Shortly after that, luncheon was announced. Lady Waltham’s notion of a picnic was to serve food designed to be eaten with one’s fingers, served on silver platters her footmen ferried between the guests, who sat at wrought-iron tables and chairs scattered about the south lawn. Couples tended to play musical tables, moving from one table to another as others did the same and openings appeared.
Stacie happily followed Frederick’s direction, and by availing themselves of the option of constantly moving, they managed to keep their tempers from being frayed by the many older ladies who remained intent on interrogating them.
She had to admit it was extremely handy to be on the arm of a nobleman who, when moved to it, could look down his nose and turn cool aloofness into chilly dismissal in less time than it took to blink.
Even the older grandes dames took note and—albeit reluctantly—drew in their horns.
She and Frederick remained a part of the larger company until the copious quantities of champagne served with the meal had their inevitable effect, and many of the older guests grew somnolent and inattentive.
Then Frederick seized a moment while they were moving between groups to tug her sideways, onto another of the gently twisting garden paths.
This one, she soon discovered, led to the ornamental lake. Although several other couples were strolling the path around the lake’s shore, all were sufficiently distant to allow her and Frederick to converse without fear of being overheard.
She couldn’t resist seizing the moment to say, “Earlier, you asked me what my reasons for rejecting marriage were in order not to step on my toes unnecessarily.” She caught his gaze as it swung, sharp and intent, to her face. “Mentioning that Lady Halbertson had, until recently, been your mistress could be said to fall under the same category, albeit in reverse.”
His eyes searched hers, then he looked ahead. “Frances and I broke things off a few months ago.” He frowned. She sensed nothing beyond earnestness when he asked, “Should I have mentioned it?”
She twined her arm more tightly with his and leaned closer to say, “Obviously, I’ve already heard the whispers, and today, I saw the proof. Had I truly been your fiancée, I might have been…concerned.”
He looked genuinely puzzled. “I can’t see why. It’s over and done and firmly in my past.”
“Yours, perhaps. But tell me—who broke the liaison off? You or her?”
He hesitated for several moments, during which they neared and passed another couple going in the opposite direction; Stacie noted he’d wiped his face of all expression before the other couple got close.
Once the others were well past, he replied, “I thought she and I had both decided to end our association.”
“I hear a ‘but.’”
He tipped his head. “I’m only as good as the next man in comprehending what goes on in ladies’ heads. I can’t speak for Frances, but she seemed to accept my suggestion readily—with good grace.”
Stacie could have told him that accepting a situation gracefully when there was no real choice simply demonstrated that Lady Halbertson was intelligent enough not to try to hold him when he didn’t want to be held.
If the implications of the comments she’d overheard at Lady Kilpatrick’s were correct, then Lady Halbertson might have hoped for more from the association. As her ladyship’s presence at Lady Waltham’s attested, she was of sufficiently high birth to aspire to being Frederick’s wife—and she was certainly beautiful enough. Frederick wasn’t just handsome and titled, he was also significantly wealthy, and while that wealth meant nothing to Stacie, wealthy herself, she knew the pursuit of funds played a much larger role in the lives of many others, including—and sometimes especially—those of the haut ton.
Frederick watched the flow of thoughts flit across Stacie’s expressive face; now she’d relaxed completely in his company, she didn’t bother screening her feelings from him, which was proving a great help. Also a source of encouragement; even though their engagement was a sham, she’d taken very real note of Frances and his past relationship with her—that was, he felt, significant. As his faux fiancée, if Stacie had felt nothing at all for him, surely she would have just shrugged aside the issue as irrelevant, at least to her.
He was still debating that conclusion when she abruptly halted.
“Look!” She pointed to a narrow path that wended up the heavily treed rise that overlooked the end of the lake, tracing the line of the path upward to where sections of white columns and a domed roof could be glimpsed between the leafy canopies. “There’s a folly—a Grecian temple—up there.” She tightened her hold on his arm and towed him onto the minor path. “Let’s climb up and take in the view.”
The path was only wide enough for a single person and rose in long flights of stone steps. Frederick gallantly urged Stacie ahead, then had to bear with the intoxicating sight of her silk-clad hips and derriere sifting side to side before his face, which, given the avenue his thoughts were all too ready to go rampaging down, did nothing for his comfort.
They finally reached the folly, which did, indeed, provide an expansive view of the lake. Branches bursting into leaf obscured the view of the path directly below, but the farther reaches of the lake spread before them, with sunlight dancing across the surface set rippling by the light breeze.
Stacie immediately crossed to the edge of the marble floor. Spreading one palm on one of the columns, she stretched up on her toes and peered between the branches, which were sorely in need of pruning.
Frederick followed in more leisurely fashion, his gaze dwelling on a different sight.
“I can’t quite see the house.” Stacie leaned forward.
Her palm slipped on the smooth marble, and she started to tip. “Oh!”
Frederick swooped, looped an arm about her waist, and hauled her back to safety.
Hauled her against himself.
Not safe.