Page 3 of The Curious Story of the Missing Lady
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As she descended the staircase, she realised with extreme consternation that someone had filled her stomach with a thousand hot moths with tiny fans. But she was resolute. Lord Oliver was waiting for her, and she would give herself to him freely. All the better, for she knew her parents disapproved of the man.
Perhaps disapproved was the wrong word. They merely approved some more than him. There was Lord Benjamin Sutton, Earl of Chatham, for instance. How they fawned over him when he came to court her. Papa was never more in earnest in the presence of a fellow Earl.
Lord Chatham was a sweet man. Handsome, even dashing in a way. But he was missing ... something. What was it? And why couldn’t Mama and Papa see that? And why couldn’t they see that she just couldn’t bring herself to want him as much as they?
His back was turned to her when she entered the library. Papa’s face lit up when he caught sight of her. And then Lord Oliver turned around.
Her heart leapt in her chest as if it was trying to catch the breath that left before it.
He was as captivating as ever. There was the jaw like stone, cut from a rare source and rounded lovingly with a deft hand. And then the full lips that were ripe for kissing – how she blushed at such a thought! – and his straight back and the broad expanse of it like an inverted triangle. The one arm bent behind it, reserved, strong, and fisted. He smiled at her, and his lips curled slightly more on one side than the other – funny how she’d never noticed it before. She noticed it now, for his neatly trimmed moustache – the colour of honey – moved ever so slightly as if winking on its own – and suddenly all pretense of poise left her, and she felt herself near swooning at the mere sight of him.
“Lady Madeline,” he said, his voice like dark silk.
“Lord Oliver,” she squeaked. God, not her voice! Not now!
The small falter seemed to delight him, as he turned fully to face her, his face beaming.
Papa’s head tilted upward. “Erm, Lord Oliver and I were just discussing this business involving Mr John Bellingham’s execution.”
“Ghastly,” Lady Madeline said breezily, her eyes trained on Lord Oliver. His eyes, she thought,they are endless – light brown in hue, and yet deep with many mysteries.
“Well,” said Lord Oliver, “we shouldn’t weaken the lady’s constitution with such talk. Speaking of talking, as a matter of fact, Lord Stamford, I should like to take a walk with your daughter through your lovely garden and have a chat of our own. After all, it has been some time since I’ve last been here, and what stories of gallant exploits there must be of the goings-on at Aspendale.” He cast a winking glance at Papa, who returned it with a smile.
“Of course,” said Papa. “And I’m sure Lisbelle is available to chaperone.”
“Well,” said Madeline, “I should be only too glad to escort you through the gardens, but I’m afraid there are no tales to tell, save for Papa’s gallant efforts to learn the intricacies of chess.”
“Oh, Madeline,” said her father, Lord Stamford, “no sense in revealing the family shame!”
They laughed as Lord Oliver extended an arm, and Lady Madeline took it, and they strode out of the room – she on air, he as grounded and sure as a steed.
Chapter 2
“It’s wheat,” said Lady Madeline.
Lord Oliver screwed up his face at her. “Are you sure?”
“I live here, don't I?” she said with a laugh. “Papa insists we plant a few stalks every year. It’s on the coat of arms.”
“You don’t say.”
“You haven’t seen it. I’m surprised. You’ve been here often enough.”
“I guess I always missed it. I was ... somewhat distracted on every one of my visits, you must know.”
She turned her head as she felt her face flush.
They strode through the garden, Lisbelle following far enough away not to intrude, but close enough to hear every word.
“At any rate,” Lord Oliver added, “you must show it to me when we return to the house.”
“And I will,” she said. “The Whitcombes are a proud family, Lord Oliver, you ought to know that. We pride ourselves on our ability to provide, hence the wheat on the coat of arms. The crest is hanging in the great hall. I’ll show it to you when we return to the house. It’s a boar emerging from a patch of wheat and gillyflowers. Flanking the boar is a sword and a torch. The boar indicates a fierce warrior, and yet it is the protector, and a generous one. The motto isverum sit ex igni—”
“Out of fire, let there be truth,” said Lord Oliver.
She smiled. “Precisely.”
