Page 44 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

Roger’s heart soared. In the face of this confirmation, none of the rest mattered. Old news. Water under the bridge. “Yes.” His exultant tone brought a slight smile to her lips. “If only I hadn’t been a fool back then,” he continued. “But that was rather my forte, wasn’t it?”

She gave him a questioning look.

“I made such a point of refusing to marry you. I railed at my father. Told him he had no idea what he was doing. Was a perfect young ass, in short. I didn’t want him to think I’d been wrong.” Even though he had been, manifestly.

“How to bear the smugness,” she said, nodding. “And the I-told-you-so’s.”

“Precisely. And when I began to suspect that I might have been wrong, I ran off to London rather than consider that fact.” If only he hadn’t, Roger thought. How different his life might be right now.

“Because of me.”

Fenella looked down and away, a shadow passing over her expression. Her jaw tightened. What had he said to make her angry?

“I didn’t send you to London,” she said.

She used the tone that had charged their jousting in recent months. She thought he was still blaming her, Roger saw; just shifting from one cause to another. Not the ride in the rain, but the trip to town. But he hadn’t meant that. Why would she think so? In an unusual flash of insight, he realized that she was accustomed to being blamed for all manner of things. Her father was continually doing it. “No. That wasnotwhat I meant.” It came out forceful, but he didn’t care. “I chose to go.”

She looked at him, eyebrows raised.

“I decided to leave. For my own reasons.” It actually felt rather good to say this. And to believe it. He hated feeling that he was at the mercy of other people’s actions. He wasn’t! “However wrongheaded my conclusions might have been,” he added with a wry smile.

The warmth in his expression left Fenella shaken. She’d been braced for blame. She knew how to dismiss unjust accusations, taught by those her father had been tossing at her for as long as she could remember. But not to have to. That was another matter entirely. Relief was a pale word. Her throat thickened with tears.

She looked away to hide them, blinked them back. Their horses had ambled along at their own direction while their riders talked, and she saw that they’d veered closer to Clough House. Before them lay a dip in the land that was filled with bushes. “The raspberry thicket,” said Fenella. “I used to come here and pick berries whenever I could sneak away. How Mama scolded me for spoiling my dresses! But I couldn’t resist. I love raspberries.”

“I’ll pick some for you.”

“The thorns will tear your clothes.”

“No, they won’t. You can sit in the shade over there.” He turned his horse toward a cluster of saplings at the side of the thicket, grinning over his shoulder. An antic mood seemed to have overtaken him.

The breeze carried the scent of sun-warmed raspberries. Fenella’s mouth watered. “I could pick my own,” she said.

“Please allow me.”

He spoke like a knight offering some perilous feat of chivalry. She decided to let him.

They dismounted, leaving their mounts to the rich grass on the side of the hill. Fenella settled in the shade and watched Roger plunge into the raspberry bushes. He pulled out his handkerchief and began to fill it with ripe berries. Stains spread over the linen as he added to his haul. She saw the thorns catch at his coat sleeves and riding breeches. They scratched his glossy boots as well. His valet wouldn’t appreciate that. But Roger didn’t appear to care. He moved deeper into the thicket, until only his hat was visible above the arching canes. And then that too vanished. “Are you all right?” called Fenella.

“Dashed briars snatched my hat,” he replied. “Just a… Got it.” The crown of his hat reappeared above the branches. He was near the center of the thicket, at the bottom of the dip. It was much harder to get out of that little valley than to go in, Fenella remembered. The slant of the bushes seemed to push one back down.

Roger’s face showed above the vegetation. He must be standing on tiptoe. “There you are,” he said. “I got turned around.”

He moved slowly toward her, obviously having to fight his way out. His head, and then his broad shoulders, came into view. He held one arm in front of his face to stave off the thorns.

“Hotter in there,” he said when he finally emerged. Sweat gleamed on his face. He came over to her, bowed, and set his bundle of berries beside her as if they were indeed the result of a knight’s quest. Fenella noted an angry scratch across the back of his right hand. At least it wasn’t bleeding. She took a raspberry and ate it. The fruit was warm from the sun, sweet and tart at the same time. It melted on her tongue, utterly delicious. “Berries picked here are always better than any others,” she said.

Roger sat down in the grass beside her.

“You must have some, too. You did all the work.”

He ate one. “Very good.”

“Better than that,” Fenella said. “Luscious.” She held out a berry. He bent a little forward and took it, his lips brushing her fingertips, light as a butterfly’s wing, and still it stirred her.

“Luscious,” he agreed.

The word vibrated between them, expanding out to encompass far more than berries. The air was heavy with the hum of bees and the scent of fruit under the heat of the August sun.

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