Page 30 of An Arranged Marriage with a Cruel Earl
Andrew let out a sigh. He wished it was that simple. He had to know her to trust her—just a little, at least—and in getting to know her, he was already falling for her. He knew it. He tried to lie to himself, but he knew what those long pauses when he thought about her meant. He knew why he fell asleep trying to imagine conversations and why he woke up wishing she was in the room.
She already had found a way to his heart.
He drew a breath to speak, but just then, a man on foot approached.
“Lord Neville?”
“Yes. I am he,” Neville said with just a touch of swagger.
“I am Mr Rellford, my lord. Chief mason, at your service, my lord.”
“Ah. Good morning, Mr Rellford,” Neville greeted politely. “I believe you and your men have ably completed the wall. I would like to see it. My friend will accompany us. He is the Earl of Rilendale.”
“Ah. Good morning, my lord,” the mason greeted, touching his forelock. The gesture was a little peremptory, as if he greeted noblemen often and was tired of it.
Andrew could not help being amused and he rode slowly along behind Neville as they went to inspect the wall.
He rode with Neville to the premises, but while Neville and the mason chatted, he found himself longing to ride back to the manor. He was relieved when Neville turned his horse and rode back to where he waited by a spreading oak tree.
“All right, old chap, let’s get back. Do drop in for tea...you must be hungry.”
“No. Thank you, Neville, but I’m quite all right,” Andrew assured him. “I must ride home.”
“Of course, of course, Andrew,” Neville said reasonably.
They rode back to Neville’s home in companionable silence.
Andrew rode on the remaining few miles to Rilendale. He found himself thinking of Emmeline as he rode, imagining what it might be like to show her around the grounds. He had almost made up his mind that he was going to do so. As he rode up the carriage path, he frowned. There was a coach drawn up outside the house. That was odd, since he almost never received any callers. They might be friends from the nearby estate, he reminded himself. Grandma often went to have tea there, and perhaps she had visitors for tea.
He rode closer.
As he neared the coach, his brow creased in a frown. There was a faded crest painted on the door of the carriage; one he distantly recognised. The family whose crest it was did not come back to his mind, however, and he dismounted from his horse, walking past the coach. As he did so, the door opened.
“Andrew! Cousin! How grand to see you!” A man called out to him.
Andrew stared. The man who had just alighted and was now assisting a finely dressed woman out of the coach was tall and dark-haired with a firm jaw, long nose and dark eyes. The sight of him stirred a memory—a youth of about seventeen, with the same straight brown hair, long oval face, and a distinctly smug expression in those deep, shadowed eyes. It was Cousin Ambrose.
“Cousin?” Andrew frowned, feeling slightly uneasy. “What brings you here?” His cousins had not visited for over a decade. Ambrose’s father had been the younger brother of Andrew’s father, but the two brothers had quarrelled bitterly years ago over some disagreement Andrew knew nothing about. Ambrose and his sister, Lydia, had called on them a few times when Andrew was a boy, just to visit Grandma and Grandpa. The last time Andrew had seen Ambrose, he was fourteen, and Ambrose was seventeen. Now he was eight-and-twenty, and Ambrose must be over thirty.
“A visit,” Ambrose said smoothly. “We wished to call on Grandmother. It has been years since we saw her, and... well... there might not be many more opportunities.” He looked down sadly.
Andrew stared. Grandma had indeed fallen recently, but she was not unwell. The mere suggestion, however subtle, that she might not have much time left struck him with unexpected heaviness. His throat tightened.
“Come in,” he said, his voice thick with unspoken emotion. “She will be most pleased to see you.” That much was certainly true—in all of his memories, Grandma had delighted in all of her grandchildren. “And my lady...?” Andrew asked, turning to the lady who stood by the coach. She had thick dark hair and hazel eyes, a long, slim neck and elegantly manicured hands. She wore a dress in scarlet silk.
“You must remember my sister, Lydia?” Ambrose asked. Andrew’s face flushed.
“Of course. Of course, Lydia. Delighted to see you, of course.” He bowed low. Lydia, lifting those hazel eyes to his face, dropped a low curtsey.
“A pleasure to see you, my lord.”
Andrew swallowed hard. “Please call me Andrew,” he said at once. His cousins were the children of a baron, and, as such, Lydia’s title was “the honourable Miss Randell.” Her brother had inherited the barony on the passing of their father a few years ago. He was Lord Epworth.
“Very well. Andrew.” Lydia smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s just as it was when we were children.” She gazed around the manor. Andrew tensed. They had not seen the manor in fourteen years. When they had last seen it, Grandpa had been alive and, though the funds had still been limited, the garden had not been so overgrown, and the west wing had not been off limits for being structurally unsound. He looked at his boots and then looked up.
“Much has changed in the years since,” he said softly.
“Much has changed indeed,” Ambrose said with a fleeting smile. “We have all grown up, for a start. Is that not so?” He smiled at his sister. Lydia smiled at Andrew; a dazzling smile.
