“That’s a fierce frown, Countess,” Luxborough remarked as he came to stand at her side. She had not been aware of the cool breeze until his large body blocked it. “Is the house not to your liking?”
“It’s not even old,” she complained.
“I never said it was.”
“It should be old and crumbling and gloomy, with mad monks and bats and ghosts.” She shook her head. “Honestly, Luxborough. How do you manage to stay so grumpy when you live in such a beautiful place?”
“An overabundance of natural talent, I suppose.”
He slid her a sideways look, laughter gleaming in his tired, brandy-colored eyes, and Thea fought hard not to smile and hug his arm. The wind was teasing his curls under his hat, and his closeness stirred more of those delicious sensations under her skin.
“It has quite spoiled my fun,” she said. “I was determined to have a perfectly horrid time here, but it is not nearly terrifying enough.”
“I apologize for failing to provide more miserable accommodations. If it would please you, I could hire someone to wander the corridors at night, moaning and rattling chains.”
She sighed. “It is kind of you to offer, but I should not like to put anyone to trouble. I suppose I shall simply have to enjoy myself instead.”
“And you certainly have a talent for that.”
His tone was dry, but his look was warm, and that combination so confused her that she forgot to breathe. Then he was busying himself with removing his hat and freeing his hair, and she found enough air to say, “It’s easy enough. When it is so very lovely here.”
“I suppose it is.”
“You suppose? Had you not noticed?”
“It’s been here all my life,” he said carelessly. “And I passed my youth wanting to escape.”
Oh, but he was impossible, not to realize what he had! Suddenly irritated with him, Thea skipped away to the edge of the lawn, which sloped down to an enormous ornamental lake. Waterbirds drifted over its surface, and a Roman-style folly beckoned from a small island in the middle.
“Can one bathe in the lake?” she called.
“Of course. I swim most days when the weather permits. Down the end is a secluded area for women, sheltered by the willows.”
“What is in that folly on the island?”
“Take a boat out and see.”
“Oh, will you row me out there?”
“Row yourself. Plenty of rowboats in the boathouse.”
“Very well, I shall.”
A plague on him. She did not need his company, and neither did she need a Gothic atmosphere. The Rules of Mischief demanded that she enjoy herself, so she would think of Brinkley End as a pleasure garden, created for her entertainment; she would pass a merry old time these few days, and leave without a backward glance.
“I shall swim and learn to row and…”
Looking about, her gaze snagged on an empty wagon on the other side of the driveway. A large piebald horse stood between the shafts, snorting and stamping its feet.
“And I shall learn to drive, too,” Thea announced, and dashed toward the horse and cart.
But the horse did not like this idea; it threw up its head and bared its huge yellow teeth. Then Luxborough was there, catching her around the waist and gently pulling her away. She was so surprised she could not resist, what with the firm heat of his hands, and his bulk at her back, and his woodsy scent that made her think of cozy nights by the fire.
“Careful,” he said, his breath tickling her ear. “Tatworth’s horse is a mean old brute.”
“It won’t be mean to me,” she protested, but she stayed nestled against him anyway.
“I fear the horse will be immune to your charms, even if the rest of us are not.”
Before she could pursue the fascinating topic of her charms and his susceptibility to them, he released her and moved away, a chill shivering over her back from his absence. Another thing not to think about; she was developing such a colossal list that it would require all her faculties merely to remember what she must forget.
“At any rate,” he went on, more brusquely, “the cart belongs to Dick Tatworth, a deliveryman from Bristol. Ask one of the grooms to take you out in the pony gig. Ah, there’s Tatworth now.”
He was looking toward the nearby woods, which were separated from the garden by a stream. A stone footbridge spanned the stream; beyond it, a path disappeared between the trees. Crossing the footbridge were two people: a small, ruddy-cheeked man in a tattered greatcoat, and a taller woman with dark skin, wearing a pink dress, with a matching pink bandeau wound around her short black hair.
Excellent. Another distraction.