Page 130 of Harpy of the Ton
She glanced up at Lawrence, her heart swelling with pride.
He seemed despondent—and had been the past week. Perhaps he feared the prospect of dinner with people who ranked so far above them.
“Is something troubling you?” she asked.
He let out a sigh and met her gaze.
“It is, isn’t it?” she said. “You were silent for the whole journey over. Did you fear the Trelawneys wouldn’t like the garden?”
“They like it.”
She smiled. “I never doubted it—I know what a talented, hardworking man you are.”
If anything, her words seemed to pain him more.
She took his hand. “Perhaps you’re apprehensive over what is to come.”
He drew in a sharp breath. What was wrong with him?
“There’s nothing to worry about,” she said. “I overheard one of the guests tell Mr. Trelawney that he’d like to commission you to redesign his garden. This could be the start of something wonderful—our future.”
“Perhaps.”
“I have every faith in you, my love,” she said.
“I don’t deserve you, Bella.”
“Nonsense!” She laughed. “This garden’syourcreation. I only drew a few sketches.Youbrought it to life.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “There’s something I must tell you—but I fear you’ll not like it.”
“Do you love me, Lawrence?”
His eyes widened. “Of course I do! Are you in any doubt?”
“Then, my love, let us set any troubles aside and enjoy today, together.”
He blinked, slowly, then let out a sigh. “What have I done to even begin to deserve you?”
“You’ve loved me, Lawrence,” she said. “With your love, I can weather anything.”
“Thereyou are, Baxter!” a male voice cried.
A portly man in a charcoal-gray jacket and cream breeches hurried toward them.
“Good man, you must settle an argument between my wife and myself. She tells me that the shrubs surrounding the columns in the Grecian garden flower in the winter. But I said no plant could flower when it’s so cold. Would you oblige us and settle our argument? I can take you to her now if I may be permitted to steal you from Mrs. Baxter.”
He bowed to Bella. “Sir Henshingly Speakman, at your service. We live half a mile away. Our garden’s smaller than Trelawney’s, but I’d be much obliged if your husband could take a look at it—my wife’s quite taken with the work you’ve done here.”
Lawrence glanced at Bella, and she withdrew her arm. “Go, my love,” she said. “I’ve a mind to find somewhere quiet.”
“I’ll join you as soon as I can,” Lawrence said. He kissed her forehead, then followed Sir Henshingly through an archway and disappeared.
Bella let out a sigh of relief. The incessant chatter and cries of enthusiasm fostered her pride in her husband, but the afternoon was unusually hot for autumn, and her head ached. Each expression of enthusiasm cut through her senses like a knife, and while Lady Speakman was pleasant enough, she talked a little too loudly, a little too much, and on matters on which she had no knowledge.
A path led away from the main party, and she took it, making her way to a bench situated at the foot of a yew tree, half hidden in the shade. Drawing her shawl around her shoulders, she sat and leaned back, closing her eyes while she listened to the rush of the wind through the trees and the birdsong against the backdrop of distant chatter.
Occasional footsteps came and went as guests continued exploring the garden. Then another set of footsteps approached—heavier, more determined. They drew nearer, then stopped.
