A dark-haired gentleman, apparently oblivious to the bitter wind since his greatcoat was open—showing his informal attire of waistcoat, shirt, buckskin breeches, and riding boots—strolled toward her.
The gentleman nodded politely. “Good morning.”
Ria made no response. She could not, as all breath had left her.
The vicar was right after all: she was surely damned. The proof was in front of her in this very graveyard. Hades had come for her.
As he brushed a dry leaf off his shoulder, the sight of his hand transported her back into the vivid dream world of the ball. That same hand had caressed her. She trembled slightly at the remembrance of the sparks it had left wherever it had touched her.
He was looking at her, a quizzical expression in his forest-green eyes. Clearly he was waiting for her to say something. She swallowed, trying to dislodge the hard lump in her throat. She had to say something. Hard on the heels of that thought came another: what if he recognized her voice?
Raising an eyebrow at her continued silence, he turned to the headstone she stood in front of and read aloud, “Here lies Rupert Andrew Montague St. James, beloved son, husband, nephew, and cousin.”
Turning back to her, he said, “I presume you are a relative of Mr. St. James?”
Knowing she could hardly continue to stay silent, Ria drew in a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
Please don’t recognize my voice.
He seemed to be waiting for her to say something else, so she added, “He was my husband.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. My condolences on your loss.” His tone was soft and sympathetic, but was that a faint smile lifting the corner of his mouth?
“Thank you, my lord.”
Ria closed her eyes briefly when she realized what she had said. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have noticed her slip and wonder how she knew he had a title.
Bowing, he told her, “My pleasure, Mrs. St. James. My name is Luc Adair, Lord Arden.”
There was one thing she was desperate to know, so she bluntly asked, “Are you staying in the area long?”
Please say no!
As he looked at her thoughtfully, Ria bowed her head. Her veil hid her face from view, but she didn’t want to take any chances. Looking down at her glove-clad hands, she began to pluck at the black border of her cambric handkerchief.
“I was going to leave tomorrow.”
Beneath her veil, she exhaled the breath she had been holding, only to raise her head in horror at his next words.
“However, I have just realized there are delights in the area hitherto unidentified. As I have no pressing obligations, I believe I shall remain so I can thoroughly explore them.”
He slowly smiled at her. Her heart, already in a precarious state, skipped a beat. Why was he looking at her like that? What did he mean by delights? Surely not her!
“I am staying with a friend of mine. The Marquess of Lyons.”
Her heart missed another beat. He was staying next door! With Devon!
“I assume you live at St. James Manor, which makes us neighbors. Presumably you know Lord Lyons?”
Could things get any worse? Trying to keep talking to a minimum, Ria merely said. “He is not often in the district.”
Would she be forgiven for her lie of omission? But then what did it matter when she had so many other sins needing forgiveness? She’d just toss this one on the pile with the rest!
“That is his misfortune,” he said softly.
Was he flirting with her? Why? With the veil, he couldn’t see her and surely couldn’t deduce her age from her voice. Had he seen her earlier, before she pulled her veil down?
And then there was the not-so-small matter of her being a widow. Wearing mourning clothes. Standing by her husband’s grave. Which, conveniently, gave her an excuse to never see him again.