Page 41 of The Marchioness Who Tempted Fate
“That is true, I suppose,” his uncle agreed. “Better this than wasting your blunt at the racetracks, I suppose. Though, in the long run, I think there is little difference in betting on a fast horse or betting on whether a child will turn into a decent lady or gentleman.”
“An interesting way of looking at it,” Percival observed. “Well, I would prefer to lay my bets on the general good that can be found in human nature rather than the speed and training of a racehorse.”
“If you can find good in human nature, then you are doing very well,” Lord Ronald observed. “Personally, I prefer dogs.”
Percival shook his head at this sally, and laughed. But in his heart, there was a little prickle of sadness.
Is this the uncle upon whose judgement I relied? Surely it is. He is only worried about me, nothing more.
Chapter 27
At the end of three days, Lord Ronald departed. The household breathed a collective sigh of relief. No one had been turned off, and although uncle and nephew had engaged in verbal sparring, they seemed to part on good terms.
On Thursday, Lord Northbury again took up instructing Tiffany in French and Latin. She found the day’s lesson more entertaining than usual for it involved identifying and unraveling the names of plants. Their text wasDe Materia Medica, by Dioscorides. It had been translated from the Greek, for which Tiffany was heartily thankful. At least she was not having to learn a new alphabet.
In fact, even though the topic was one in which she was interested, she found that her attention kept wandering from the lesson to the teacher.
Impossibly long, dark eyelashes were downward swept, partially concealing his dark, hazel eyes as he read the Latin passage describing a carrot. He had run his hand through his hair several times, and it now its usually neat waves stood up in wild swirls over the top of his head and fell across his wide brow.
“Miss Bentley.” The Marquess paused in his reading and looked directly into her eyes. “Tiffany, have you heard a single word that I have said?”
Tiffany gave herself a mental shake and replied, “Carrots are green and have lacy tops?”
Lord Northbury laughed. “Almost. Maybe this might make more sense if we go out into the garden and look at some carrots.”
“And perhaps have some to eat?” Tiffany suggested eagerly, for it was long past teatime.
“We’ll have to ask the gardener about that,” Lord Northbury said.
“But, you are the Marquess. You are Lord Northbury,” she protested. “Surely you can decide whether we should eat a carrot or not?”
“I am the Marquess, that is true,” he replied gravely, although a slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes suggested that he was laughing at her. “But not even a Marquess can dictate when a carrot is ready to pick. Because I am rather fond of them, we shall certainly ask the gardener before withdrawing any from the ground.”
Tiffany laughed. “Very clever observation, My Lord.”
“Percival,” he reminded her. “We are alone, learning together, so here I am Percival. But, perhaps I should be ‘My Lord’ when we are in the garden. You never know when the robins or sparrows might start gossiping.”
Tiffany could not help herself. She covered her mouth with both hands, trying to hold back the mirth.
“Funny, is it? I’ll have you know that birds twitter and tweet all sorts of things to each other all the time.”
“I can just see them, My Lord, I mean Percival. Lady Robin peers through her lorgnette at Lady Sparrow and says, ‘Do you know what I heard? That street urchin was calling Lord Northbury by his given name, the hussy!’ And Lord Robin observes, ‘What is the world coming to?’”
Percival winked at her and said, “Did I not say that they were terrible gossips? We shall be as proper as can be whilst inspecting the carrots.”
When they arrived at the rows of carrots, which it just so happened that the head gardener was painstakingly weeding, it was quite clear that the tiny plants were not ready to be picked. But they passed the time of day, inquiring after the state of the garden.
“Now, these here are just babies,” the old gardener said. “But if you’ll come over here, some o’ these are nigh ready. I don’t know about you, My Lord, Miss Bentley, but I’m right partial to new carrots.” He reached down and gently loosened, then pulled two young carrots. “O’ course, no one wants ta eat ‘em straight outa tha ground, but if you’ll come over here…”
The gardener led the way to a pump that stood at the edge of the garden. He worked the handle a moment or two, then water came gushing forth to spill into a wooden raceway that led to an irrigation ditch. While the water poured, he scrubbed the carrots, revealing two slender orange vegetables with feathery green tops. He handed one each to Percival and Tiffany.
Tiffany nibbled pensively at the narrow end of the young carrot. The flavor was delicate and sweet, very carroty, but not as strong as the ones usually found at the market. She watched as Percival crunched away at his carrot, his eyes half lidded with enjoyment. A wave of something indescribable washed over her.
What is wrong with me? Next thing you know, I’ll be preening the feathers on my breast, expecting him to drop a wing and start strutting.
To cover her confusion, she turned to the gardener. “These are delicious. How do you know when they are ready to pick?”
The gardener promptly launched into a description of size of top, and whether the shoulders that appeared above ground were green or orange. She tried to keep her mind on what the gardener was saying, for she had a feeling that she would be required to recite pertinent information when they returned to the little office.
