains have duties to perform on Monday afternoons?’

      ‘Surely, Miss Boyce, you would not begrudge me a few moments of your time?’

      ‘Oh, be assured that I would, my lord. I thought I’d made that plain last night at the Misses Binney’s. However, if you are also hoping to claim a few moments of Miss Melborough’s time on the way home, I would rather you respect my wishes and do your flirting when she is under her parents’ protection, not mine. I cannot be held responsible for what you get up to. Is that too much to ask?’

      ‘Not at all. I am happy to oblige. So, having dismissed the young lady from our thoughts once and for all, I wonder if you would care to reconsider your objections to allowing some help with the riding problem. You admit that you do have one?’

      ‘I neither admit nor deny it, Lord Rayne. It is my concern and nothing to do with you. Thank you for your offer. The answer is still no.’

      They had been walking quickly, and now Mr Chatterton’s distantly garbled ranting came to them on the breeze combined with the honking of geese on the water. The winding path had taken them downhill out of sight of the Temple and into a dell where they came to a standstill, their antagonism almost tangible as they faced each other like a pair of duellists waiting for the next move.

      ‘Do you answer no to everything, Miss Boyce, as a matter of course?’ he said, softly.

      She hesitated, suspecting that he had re-routed the subject towards something more personal. She could not be sure. ‘No,’ she said, ‘but I find it a useful tool to use when an alternative won’t do.’

      His head bent towards her. ‘Surely you don’t think there is only one alternative, do you? There are many tones between black and white, you know. There is maybe, and perhaps, or let’s discuss it, or what exactly do you have in mind? And dozens more.’

      ‘I know exactly what you have in mind, Lord Rayne.’

      ‘Tch! Miss Boyce!’ he exclaimed in a dramatic whisper. ‘That is the most unintelligent thing I’ve heard from you so far. Would you believe me if I said the same to you?’

      ‘No, of course I would not.’

      ‘I should hope not indeed. Still, if you’re quite determined not to accept the best offer you’ll have for some time, then so be it. We shall consider the matter closed because Miss Boyce has a bee in her bonnet about my precise intentions. Which, by the way, are not at all what she thinks.’

      ‘Lord Rayne,’said Letitia, looking towards the silver ribbon of water and the blobs of white floating upon it, ‘I think we ought to return. I have nothing to gain and much to lose by taking a walk alone with you. Perhaps you should allow me to walk back on my own.’

      ‘I do not think you should be allowed to go anywhere on your own, Miss Boyce. Will you take my arm up this bank? We’ll go up towards the house.’

      ‘I’m not exactly blind, my lord.’

      ‘So defensive,’ he said, crooking his arm for her. ‘Come on. Mind that branch.’

      She hesitated, unaware of any obstruction on the path. It was shadowed and dappled with greenery, and it would be unnecessarily foolish to ignore his offer of help, and she was defensive, and insecure, and a whole lot of other devices acquired during years of having to battle against convention, her mother, her desires, her poor eyesight and its disadvantages. Her hesitation was interpreted as obstinacy.

      ‘Can you not bring yourself to accept help of any kind?’

      ‘I can’t see any branch!’ she yelped.

      Unable to stifle a chuckle of exasperation, he went behind her, bending to unlatch the skirt of her sage-green habit from a mossy twig projecting from a branch. ‘Now,’ he said, offering his arm again, ‘shall we go, or shall you fight the elements single-handed?’

      Subdued, she took his arm and used his steely strength to negotiate the overgrown path up to the house, unsure how she had come to this point in a relationship that could not have begun in a worse manner. She understood that everyone had at least two sides to their characters, but so far she had allowed him to see only one of hers. It was her own bizarre two-sidedness that concerned her most, for she was not sure which of the two was the real Lettie Boyce, nor did she approve of the deception she was being forced to present, especially to those close to her. For some reason she could not explain, it mattered to her that this man’s opinion should be placed on a firmer footing.

      ‘Lord Rayne,’ she ventured, not quite knowing what to say.

      ‘Miss Boyce?’

      ‘You may have…well, you see…I am not quite what you think.’

      ‘And you are about to tell me what I think, are you? I thought we had agreed on the absurdity of that, just now.’

      ‘I meant to say, if you will allow me, that I may have given you the impression that…well, you spoke earlier about my sharp tongue, and—’

      ‘And the fact that you might personally benefit from a little schooling? Yes, I remember, Miss Boyce. Are you taking up my offer, then?’

      ‘Lord Rayne, you are the most odious man of my acquaintance.’

      ‘Abominable,’ he agreed, smiling broadly.

       Chapter Four

      As a result of her meeting with Miss Austen Letitia came away with a feeling of relief that she had not revealed anything of her own writing. Yet with every sentence she wrote, she was reminded that, apart from one derisory kiss from the odious Lord Rayne, her heroine and her heroine’s creator were both still innocents with fervent imaginations. Although the kiss was very clear in her memory, it had not been given in the right circumstances and was therefore untypical.

      Mr Waverley had told her that afternoon how much he was enjoying Waynethorpe Manor as much as, if not more than, the first novel. His mother, he told her, had begged to be the next to read it.

      ‘Is that wise?’ Letitia asked him before he left that evening.

      ‘She’s one of your most avid readers. Of course it’s wise.’

      ‘I hope she doesn’t suspect…’

      He took her by the shoulders in brotherly fashion, laughing at her touchiness. ‘She doesn’t suspect anything, Lettie. She and Lake are well acquainted, and he’s told her that the author is a certain Lydia Barlowe, but no more than that.’

      ‘Perhaps I should have used different initials.’

      ‘Nonsense. No one is ever going to make the connection.’

      Her friend’s approval of Waynethorpe Manor, however, satisfied her that the author’s lack of emotional experience had not in any way affected his enjoyment, though whether she could convince her readers for a third time remained to be seen.

      ‘What’s the new one about?’ he asked.

      ‘About a young lady called Em…er…Perdita, rather like one of my pupils, in some ways.’

      ‘Which pupil?’

      ‘Any one of them. Inexperienced. Looking for excitement.’

      ‘Looking for love, you mean.’

      ‘Yes, that, too,’ she said, giving herself away at each reply. Surely Bart would recognise the heroine?

      ‘You have only to look at the material right under your roof.’

      ‘What d’ye mean?’ she asked, rather too sharply.

      ‘I