Page 27 of Blame It on the Earl (The Duke's Estates 3)

For now, she would pretend to be contented, Sarah decided. That would annoy Lady Trestan. Which she should not want to do. But she did. The elder Pendrennons must not know how lost she felt.

Her friend Charlotte always said that Sarah was the worst liar in the world. In their schoolgirl schemes, Sarah was never given the role of dissembler. Well, she could learn, Sarah thought. She’d always been very good atthat. She would learn whatever was required to make her marriage succeed. Kenver deserved happiness too. Indeed, as she saw it, their happiness was intertwined, a braid of two strands. And she didn’t think his parents cared much about either. Her jaw set with determination. She would be glad to find she was wrong about that, but she didn’t think she was.

Sarah went to the half-full trunk, retrieved a favorite book, a reliable friend, and crawled into bed with it rather than her new husband.

The next morning, Kenver lay in wait until Sarah appeared from her room. Thankfully, it wasn’t late. He was an early riser and didn’t care to dawdle away the day. When she hesitated at the door of the breakfast room, he said, “Mama takes a tray in her room. And Papa will not be down for a little while.”

They went in and rang for tea.

“Do you ride?” Kenver asked her as they ate. He had a moment’s worry. If she didn’t, his plans would have to change.

But Sarah said, “Yes. Not as well as my friend Charlotte. I don’t care for jumping.”

He smiled at her. “Noted. I’ve none of that planned. But I usually spend part of each day out on the estate. I wondered if you would care to come along.”

“Yes,” said Sarah at once.

They were both aware that she didn’t wish to stay at Poldene alone, and Kenver realized that he didn’t much like that himself. In recent years, he’d formed a habit of roaming the countryside for hours with just a packet of bread and cheese in his saddlebag. That habit had taken him to Tintagel on one fateful day, as a matter of fact, and changed his life.

“I’ll go and put on my riding habit,” she added. “Shall I meet you in the stables?”

“Unless you wish me to come and wait.” In the corridor outside his mother’s chamber, which would be uncomfortable.

Sarah seemed to read his mind. She shook her head. “I won’t be long.”

She was such a sensitive creature, Kenver thought. It was remarkable. “I’ll go and choose a horse for you.”

“It needn’t be a slug, as Charlotte would say. I ride fairly well.”

“A mount with some spirit but no tendency to sudden leaps.”

She smiled at him. Such an easy, open smile. Kenver felt a tug in the region of his heart. Among all the other things he longed for, he wanted to inspire that smile as often as he possibly could.

They rode down the drive before Poldene side by side. If anyone was watching from the windows, Sarah didn’t see them. Kenver had given her a lovely little mare who frisked with joy at the outing. Her good-tempered capering made Sarah laugh. “All right?” asked Kenver.

“Perfect,” she replied.

The day was overcast. Fat clouds drifted across the sky on a cool breeze from the sea. The scent of fresh-mown hay came from fields inland. Sarah breathed it in and felt her spirits lift in freedom. When they turned into the lane outside the grounds, she leaned forward and let the mare have her head for a run. Kenver pounded along beside her, grinning.

Reaching the village at the head of the valley, they slowed. Kenver nodded greetings to an old woman and a young mother holding a baby. Most of the people would be out helping with the harvest at this time of year, Sarah knew. One middle-aged man was not, however. He stood by a thatched cottage leaning on a tall staff. When he raised a hand, Kenver turned toward him. “No, don’t get down,” the man said when Kenver started to dismount.

“I don’t want to keep you standing.”

“I can easily do so,” was the reply. In the accents of an educated man, not a rural villager.

This seemed to be a sore point, Sarah noted as Kenver let it go. “This is Ralph Stovell,” he said to her. “The village schoolmaster. Stovell, my wife.”

As she thrilled a little to the new label, Sarah saw awareness of their story in the man’s blue eyes, with no sign of condemnation. She also thought she saw lingering pain in their depths.

“I had a letter from Dellings,” Stovell said. “He’s pleased with John’s enthusiasm and application. Predicts great things for him. Says the lad’s growing out of all his clothes, however.”

Kenver took a leather pouch from his coat pocket, unlaced the strings, and extracted a guinea coin. He handed it to Stovell. The man nodded in acknowledgment, then stepped back as if he had no more to say. Kenver put the pouch away, and they rode on.

“It’s unusual to have a trained schoolmaster in a small village,” Sarah said when they had left the cottages behind.

“He appreciates a quiet life. He was hurt rather badly in the war.”

“His leg?” She’d noticed how he leaned on the staff.

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