Page 53 of Never a Duke
Rosalind had questions about all of it—the literary services, the parasols, and the baskets—and Ned soon found himself talking of a widows’ consortium, where the basket enterprise and the florists cooperated, and the literary ladies and those running a subscription library collaborated as well.
Ned took a turning that led into an orchard and brought the horse to a halt. The cherries were at their peak bloom, and the apples would follow soon after.
“My lady, will this spot do?”
“Splendidly.” Rosalind hopped down and took charge of the blankets, leaving the violin case and hamper to Ned.
“Artie,” Ned said, “take the horse back to the village at a walk, and I do mean a walk. Not a trot, not a canter. The hostlers at the livery will put him up for you, and you can grab a pint and a pie at the inn. You will come back for us in two hours, not one moment before. Questions?”
Artie scrambled onto the bench. “You want me to drive him?” He sounded half pleased and half terrified.
“You’ll have little traffic to contend with this far from Town,” Ned said. “The lane is wide enough that you can turn without having to back up, and there’s only the one horse to manage. If you’re not ready for the challenge—”
Artie unwrapped the reins. “I’m ready. We’ll be fine, won’t we, Hamlet?”
The horse flicked an ear.
“Walk on,” Ned said. “Hamlet needs to cool out, and then he’s earned some hay and water.”
Artie turned the vehicle in a wide, slow circle and was soon headed back in the direction of the last village.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him sitting up straighter,” Ned said. “And the choice of picnic spot goes to the lady.”
Rosalind gave the matter serious consideration and eventually settled on a location some yards from the road, on the far side of a grassy bank that led down to a burbling rivulet. She spread the blankets and opened the hamper, then commenced unlacing her boots.
“Getting comfortable, my lady?”
“We have only two hours of privacy, Ned Wentworth. Join me on this blanket or I’ll know the reason why.”
He sat, letting the peace and quiet sink into him. Across the stream, a hedge of honeysuckle was beginning to flower. London might have been on the other side of the earth, and the road miles off.
“We have both wine and cider,” Ned said, “Which shall I open and how will you explain an absence of several hours to your family?”
Rosalind passed him the bottle of cider. “I am driving with you in the park and then enlisting your aid on a shopping expedition.”
“You are not a shopping-expedition sort, are you?” Ned extracted the cork and passed Rosalind the bottle.
She regarded him curiously, then took a pull directly from the bottle and passed it back. “That is good. Has a tingle to it.”
“It’s hard cider, you mean.” Ned took a drink and had to agree. The flavor was excellent, a good balance between tart and sweet, much like the sight of Lady Rosalind Kinwood, drinking straight from the bottle.
“Why all the widows, Ned?” she asked, undoing her bonnet ribbons. “I know you also invest in enterprises run by men, but you seem inordinately willing to give widows your backing.”
He could shrug off the question with bankerly prattle about diversifying a portfolio or some such rot. Instead, he gave his answer honestly.
“My mother was all but widowed when my father was hauled into the navy’s clutches. She was skilled with a needle, but a seamstress can’t earn what a tailor earns. She tried everything, even considered remarrying, but the only viable prospect did not get on well with my brother and me, and…eventually, she was just too exhausted and ill to keep trying. She could not fight both consumption and the Royal Navy’s cruelty.”
Rosalind set her bonnet next to her boots. “Coat off, Mr. Wentworth. The day is warm, and you won’t scandalize me.”
Ned pulled off his boots and shrugged out of his coat, though such dishabille was, of course, scandalous in the extreme—also delightfully comfortable.
“To speak of what my mother went through, on a day as lovely as this, in company as lovely as this, ought to be forbidden.”
“Why?” Rosalind said, turning her face up to the dappled sunshine. “If you cannot speak of it to me, then I am a poor sort of friend, aren’t I?”
Ned did not discuss those topics with his Wentworth family. “My small investment projects at the bank are regarded with amused tolerance, but Rosalind, if England prospers, it’s precisely because we are a nation of shopkeepers and yeomen. Those who have little become resilient and wily, or they soon have nothing. And yet, we allow those who have always had much to run our nation. This puzzles me.”
She regarded his boots, arranged next to her shorter, prettier footwear. “Are you a radical, then?”
