He chose not to look her way again, while keenly waiting for her long-winded father to introduce them. Then, when he finally met her, she fulfilled his expectations. She was not one of those insipid debutantes found in London during the Season who giggled a lot. Although not a beauty in the classical sense, Lady Cornelia was unusual and undeniably attractive. He likened her to a mythical woman, statuesque, a long graceful neck revealed by upswept hair of honey-gold, and eyes that reminded him of violets in the misty woods at Shewsbury.
He discarded his initial plan to cry off, compelled to discover more about her. She intrigued him. He’d expected to be feted, for her to greet him with flirtatious eagerness, and was relieved when she did not.
Charles had never envied Michael, nor wished to be duke, and as a second son, had not been groomed for the role. Nor was he prepared to turn his life upside down. His future wife must understand that. While he knew he must expect a certain amount of pomp and ceremony and had far more responsibilities and duties to perform, he had kept his friends and lived in the manner which suited him. And that meant retiring to the country whenever he could, where he involved himself in the running of his estates and saw to the needs of his people.
After luncheon, which was an informal buffet where he could only view his intended from afar, he retired to his suite where his valet buffed a pair of riding boots with his own special polish until they shone like mirrors. Charles’s brown coat and riding breeches had been laid out in readiness.
Once his valet had run the brush over Charles’s shoulders, he sat and put up his foot. “Are they looking after you in the servants’ hall, Feeley?”
“Aye, that they are, thank you, Your Grace.” Feeley pushed the boot up Charles’s leg. “A pretty young maid will soon have me needs in hand.”
Charles eyed his Irish valet, his one claim to disorder in his life, and he rather enjoyed him. Feeley could charm the clothes off any wench he fancied and often did. “None of that here, Feeley, if you please. I don’t want any embarrassing issues to arise with my prospective in-laws.” He paused.
After three days spent in the lady’s company, he would be better able to judge if they would suit. His father had taught him that nothing should ever be undertaken without serious consideration. Charles heaved a sigh. His father hadn’t been thinking clearly during the last year of his illness. Had he not considered Charles’s sentiments as death grew closer?
Feeley slid the other boot over Charles’s stockinged foot. “If you wish, Your Grace,” he said, sounding regretful.
“I do, Feeley.”
He cast a sly glance at Charles. “Then we’ll be stayin’ ’til Monday?”
“We will.” Charles stood and reached for his hat. The man was incorrigible but entertaining and a damn good valet. He had engaged Feeley when he was a mere second son and saw no reason to replace him with one of those top-lofty valets his friends seemed to rely on. “Find something innocuous to do in your free time, which will not set the household on its ear.”
He walked downstairs, hat and crop in hand, and found Lady Cornelia waiting for him, walking up and down the terrace. The sight of her pulled him up. His first instincts about her were correct. She looked edgy and not at all happy to see him.
She greeted him briskly as she pulled on leather gloves. “It looks like rain, Your Grace.”
He studied the wide expanse of blue sky. Only a few dark clouds lurked on the horizon. He tucked his crop beneath an arm and settled his hat on his head. “Quite a distance away.”
“But driven by a strong wind. The weather here can be changeable. It rains a lot.”
He raised his brows. “One might think you don’t wish for my company, Lady Cornelia.”
“I merely don’t wish us to get wet, Your Grace,” she demurred, the tips of her ears pink.
“I doubt it will bring on an inflammation of the lungs,” he said, smiling. “Unless, of course, you are prone to illness?”
“I am not. Which part of the estate do you wish to see?” She ran lightly down the terrace steps to the lawn.
Lady Cornelia set off, and he strode after her. Her coltish stride carried her along at a fair pace. As if she wanted to escape him. But he was taller and easily kept up with her. “Where do you have in mind?”
“There are sheep in the eastern pasture. We’ll take the bridle path.”
Sheep? Was that irony he detected? As they strolled through the gardens, he studied her profile beneath her black riding hat: an elegant nose, a rounded chin, and wide mouth, her full lips firmly pressed together. Her figure, curvaceous in the tailored, rust-colored habit. Good child-bearing hips, his father would have said. When she finally deigned to look at him, Charles averted his gaze from the pleasing curve of her bosom. “I have many interests apart from sheep.” He’d begun to wonder if she was determined to rebuff him. Should he back off now before this went any further? “And your interests, Lady Cornelia, what are they?”
She flushed and drew in a breath.
What on earth had he said?
“I enjoy reading and riding,” she said, replying finally.
Her reaction surprised him, for both interests were perfectly respectable. Hadn’t Jason said she was part of the London literary set?
“We need not view the flock, Your Grace. It was just that you mentioned your interest in the Herdwicks, and my father told me where to locate them,” she said as they walked along the gravel drive.
“I don’t
