Page 55 of The Design of Dukes (The Beautiful Barringtons 2)

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Two more days of this bloody house party and we can return to London.

Granby hadn’t spoken one word to her since kissing her in the woods. The remainder of their walk back to The Barrow, after running into Carstairs and his wife, had been completed in an awkward, extended silence. Just as he had predicted. He’d waited until they had arrived at the fresco of Hercules in the gardens before discarding her with a polite bow, then jogged up the steps to greet Haven, who was sitting on the terrace.

Romy had flopped down on a stone bench, staring at a shrub with waxy leaves, one hand pressed to her stomach, trying to stanch her ever growing confusion over the situation. Theo found her there, worried she was still wandering about on the lawn somewhere, sketching a day dress. She’d hurried her in the side entrance of The Barrow, asking why Romy had grass stains on her skirt and where she’d left her shawl.

“I suppose the gypsies have my shawl now,” she had answered as Theo shook her head.

The shawl had been left back at the stream. Perhaps if any gypsies were bold enough to invade the land of the Duke of Granby, they would find it.

She blamed Granby. Not just for the shawl, but also for the ache in her heart which refused to go away. It was worse now. Because he’d kissed her.

The source of Romy’s confusion had spent each of the last few days squiring Lady Beatrice Howard about, politely listening to Lady Foxwood and, in general, blatantly ignoring Romy’s presence. If she stepped into a room, a few moments later, he gave an excuse and left. At breakfast, he lifted the paper in her direction so he wouldn’t have to look at her. His eyes never made it as far down the dinner table as she sat.

She was very close to disliking Granby again. Romy dug in her heels.

Theo, meanwhile, was enjoying herself immensely. Blythe divided his attention between Meredith, Theo, and the very thrilled Lady Mildred, who had apparently given up in her pursuit of Estwood. He squired the three women about, spouting off amusing stories and telling jokes. Mildred’s laughter, reminiscent of a braying mule, filled the halls of The Barrow.

Blythewasincredibly charming.

Lucy Waterstone avoided her father, floating about the edges of the drawing room begging to go unnoticed. Rosalind sulked and tried to pretend the disinterest of Lord Torrington didn’t bother her.

Romy thought the earl was playing things smartly. She’d caught him admiring Rosalind when her cousin wasn’t looking.

Haven grumbled about, a glass of scotch clutched in one hand keeping him company. Romy noticed he wore yet another new coat, a bit snug in the shoulders just like the first; it was likely also borrowed from Blythe.

It was all so bloody civilized.

On the second day, unable to tolerate another snide look from the Foxwoods or ignore Waterstone’s treatment of Lucy, Romy had taken a walk, after which she meant to take a tray in her room. She took the path once more, unsurprised to find herself back at the stream where Granby had kissed her. Luckily, her shawl was still there, sitting amid the flowers. She had bent to pick it up, then promptly flopped down in the grass, her mind filled with all the ways one kiss could change a person, namely her, in such a profound way.

Now, today, with the end of the week in sight, Romy bestowed a smile at Lucy as the carriage lurched forward on the last of the excursions planned by their hostess.

Lady Molsin had arranged for the guests to be taken to the site of a line of barrows which had been the attention of much scientific speculation some years ago. The very same area Estwood had spoken of to Romy during dinner the first night. There was to be a picnic and then the guests could explore, admire the view, or converse for the better part of the day.

Or avoid guests whom you had kissed, as Granby was certain to do to her.

She pushed away the longing she felt for him, determined to enjoy the brilliant sunlit day and the company of Lucy Waterstone. Enough time had been spent reliving the kiss by the stream. There were other things which required Romy’s attention, namely assurance that the tailor, Silas, had been taken care of. And dear Lucy, who had wilted under her father’s oppressive presence.

Romy shared the carriage not only with Lucy, Lady Mildred and Mr. Estwood, but with their hostess, Lady Molsin. For the entire duration of the house party, Lady Molsin had been in the constant company of either Lady Foxwood, Cousin Winnie, or Lady Meredith’s aunt. When Lady Molsin had climbed into the carriage, she’d taken the seat directly across from Romy.

Theo, Lady Meredith, Rosalind and Beatrice were in the carriage behind them, sitting across from Blythe, Granby and Haven. Lord Torrington shared the final carriage with Lord and Lady Carstairs and Lord and Lady Foxwood.

To everyone’s relief, Mr. Waterstone declined to attend the picnic.

The passing scenery of rolling hills was lovely as they traveled the short distance from Granby’s estate. Mr. Estwood, who was an expert on such things, informed the group in the carriage of the difference between round barrows and long barrows and their use as burial mounds. Estwood went on to explain that many scholars had once believed the Vikings were responsible for the barrows, or possibly the Romans, but more recent exploration pointed to a much earlier origin. It was thought the area they approached had held some religious significance to the ancient tribes who’d once inhabited this part of England.

“Is the Duke of Granby’s estate, then, actually built on a grave?” Lady Mildred’s brows raised. “It is called The Barrow, after all.”

“I think it the proximity to such places which gave His Grace’s estate the name,” Mr. Estwood assured her. “There was a keep there, built during the time when England faced all sorts of invaders. Our ancestors were a superstitious lot and would not have placed their castle on any sort of burial mound.”

“A pity,” Romy said without thinking.

Estwood grinned at her. “How so, my lady?”

“It only seems fitting, Mr. Estwood, for His Grace to actually liveona barrow.” Romy bit her lip, hoping she hadn’t offended Lady Molsin.

“I quite agree,” Granby’s aunt said.

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