“And because of this one man you would deny your heritage? Your birthright?”
“Heritage? Birthright? Spoken like a true aristocrat.” There! He’d proven Pater wrong. Aristocracy was more important to her than the misery it had wrought on his mother and father. His triumph fell oddly flat, like discovering the rose does, indeed, have razor-sharp thorns. He’d expected it. Nevertheless, it still stung.
He decided she needed a proper lecture. “The whole notion of nobility is absurd. What makes any man more noble than another? The accident of his birth? The world would have been better off had the Sixth Lord of Ransley been born a swineherd. Even then, I suspect he would have made the pigs miserable. If he ever nurtured a noble impulse in his entire life, it is news to me. Whereas, Pater—”
“I grasp your point.” She answered dully.
And she did understand. All too well. Elizabeth now understood with perfect clarity why Valen disliked her so thoroughly. She stood no chance of winning his admiration because of the accident of her birth. She clasped the herb bag firmly in her lap, absently squeezing at one of the garlic bulbs until she felt the pressure nearly burst the cloves apart.
“Well, at least, now, I comprehend Miss Dunworthy’s appeal.” Her remark tripped out sounding horridly spiteful. But Elizabeth couldn’t stop her runaway tongue. “The dear girl is possessed of both money and a common birth. You must be in high alt.” As soon as she said it she wished she could bite back the hasty words—they stunk of sour grapes. But what did it matter? His high-and-mighty lordship preferred mushrooms to ladies of quality. He left her no fair ground on which to compete.
“Exactly,” he said with such consummate arrogance she dearly wished to slap him. “You’ve proven my point. You think you are better than Miss Dunworthy simply because she hasn’t a pedigree that compares to yours.”
“Kindly set me down here, my lord.” Elizabeth emphasized the ‘my lord’ and pointed emphatically at the ground below them.
Rather than complying, he tightened his hold around her middle.
Insolent man. “I should prefer to walk.”
“I think not.”
She simmered for a moment before thinking of the perfect rejoinder. “Pray, tell me this, Lord St. Evert. When your son is born, will you despise him because he is a nobleman?”
Valen stiffened. A son? The image of an infant, his son, shot into his mind, nearly knocking him off his horse. He tried to shake it away. She ought not speak of babes when he had his hand on her abdomen and a very informative view of her breasts every time he glanced down. All too easy to imagine her swollen with his child. The ache in his witless body mounted unbearably.
He must be one of those men Pater mentioned—as randy as his unprincipled stallion. He ought to do as she asked and set her down right here, right now, in the middle of this field, ride away and not look back. She was precisely the sort of female he wished to avoid.
“And I suppose lisping little Miss Devious Dunworthy will make the perfect mother for your children?”
Dear God, no. He nearly choked on the idea.
She shuddered in his arms. Apparently the thought appalled her as much as it did him.
He hadn’t thought about sons. His sons. How dare she make him think about such things? She was worse than Pater.
Still she prattled on at him. “...a perfectly respectful request. The least you could do, as a gentleman, is honor it and put me down this instant. I have no wish to travel further with you in the intimate confines of this horse—”
“Intimate confines?” he laughed. “We’re on horseback in the middle of the open countryside. There are any number of shepherds acting as chaperone. Not to mention Aunt Honore is probably in one of the upstairs windows this very minute with a spyglass trained on us. Hardly intimate.”
She glanced nervously in the direction of the manor. “Be that as it may, you have expressed such a strong aversion to my character that rather than annoy you with my presence, I would prefer you set me down.”
Oh, he’d like to give her a set down, all right. One she’d never forget.
She did annoy him, far more than she realized. And in ways she’d never suspect. “I have a better idea.” He gripped her tighter and wheeled Hercules. The sudden movement jarred Izzie. She nearly let go of the sack, hanging onto it with one hand and clutching his thigh in a frantic attempt to steady herself. He laughed again out of sheer orneriness, and let the stallion run.
“What in heaven’s name—” She gripped his leg tighter as they galloped toward the hill. When they jumped a low rock border, she yelped. His bothersome conscience chided him for frightening her. So he slowed the pace. They were climbing the hill anyway.
Once she caught her breath, she started in on him. “I demand you put me down!”
“You said you wished to see the old ruins. I am simply doing my duty as an obliging host.”
She tentatively let go of his leg, dusting it off on her skirt. “You might have mentioned. It is customary to give a person warning before—”
“Lady Elizabeth, do you ever cease scolding?”
She fell silent as they climbed the hill. One would think he would enjoy a reprieve from her tongue, but Valen found the silence irritating. He would much rather know what she was thinking—thorns and all.
Much of the stone from the old keep had been carted away to build the new manor, or tenant’s huts, sheep holds, or field borders. All that remained was a collapsing maze of walls, most of which were no taller than Valen’s shoulder. It was a
