Page 95 of Better Love Next Time
“You know I don’t ride,” Clara said with owlish eyes. “Let us take the coach.”
“We cannot. We must cut through the fields to arrive in time. I will lead you if you are afraid. But I must have a chaperone.”
Without another word, Clara fetched Kitty’s riding habit of dark rose wool while Kitty pinned her hair with shaking hands. She could hardly believe the earl’s temperate and unguarded words. The countess had relayed her suitability. She had wanted Kitty for her own son.
Kitty rose from the dressing table and wasted no time dressing. If she didn’t meet the earl and countess, in seven days or sooner, Julian’s parents would arrive at Notfelle and Sir Jeffrey would know her plans to marry a cursed St. Clair.
Kitty led Clara’s horse as they followed the liveried groom through a less-traveled path shaded by birch. On arriving at the George Inn, ten minutes late, Kitty had offered the earl’s letter to a wary groom who had, after confirming her identity, provided a letter from the earl, with the same seal and script, explaining that he had removed to a nearby stream to catch fish, afternoon being a splendid time for angling. He hoped she would join him and the countess.
The earl’s definition of nearby was at least three miles of skirting the river and weaving through fields and woods.
“Kitty,” Clara whispered beside her. “I am uncomfortable with this.”
What was the worst Julian’s parents could do? Call her out as a lowly baronet’s daughter intent on… what? Julian had no fortune or title and Father Dunlevy had amassed a dowry for her of ten thousand. Which Julian refused to take, but still, she was a respectable match for a second son.
Amidst a slight rise shaded by poplar with a willow swaying and water babbling in the near distance, the groom dismounted.The afternoon was overcast, the chill more October than June. A sweet, almost sinister scent floated on the southeast wind.
The groom assisted Kitty from the saddle and offered his arm.
Kitty walked to Clara, a petrified rock in a saddle. It had taken a quarter hour to get her governess atop her placid horse with a mounting block. If Clara dismounted and without the aid of a mounting block to get her back on, they might be forced to walk home. “You stay on the horse and wait where I leave you.”
Taking the lead line, Kitty climbed the rise and tucked the lead in Clara’s saddle. She turned with a breath and any fears abated at the bucolic scene before her. A flowing stream reflected the steel-grey sky, a blanket spread out with a picnic and two footmen awaiting his lord and lady’s pleasure. A woman’s laugh tinkled behind a distant copse. Directly in front of her, a man with black hair, grey at his temples, held a fishing rod, standing boldly in a clump of reeds in an olive coat and breeches covering well-formed limbs.
Farther down the stream, another man, hulking in stature, unhooked a trusting fish and stuffed it in a basket.
The man in the olive suit turned around. His arms lifted in welcome as he strode toward her. “Ah, Miss Babbington! I prayed you had not decided to spurn me.”
The Earl of Tindall appeared so much like Julian it was difficult to breathe. His dark eyes, the strong nose. Even the large, lean hands that held the rod were Julian’s.
She found herself forming random phrases in her brain, none of which made sense, some of fishing, most about Julian, all of which would do little to recommend her.
She curtsied. “My lord, I apologize for the delay. And appreciate the courtesy you have shown in having your groom escort me here.”
“Rest easy, Miss Babbington,” he said with a smile. Not like Julian’s. Colder, she thought, tighter. “I am but a man intent on meeting my son’s beloved.” He winked. Not like Julian. “And catch some trout along the way.”
“And Lady Tindall?”
The earl cast a glance to the copse where Kitty had heard laughter. “Jane! Come, my dear. Miss Babbington has arrived!”
“One moment, dear. I almost have him!” The countess’s voice was higher-pitched than she remembered but then, they had spoken in polite tones at Julian’s birthday party.
The earl rolled his dark eyes. “She is more an enthusiast than I am. Care to join?”
“No, my lord. I prefer to watch.”
“I won’t hear of it. One hasn’t lived until they have known the exhilaration of hooking a beauty.”
Who would have known the Earl and Countess of Tindall held an enthusiasm for plucking trout from streams?
He marched her toward the river, opining on a certain Mr. Walton who had written a book about angling, pointing to a tome as they passed the picnic blanket. The rods were grey because Mr. Walton had said so.
The earl guided her past the other man still fishing, toward the willow tree. At the water’s edge, he held up his rod. “Look here, see how I finesse the line.”
All seriousness in his country attire, Julian’s father began to move the rod back and forth whilst pulling on the silken line. She was supposed to be a fly. Or the little piece of fluff at the end was. But she was to think like a fly, particularly a yellow fly, which was the obligatory bait for the month of June.
“The fly only skims the water,” he said. “Are you listening to me?”
His imperious tone struck her as out of place to the character he had presented. This would soon be a disaster if she did notapply herself to the requirements at hand, chiefly that she be a biddable pupil.
