How to Play the Game of Love (Ladies of Passion) Page 12

  Daisy applauded. I winced at the snappy sound.

  “How delightful, a treasure hunt.”

  With a fond smile, Lady Dunlop added, “No road leads to the ruins, but the horses won’t have any trouble traversing the fields.”

  Beside me, Francine blanched as white as the clouds overhead, so snow-white that her freckles stood out like splotches of mud.

  I shared her misgivings. Ride sidesaddle? No self-respecting horsewoman would ride that way, not once she mastered riding astride. Riding sidesaddle was like drinking watered down wine; it offered a pale parody of the enjoyment.

  I clasped my hands in front of me to hide their tremor. I hadn’t so much as touched a horse in over four years. The lure, the song of a good gallop itched beneath my skin, begging me to give in. Mother’s voice sounded in my head. Proper young ladies don’t ride astride like wild women.

  Wild women didn’t attract gentlemen husbands. So I turned my face away. “If the ruins can be reached by horseback, I assume they can also be reached on foot?”

  Francine clutched my arm so fiercely, the tips of my fingers tingled with lack of circulation.

  Lady Dunlop frowned, but said, “Yes, but the walk will take at least an hour.”

  From the corner of my eye, I watched my sister bat her eyelashes at the hostess’s nephew. He offered his arm and escorted her toward the row of horses. While in plain view of the group, she wouldn’t need my chaperone services. Catching Mary’s eye, I nodded toward my sister. Adjusting her spectacles, she nodded and strode after the pair.

  Lady Dunlop added, “Riding will take a fraction of the time.”

  Donning my best smile, I said, “I’m not afraid of a little exertion.”

  I led Francine away from the tall, barrel-chested horses. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her voice was so flimsy and weak it dissolved with the breeze. Digging her claw-like fingers into my arm, she eyed the stamping horses with such vehemence, it was a wonder they didn’t fall over dead.

  I patted her hand. “Friends have to stick together, don’t we?”

  At her grateful smile, guilt churned my stomach. I hadn’t made the decision to walk with her in mind, but to keep my secret. As far as Francine knew, my aversion to horses stemmed from the same fear of the beasts she harbored.

  We struck off down the road as the rest of the party chose mounts. As we cleared the last of the village houses, Francine relaxed and removed her death grip on my arm. Ruts from wagons riddled the wide, dirt lane, deeper in some places than others. In some of the holes, water lingered, enough to sprout tall weeds like cattails. The things must be tenacious, to be trodden by so many wagons and carts that they lay bent in places, but still remained vibrant and healthy.

  Francine frowned as she peered at one of the plants.

  I dragged her forward. “Didn’t you say that you grew up in these parts?”

  “I did.” She craned her neck, peering behind her to examine the plant even as we strode away. “But the last time I studied these plants, I was a child. I know so much more now.”

  “I’m not walking with you if you stop every few minutes to examine a plant. It would take days to reach the ruins.”

  A glimmer of a smile crossed her face. “Very well. I won’t stop. May I pick a few specimens to examine along the way?”

  “If you’re quick.”

  The road trembled with the drumming of horses’ hooves. I drew Francine to the grass alongside. As the long line of riders approached, the beasts kicked up clouds of dust. I sputtered, my eyes tearing up. The riders rode in pairs, a man trotting alongside a woman. The stamp and rumble of the hooves prevented conversation. Not that Francine noticed. She took advantage of the lull in walking and plucked a few plants from the ground, roots and all. When her hands bulged with her crop, she straightened.

  The dust made my eyes water. I blinked it away as the last rider pulled abreast. He slowed from a trot to a walk.

  It was Warren.

  Blast him, but he didn’t seem the least bit put out by our heated encounter last night. As heat stained my cheeks, I turned my face away, hoping my friend wouldn’t notice. Francine had her nose stuck a plant. Literally—she sniffed the roots. Why would she do that? Oh, Francine…

  I stiffened as Warren halted his horse. I didn’t want to talk to him. I tugged Francine along, continuing our trek.

  Unperturbed, Warren joined us. He reined his steed to a steady, slow speed matching ours. The beast rolled his eyes, anxious to quicken his pace. Warren didn’t even give the poor creature enough head to walk. He held the reins too tightly.

  Don’t say anything. Properly bred young ladies didn’t give riding advice to hotheaded lords. Even with Mama’s voice ringing in my head, the sight chafed. I hadn’t pinned Warren as a poor horseman.

  He grinned at me, his smile devious. “Miss Wellesley, if you didn’t know how to ride, why didn’t you just say so? I’m happy to lend my services. You can sit behind me.”

  I turned my face away, focusing on the road ahead. “I won’t ride with you.”

  “Because of your pride?”

  “Perhaps because I don’t want to,” I snapped.

  I glared at him. His winsome smile only reminded me that I’d broken my rule and made eye contact.

  “Besides,” I added, “I couldn’t possibly leave Francine.”

  Warren frowned. “Miss Annesley?” He trailed off.

  I glanced behind me, where she had been only a moment ago. She was gone. “Blasted botanist.” I turned on my heel and scampered back the way I’d come. I found her in a ditch, huddled over a flower.

  “Francine,” I said, my voice testy. “You have your specimens. What are you doing?”

  “I think this is viola lactea, pale dog-violet. It doesn’t normally grow around here.”

  “It probably isn’t what you think it is.”

  I waded down into the ditch, grabbing her by the arm. Though, I was careful not to tread on the flower. She’d flay me if I disturbed a specimen. I hauled her to the road once more.

  She blinked up at me with owlish eyes, a look of betrayal lighting their brown depths. “Do you mean to imply I’m not a very good botanist?”

  “Far from it,” I said with feeling. “You’re likely the best botanist for a hundred miles. But we’re falling behind. Maybe we’ll come back tomorrow to look at the flower.”

  “Wait,” she said, juggling her plant specimens in one hand as she dipped her fingers into her reticule. She pulled out a slim leather-bound volume and a stick of graphite. She scribbled something down onto the page.

  I sighed. “What are you doing?”

  “Marking the spot, so we can come back.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Why don’t you uproot the plant and take it with us?”

  She stared at me with such a forlorn expression I feared she was about to burst into tears. “I just told you. It isn’t native to these parts. This might be the only one like it around the village.”

  “So?”

  “So—” Her voice took on a pugnacious edge. “We should allow it to propagate. Maybe it will flourish.”

  “Maybe it will shrivel up and die,” I countered.

  It was the wrong thing to say. Her sharp intake of breath warned me that I was about to hear an earful, likely on the history and hardiness of the plant.

  Warren postponed such a tirade by pulling up alongside us. He’d turned around.

  Why wasn’t he following the rest of the group?

  I shooed him away with my hands. “The others will arrive first. You should hurry, or you’ll never be able to catch up.”

  “And leave two young women to walk unchaperoned? What sort of cad do you take me for?” He said it with the glimmer of a smile and pressed his hand to his heart in mock injury.

  I glowered at him. “We are fully grown women, capable of walking to a ruins site without turning an ankle or devolving into hysterics.”

  “What if you get lost?” he said. “Ther
e might be footpads or highwaymen along the way.”

  “In Leicestershire?” Francine giggled.

  At least she’d forgotten the grievous insult I’d given to the flower.

  We walked on, Warren matching his horse’s pace to ours.

  “We won’t be harmed,” I told him. “Please, continue without us. We’re perfectly content to arrive at our own pace.”

  To my dismay, he stopped his horse and dismounted. Leading the gelding by the reins, he strode alongside us. “Nonsense,” he said. “I’m happy to perform my gentlemanly duty for two such beautiful maidens.”

  I had half a mind to steal his horse and wheel it after the others. If only.

  A broad smile capped Francine’s face as she strolled along the far edge of the road. Why did she have to be afraid of horses? I needed a buffer between Warren’s solid form and myself. With every stride, memories of his body pressed against mine sent tingles of awareness along my skin.

  Francine hummed under her breath, drawing my attention. A sly smile crossed my face. I linked my arm through Francine’s, disturbing her examination of one of the dirty plants she clutched. She studied the leaves this time, rather than sniffing the roots. An improvement, at least.

  “Francine, what do you have there?” I asked her.

  I shot Warren a triumphant look, made all the sweeter by the befuddlement etched over his features. He didn’t know the horrors to which he was about to be subjected.

  Francine pulled her face away from the leaves long enough to say, “It’s a common digitalis purpurea. See the spiral formation of the leaves here?” She curled her finger along the edge of the leaves. “A young specimen. The stalk hasn’t grown yet. It will be as tall as you when mature.”

  I fixed a smile in place. “Fascinating. Tell me more about it.”

  Her mouth dropped open with surprise. Clarity dawned as she swung her gaze to Warren. Straightening her shoulders, she listed the properties of the plant alphabetically.

  Warren’s smile slipped. He cleared his throat, cutting her short at F. “Actually, this beast is mighty wild. I think he needs to run off some of this energy before we reach the ruins.”

  Without waiting for a confirmation or even a polite good-bye, Warren swung into the saddle and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. I grinned from ear to ear as he cantered out of sight.

  The silence in the wake of his horse’s hooves was deafening. I grinned at my friend. Her mouth was puckered in disappointment.

  “Don’t think I don’t know what you did there.”

  I feigned innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.” I tried to withdraw my arm from hers, but she held tight.

  “You used me to drive him away. You should have a care for the feelings of others.”

  My joyous mood plummeted into my walking shoes. “I’m sorry, Francine. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “Not me.” She groaned and lifted her eyes skyward. “I meant Lord Hartfell. You’re always seducing men into falling in love with you, and once they’re fully committed to you, you no longer have the time of day for them.”

  My mouth dropped open in affront. “I do not do that. Name one.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “Pachycaul.”

  Damn her for being right. But how could I have known he wasn’t the man for me at the time?

  I shook my head. “He is regrettable, but I’m not doing that with Warren.”

  Francine’s lips parted. “Warren? You call him by his Christian name?”

  My cheeks heated at the slip. “I do not. He offered, but I declined. This is an entirely different situation. I’m not trying to entice him to fall in love with me. He’s making a nuisance of himself at his cousin’s behest.”

  Francine made a small questioning sound.

  “Miss Catkin,” I clarified.

  “Yes, I did wonder where she ran off to.”

  I stiffened. “What do you mean? Where is Miss Johnsto—Catkin?” She had been at the church, hadn’t she? I couldn’t recall.

  “How am I to know?” Francine shrugged. “She isn’t at the house any longer. Mary told me she left this morning.”

  I didn’t ask how Mary knew such a thing. She played better with the servants at house parties than with the hosts or guests. If the servants bandied gossip, she heard it first.

  I sighed, shaking my head.

  Francine bumped me with her elbow, bringing me back to the present. “Are you all right?”

  “In the pink of health,” I lied.

  The rest of the week yawned ahead of me with promises of torturous activities designed to incite courtship between couples. And the man I loved had fled to the continent, racing after his duty.

  As if sensing my thoughts, Francine said, “How goes your broken heart?”

  I stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t have a broken heart. I’m very much in love.”

  Or, at least, I would be, if the object of my affection were here.

  Francine laughed. “Of course you are,” she said. “That’s why Frederick left last night and you’re still here to complain about it.”

  My shoulders slumped. She was right, after all. I had no hope left.

  Francine cast me a sidelong glance. Her mouth was pursed, measuring rather than disapproving. “You aren’t nearly as forlorn as usual when you’re crossed in love.”

  “Maybe that’s because I haven’t been crossed,” I snapped at her. “I didn’t get the opportunity to draw Frederick’s attention. He didn’t reject me.”

  Perhaps he had, a little, by choosing Miss Johnstone’s company over mine. But at least she was in the same predicament—and so overcome with sorrow that she’d departed the party early. Lady Dunlop must not have liked that.

  Actually, I sympathized with Miss Johnstone. After all, I’d nursed a broken heart many a time before. Once, for the man my sister Violet proceeded to marry. I didn’t wish the feeling on anyone. And whom did Miss Johnstone have to console her? I had Francine, Mary, Emily, and Daisy.

  “Thank you,” I said. My words were so quiet, the rustling branches, chirping birds, and buzzing insects almost drowned them.

  “For what?” Francine asked, distracted.

  “For consoling me.”

  Francine didn’t seem interested in pursuing the conversation further. Humming in a monotone under her breath, she examined the three plants she clutched in her hands. By the time we reached the ruins, my ears buzzed from the constant sound. I nudged her, pointing to the bevy of horses and tall crumbling spire ahead.

  “We’re nearly there.”

  “So we are.” She stopped to set the plants against a tree. Then she got down on both knees and churned the earth with her gloved hands.

  I groaned. “Francine, what are you doing?”

  “I’m replanting them,” she said. “They’ll die if I don’t.”

  “So what if they do? Like you said, there are hundreds of other such plants in the vicinity.”

  She ignored me. Did she even pay attention? Probably not.

  I tapped my toe for five minutes straight before she lowered the decrepit little plants into the holes she’d made. She patted the dirt around their bases and rose.

  “There.”

  I sighed. “Finally. You might want to remove your gloves, before…”

  She wiped a strand of hair away from her face, leaving a smutch on her cheek. “Before what?”

  I forced a smile. “Never mind. Shall we go?”

  She nodded, and we made our way to the gathering.

  Lady Dunlop stood from a circle of blankets on the slope of a hill. She waved her arms vigorously. “Miss Wellesley, Francine, at last! There is food over here, if you’re hungry.”

  My stomach clenched with hunger. If I was hungry, indeed. Did she not recall barring me from the breakfast room this morning in order to hasten me and the other guests to the church? I quickened my step, eager to fill my belly at last. Francine trotted after me.

  As Lady Dunlop
saw the state of Francine’s gloves, she frowned. “Oh dear. Perhaps you ought to remove those before eating.”

  Francine glanced at her hands in surprise. How could she be surprised that there was dirt on her gloves? She lived in an almost constant state of uncleanliness, what with all the plants she pursued with no care to her attire.

  “Of course,” she said.

  She didn’t argue when Lady Dunlop made the suggestion. I stifled the urge to roll my eyes.

  When Francine had tucked the dirty gloves away in her reticule—why she wanted to keep them, I didn’t know—I guided her to the base of the hill, where a guard of servants hovered over baskets of food. Two of them fixed plates for Francine and me. I accepted one with a gracious smile and dragged Francine toward the ring of blankets.

  “Over here,” Mary waved her arm. “I saved you a spot.”

  Francine eagerly picked her way to Mary’s side. I followed, my shoulder blades prickling. Who watched me? Most of the gathering cast us bored or surreptitious glances. This was different. Direct, hot, intense. I latched gazes with Warren, who lounged on a blanket on the opposite side of the ring from Mary. I quickened my step, slipping around the perimeter to the spot saved for me. At least my friends would serve as a buffer between Warren and me.

  Mary patted the vacant patches she’d saved for us on the glaring purple blanket. I settled beside her. Surprisingly, two gentlemen also shared the blanket with her. One was Lady Dunlop’s nephew, Arthur. The other was Captain Beckwith.

  “You took so long,” Mary complained.

  Francine delicately lowered herself to her knees on the blanket, careful not to spill any food. “The distance takes longer when you’re not on horseback,” she reminded. “Besides, I found a few specimens to examine along the way.”

  “Any stinging nettles?” Beckwith asked with a grin.

  Why would he ask such a thing?

  Francine answered his grin with one of her own. “You’ll have to ask Julian.”

  They laughed.

  I glanced from one to the other, narrowing my eyes.