Chapter Eighteen
To Julian’s delight, Elizabeth was an enthusiastic lover. She liked to try different positions, and could appreciate a slow, tender joining as well as a mad gallop to completion. She approached lovemaking without a plan or agenda, other than to be intimate and to share passion.
Julian reveled in her spontaneity, in the trust and joy of being with her in the moment, though without fail, he withdrew rather than risk her future for the sake of pleasure.
Elizabeth insisted on cuddling afterward, despite the awkwardness of sharing a chaise, and she didn’t begrudge a man a short nap following his exertions. Nor did she begrudge herself a respite, and for that Julian loved her. She fell asleep in his arms, warm and naked, and gave him long moments to study her and to consider their situation.
Which was…challenging.
“You’re awake,” Elizabeth murmured, kissing his chest. “I could sleep for a week.”
“Did this morning’s walk to the village tire you?” He’d wanted to buy her a hair ribbon, which was ridiculous. She doubtless had all the hair ribbons she needed, and Julian’s purchase would have been observed and remarked.
“Being agreeable tires me,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“I tell myself that every minute I spend admiring Miss Penhathaway’s sketching or Miss Trelawny’s needlepoint is another minute closer to being with you.”
Julian had also counted the minutes until Elizabeth would leave Haverford Castle—approximately fourteen thousand. Never before had fourteen thousand seemed like a paltry number.
Elizabeth sat up, and because she was straddling him, this put her feminine attributes on display.
“I want to discuss something with you, Haverford.”
“I’m all ears.” Not all ears. Not when she stretched like that.
“The merchants and shopkeepers in the village are bilking you at every opportunity.”
Julian cupped her breasts, which were the most perfectly formed breasts in the history of breasts. “I’m a duke. That’s what shopkeepers do with a duke.”
“Be serious. You are paying at least twice if not three times what you’d pay in London for many goods. London is hardly a cheap market, Julian.”
“I’m well aware of London prices.” He was more aware of the brush of Elizabeth’s sex over his cock.
“I love how you touch me.” Elizabeth closed her hands around his, showing him how firmly she wanted to be caressed.
I love you. Loved her mind, her body, her heart. “I love how you can conduct a serious conversation even when I’m worshipping your breasts.”
“I’m angry on your behalf.” Elizabeth repositioned herself along Julian’s side, which meant wedging herself between him and the wall. “Just because you are a duke doesn’t mean you should be cheated. You own that village, and those people should take pride in your custom.”
“A fine notion, but a minority view.” Julian did own the village, literally, and in theory he was owed rent for every dwelling, shed, and cow byre within its limits. “The overcharging started about five years ago. Soldiers who’d fought against Napoleon returned home to find there was no work, and then we had a spectacularly rotten harvest. Everybody had a bad harvest that year, and prices were understandably higher.”
“So you carried them through and have been carrying them ever since.”
“I’m the primary reason they don’t have mines to work, Elizabeth, and most of them believe even a single productive mine would solve all their problems.”
“Don’t they have cousins and brothers who’ve seen what mining does to a farming region?”
Julian stroked Elizabeth’s hair and battled resentment. This topic should not be allowed to contaminate their sanctuary, and they deserved, at least once, to make love in a damned bed.
Though Elizabeth had made the book room cozy. A different carpet covered the floor, a green and white pattern of fleur-de-lis intertwined with strawberry leaves and strawberries. A vase of fresh roses sat on the windowsill, and sheaves of lavender hung from the highest shelves and perfumed the air.
Given enough time, Elizabeth would have the entire castle put to rights, and she wouldn’t spend a fortune doing it.
“Our mines would be different,” Julian said. “Sherbourne has assured anybody who will listen that our mines would be different. Our waterways would remain clean, our skies would never see the blight caused by an ironworks, our families would never subsist in filthy hovels, and our children would never die of avoidable lung ailments when they ought to be learning their first Latin conjugation. I don’t want to talk about this. Not here. Not now.”
Not ever, but somebody had to speak the truth, and eventually—certainly not in Julian’s lifetime—change would come.
“Without coal, we’d freeze,” Elizabeth said.
Julian got off the chaise, which was hardly an ideal bed for two, much less for two intent on an argument.
“Do we need coal so badly we’ll send five-year-olds to dig it for us? Make them work in the dark for sixteen hours at a time? Give them only a Sabbath to recover from their labors, pay them a pittance, ruin the land for farming so the mines become the only option?”
He pulled his shirt over his head, then stepped into his breeches. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. My father, grandfather, and great-grandfather fought against the mines, not because coal is evil in itself, but because modern mining is as much a problem as a solution.”
He took the chair behind the desk, his mood very much gone to hell. “Wages are inadequate,” he went on, “while the owners and foremen get rich. The men in the ironworks go blind after a few years, because they can’t tell if the ore is ready unless they look right into the blazing heart of the furnace. The owners don’t care, the foremen don’t care, because ten men are waiting for the next job at the works.”
Elizabeth crossed the room, not a stitch on her, and climbed into his lap. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I brought this up when we’ve better ways to spend our time.”
The weight and warmth of her in Julian’s arms were comforting, but again, why were they cuddling in a creaky old chair instead of Julian’s enormous bed?
“There is no good time to bring up the subject of mining with me. As much as I worry for my family’s finances, I also worry for Britain. The common man deserves a dignified wage for his labor, and decent housing for his family.”
“You mentioned that Griffin came to harm in an abandoned mineshaft,” Elizabeth said.
“An exploratory shaft sunk by the Sherbournes near our property line.” Though what had that to do with anything? “You’ll take a chill sporting about in the altogether, madam.”
“You’ll keep me warm.”
For the next fourteen-thousand-odd minutes, Julian would try to keep Elizabeth happy. He rose with her in his arms, and sat on the chaise, his back propped against the wall.
“You’re worried,” Elizabeth said, tugging the blanket up around his shoulders.
“I’m a duke. Worry comes with the job. Sleep now.”
“What do you suppose Sherbourne worries about?” Elizabeth murmured. “Surely he must worry about something, or he’d not invite himself to house parties, or bother to turn an entire village against you.”
More than a village. Half the merchants in Swansea, and a few of Julian’s peers in the Lords, though Sherbourne was not solely responsible for that.
Julian’s watch lay on the desk across the room, and the dratted thing always lost time when it lay flat.
Maybe that was a good thing, when only fourteen thousand minutes remained before Elizabeth would leave. Julian kissed the top of her head, her question refusing to remain rhetorical. What did Sherbourne worry about?
The answer floated by just out of reach as sleep claimed Julian’s awareness. Regardless of what bothered Sherbourne, the presuming varlet had the coin to resolve his annoyances, while Julian had virtually no coin at all.
* * *
“They’re gone,” Benedict Andover said, peering over the railing of the library balcony. “Young people and their foolishness.”
“Their stamina, you mean,” Arabella replied. “We were young once too, Benny.” And they weren’t that old now.
“We weren’t as foolish as Haldale and that Trelawny girl. Her mother ought to know better.”
“Her mother’s trying to fire her off before the expense of another season, and Haldale must marry somebody. Shall I read to you some more?”
Andover took the seat beside Arabella on a comfortably worn sofa. He’d shown her this refuge on the second day of the house party. The sheer number of books in the room was so impressive, that other details—like a cozy reading balcony, or two-hundred-year-old family Bible—went unnoticed.
“I love how you make a story come to life,” he said. “You have thespian talent.”
“Every parent learns to read a good yarn, or they should. What am I to do about my nieces, Benny? Charlotte has ignored the overtures of half the young men on the premises, and Elizabeth has attached the affections of the only unsuitable duke in the realm.”
Andover patted her hand. “When a duke is young, handsome, in possession of a castle, and managing one of the finest private libraries ever assembled, he can’t be unsuitable.”
Oh, yes he could. “Is the collection fine, Benny, or simply enormous? Any ambitious commoner can buy books by the cartload for the sake of appearances.”
“This collection…” Andover stood and went to the railing, a captain admiring the view from his quarterdeck. “The late duke was a genius at acquisition. Julian’s father heard about all the best sales and got the best bargains—I was endlessly jealous and lived for the days when I could outbid him at the auctions. He knew exactly which volumes would appreciate in value, though he’d never part with a book once he’d acquired it. He claimed the library was his legacy to future dukes.”
The library was also a deuced lot of dusting for overworked footmen. “So the books are valuable?” Why hadn’t Haverford mentioned that?
Andover turned, back to the railing. But for the thinning of his hair, his looks hadn’t changed much over the years, and he made a fine, distinguished picture amid the library’s vast treasures.
“The books are valuable, Bella, and they’re not. In the entire realm, perhaps a half-dozen people are qualified to evaluate this collection. They could put any price they pleased on the books—Haverford has rare antiquities by the hundreds—but then, where does one find buyers? The bibliophile is usually an impecunious beast, frittering away his coin tome by tome.”
While the late duke had hoarded his treasures. “Does Haverford know what this library is worth?” He’d spoken as if he hadn’t a feather to fly with, the daft boy.
“Likely not, and it doesn’t really matter. If Julian so much as hinted that he wanted an appraisal, the gossip would start. I’m sure his solicitors have warned him sternly not to open that Pandora’s box. If Haverford attempted to liquidate the library, the dukedom would be bankrupted by unkind speculation before the creditors even arrived on his doorstep.”
“And they would take the books?”
“Probably loot the castle like a horde of rioting pirates. Haverford might be able to sell off a portion of his library discreetly, if he’d allow me to alert a few wealthy buyers. I suspect he knows that.”
Arabella suspected he did not. “Have a word with him, Benny. Offer to dispose of the more valuable titles that can’t be traced directly to this collection. See what he says.”
Andover returned to the sofa, sitting right at Arabella’s side. “He’ll offer me a choice of pistols or swords, my dear. The boy is frightfully proud, and I’m a guest under his roof. I can’t very well intimate he’s in need of coin, can I?”
“You men and your delicate sensibilities. Tell me about the brother.” Lord Griffin was a problem, a vulnerability. Ducal families could not afford—literally—too many vulnerabilities.
“A fine lad, if you ask me. Not in the common way, but good-hearted and hard-working. I’ve known him since he was in dresses, and we have an appointment to go fishing tomorrow. Perhaps you’d like to join us?”
Arabella’s first impulse was to reply with a scoff and a sniffy, “I’m too old to go mucking about after trout.” But for the past two weeks, her joints had ached less, she’d laughed more, and she’d had somebody with whom to reminisce and socialize.
Benjamin Andover was good for her. Peter had always enjoyed Andover’s company, and even in old age, Andover was a more vigorous specimen than Peter had been for much of his adult life.
Which was unfair and mattered not at all.
“I could bring a book and do some reading.” Why wasn’t Elizabeth a fixture among Haverford’s French novels?
“Griffin can fish with nothing more than a net,” Andover said, “but I’m too slow. He throws them all back, as if fishing were a game between him and the trout. I’ll idle along the bank, enjoying a pretty day with a pretty lady.”
“You needn’t flirt with me, sir.” Though Arabella liked that he did. He had a light, warm touch with a compliment or a tease.
He rose—no creaky limbs or awkward pushing and scooting for him. “Bella, would you think me a pathetic old hound if I asked to pay you my addresses? I would never try to compete with Peter’s memory, but you and I rub along together well, and I’m lonely. I mostly ignore the loneliness, but then you stepped down from your coach, and I’ve asked myself: Why ignore it? Why not do something about it?”
Old people could be so blunt. “If that’s your idea of a proposal, your technique is in want of polish.”
“If that’s your answer, I’ll apologize for presuming. Your friendship is precious to me, Bella.”
He could apologize without imperiling anybody’s dignity, a skill only a mature man could command.
“The problem is my nieces,” Arabella replied. “I know how they think: If Aunt Arabella can manage so handily without a husband, surely spinsterhood can’t be that terrible a fate. With the younger two married off, Charlotte and Elizabeth have formed some sort of pact: They will remain unmarried, and eventually keep house together. It’s noble and entirely wrong.”
“Not every woman is bound for a husband and children, Bella. Neither of my sisters married, and they’re a jolly pair.”
Arabella loved his sisters. She also loved her nieces. “Charlotte and Elizabeth are lonely too, Benny. They are Windhams, and thus they are surrounded by marital bliss on every hand. Tony and Gladys are shockingly besotted, and Percival and Esther…”
“Moreland’s devotion to his duchess is a reproach to every peer who ever strayed.” Andover picked up the novel Arabella had been reading—Candide—and ran a finger down the page. “Are you determined to see your nieces married?”
“Not determined, but willing to aid the cause of true love when I can. Elizabeth disappears for at least two hours every afternoon, and she’s not resting in her bedroom. By odd coincidence, Haverford is nowhere to be seen during those same two hours. If I can get Elizabeth matched, then Charlotte is more likely to admit she’s curious about Mr. Sherbourne.”
He closed the book. “There’s enmity between Haverford and Sherbourne. Bad blood that goes back to our day. I don’t think His Grace is in a position to offer for anybody and certainly not for the niece of a duke.”
“Young people can be so foolish.” So could old people—old women unwilling to admit they had sacrificed enough years out of loyalty to a departed husband. Peter’s dying wish had been that Arabella be happy, that she not wear weeds for the rest of her life and bury her heart next to her spouse.
“I suspect the young ladies aren’t aware of all the facts, Bella, but back to the matter at hand. Shall I court you?”
There was more than one way to be a good example to a pair of headstrong nieces. “I believe you shall, and to the extent you are able, you will do what you can to make a path to the altar for Elizabeth and her impoverished duke.”
“From what I hear, the bulk of Haverford’s debt is to Sherbourne, courtesy of His Grace’s late father. Marriage for His Grace to a woman of Elizabeth’s standing is thus all but impossible.”
“Not impossible, Benny. Improbable, certainly, and yet I have faith in true love. Miracles can befall us when we least expect them. Witness, I’m inviting you to court me.”
* * *
“You were wise to schedule the grand ball for Friday evening,” Elizabeth said. “Your guests will have two days to recover before they set out for home.”
She was making small talk, because Haverford was silent. He grew quiet when he worried, and for the past few days, he’d been very quiet.
Also very passionate.
As Elizabeth walked along beside him, she admitted to being a fool. Haverford had been nothing but honest with her—he could not afford a ducal bride—and yet, she had started to hope. The ball was tomorrow. The following day would be for resting and packing. Sunday services would mean another morning in the village, and then Monday, the coaches would depart.
“I wrote to your uncle,” Haverford said, offering Elizabeth his hand as they came to a stile that separated Lord Griffin’s pastures from his barnyard. The duke assisted her over, took two steps back, then vaulted the boards in a single, clean stride.
“You wrote to Uncle Percival?” Hope fluttered anew, cautious and uncomfortable. “What did you write about?”
“Books. The perishing damned books.”
Chickens strutted underfoot, pecking at the dirt. A brindle heifer curled in the grass chewing her cud, and a mastiff trotted out of the barn, tail held high and waving slowly.
For once in her life, Elizabeth did not care at all about books, perishing or otherwise. “Any particular perishing damned books, Haverford?”
“My books. The books that have nearly bankrupted my family.”
“I gather Moreland has not replied?” Uncle Percival was nothing if not responsive to correspondence.
“I told him I would give every book I owned for permission to court you, and I own more books than all the rest of the dukes in the realm put together.”
Hope crashed against consternation. Haverford had asked for permission to court her—more or less—and Uncle Percy had not replied. He was doubtless conferring with Mama and Papa, gathering intelligence, and consulting with Aunt Esther.
Or he was on his way to Wales, ready to create a scene that would make Allermain’s attempted kidnapping a farce? Or perhaps, Haverford’s epistle had been too delicately worded, too conditional?
“Where is my brother?” Haverford asked, gazing about the tidy farmyard.
Griffin’s cottage—more of a fieldstone manor house—sat some forty yards away, up a gentle slope. The drive was lined with venerable oaks leafed out in mid-summer glory, and the front steps held pots of red salvia.
“I expect your brother is inside waiting for his callers because we’re a bit early. You did send a card? I’m told Biddy Bowen’s shortbread is not to be missed.”
That earned her half a smile. “Griffin told you that a dozen times if he told you once, and yes, I sent a card.”
“Julian, you needn’t worry.”
He was attired for a call among country neighbors, but very much the duke today. Top hat brushed, cravat in a fancy knot, a carved walking stick in his hand. Setting an example for his brother, no doubt.
As always.
“Worry? About this call?”
“About Uncle Percy. He’s mostly bluster, and can be both discreet and discerning where his family is concerned. Aunt Arabella doubtless wrote to Aunt Esther, and they will ensure that Uncle’s reply is civil.”
Elizabeth didn’t particularly care how Uncle Percy replied. Julian had expressed a wish to court her. She was happy to be courted, she’d be happier to become his duchess.
The chickens made those odd little contented poultry noises, the dog sat by Elizabeth’s side. Haverford took off his hat, ran his hand through his hair, and finally, finally looked at her.
“I also informed Moreland that my means are worse than embarrassed, and you don’t seem bothered by my relative penury.”
“You told him that?”
“In so many words. Was I correct, Elizabeth?”
A couple emerged from the barn, holding hands and laughing. They were entirely absorbed with each other. The man gathered the lady close, pressed her up against the wall of the barn, and kissed her madly.
She wrapped one arm about him—the other held a basket of brown and white eggs—and kissed him back with equal fervor.
The gentleman pulled away enough to shout in perfect English, “I love you, Biddy Bowen!” before resuming his enthusiasms.
“Oh, dear,” Elizabeth murmured, just as Haverford bellowed, “What the hell is going on here?”
The duke stalked over to the couple, who continued to hold hands. Lord Griffin was the fellow, and the lady—clearly—was Biddy Bowen, baker of the world’s best shortbread.
And keeper of his lordship’s heart.
Lord Griffin reached around to take the egg basket from Biddy. “Good day, Julian.” He bowed stiffly. “You are supposed to bow to Biddy.”
The duke offered the lady—who was blushing bright pink—the merest hint of a courtesy. “Miss Biddy, good day. Unhand my brother.”
Griffin and Biddy kept hold of each other.
Haverford had never displayed an ungovernable temper before Elizabeth, not when Sherbourne had invited himself to the party, not when Lady Glenys had run up extravagant bills, not when admitting the local merchants overcharged him.
And he wasn’t displaying a temper now. He was upset, though, probably with himself for not having seen this situation developing.
“Good morning,” Elizabeth said, joining the other three. “Griffin, a pleasure to see you.” She made him a proper curtsy. “Won’t you introduce me to your friend?”
“Miss Elizabeth.” Griffin bowed far more correctly than Haverford had bowed to Biddy. “Good day. May I make known to you Miss Biddy Bowen. Biddy, this is Miss Elizabeth. She teaches me English, and I teach her birds and flowers.”
“Shall we go into the house?” Elizabeth suggested, twining her arm with Haverford’s. “I hear Miss Biddy’s shortbread is the best in the world.”
The brothers were glowering at each other, as brothers tended to. In other species, the same sentiments were accompanied by pawing, snorting, and much swishing of tails.
“Griffin favors my shortbread,” Biddy said. “My real name’s Bridget.”
“That is a lovely name.” Elizabeth gave Haverford’s arm a discreet tug. “I adore fresh, warm shortbread.”
Biddy dropped Griffin’s hand and took his arm. “Griffin helps me make it, though he steals half the batch before it’s in the oven.”
Haverford yielded to Elizabeth’s silent suggestion and escorted her up the path to the house. The dog and a half-dozen chickens followed, strutting and clucking.
“Did you receive His Grace’s card, Griffin?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes. Julian said he would call at ten of the clock, and it’s not ten of the clock yet.”
“We took a shortcut,” Elizabeth replied. “The pastures are so pretty this time of year, and the lanes are dusty. This is King Henry, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Haverford was concerned, while Griffin was furious and hurt. He’d been kissing a pretty lady, shouting his devotion to the heavens, and Haverford had come on the scene like the wrath of Moses.
The gentlemen bowed the ladies through the front door, and then greater awkwardness ensued, for no servant came to fetch the egg basket.
Biddy was the servant.
“Let’s take the eggs to the kitchen,” Elizabeth suggested. “I’ll help prepare the tea. Haverford, you might entertain Griffin with tales of yesterday’s scavenger hunt. Miss Biddy and I won’t be but a moment.”
“I don’t like hunting,” Griffin muttered.
“It’s not that sort of hunt,” Haverford said. “It’s more of a treasure hunt.”
“We don’t have any treasure,” Griffin replied, some of his truculence fading.
“You have each other,” Elizabeth said, sending Haverford an admonitory glance. “Come, Biddy, and perhaps we’ll steal a bite of shortbread before the gentlemen have a chance.”
“I should take your hat and coat, Julian,” Griffin observed, passing Biddy the egg basket. “And your walking stick. That is Grandpapa’s walking stick, isn’t it?”
“The very one.” Julian handed it over, and Elizabeth took the moment to retreat with Biddy to the back of the house.
The premises were spotless, commodious, and decorated with the occasional bundle of dried herbs or fresh flowers.
“You keep this house?” Elizabeth asked.
Biddy set the eggs on a sturdy wooden table in the kitchen. “I do for Abner and Griffin. You needn’t pretend, ma’am. I’ll not be doing for them now that His Grace caught Griffin kissing me.”
She collapsed onto a stool and stared at her basket of eggs. Biddy wasn’t a great beauty. Her hands were red and roughened, she had freckles across her cheeks, and her apron bore a suspicious streak of brown near the hem.
“You love him,” Elizabeth said.
“With all my heart. Griffin isn’t quick like a lord is supposed to be, but he’s smart in his own way, and he’s as good-hearted as they come. I should not have let him kiss me, though what’s the harm in a few kisses? We forgot to wash the eggs. That will bother Griffin.”
“Would he be faithful to you, Biddy?”
“Yes. There was that business with that woman, all those years ago, but Griffin understands what’s what. He has only the one child, and misses her terribly. He’d be a good papa, if anybody would give him the chance. Family shouldn’t be kept apart.”
A tea tray sat ready on the table, two plates of shortbread stacked three layers high. Elizabeth offered Biddy one of the plates.
“Ma’am, I couldn’t.”
Elizabeth passed Biddy the topmost slice. “Yes, you could. They are merely brothers having a disagreement. Haverford doesn’t deal well with surprises, and he’s had rather too many of them lately. Take off your apron, wash your hands, and we’ll show them how a pair of adults behave on a social call.”
Elizabeth sounded very like Aunt Esther, which was probably why Biddy complied. She smoothed a nervous hand over her hair, and would have taken the tray, except Elizabeth lifted it first.
“If you’d hold the door?”
“You love Haverford, don’t you?” Biddy asked.
“Madly.” And how wonderful, to be able to say that.
“Good. He needs somebody to love him madly and take his mind off his troubles. Griffin worries for him so.”
“Brothers do that too.”
Biddy presided over the tea tray, saying little, perching on the very, very edge of her chair. Elizabeth coaxed Griffin into telling her about his hens, each of whom had a name, personality, and preferred place to leave her eggs.
The St. David menfolk were an attentive and mannerly pair. The visit passed without either brother erupting into a temper, though Elizabeth could feel Haverford’s consternation boiling up inside him. He and Elizabeth took their leave, and like a conscientious host, Griffin escorted them to the door.
“I want to marry Biddy, Julian. I love her and she loves me too.”
“Love is precious,” Elizabeth said, “but a decision to marry mustn’t be undertaken lightly. Perhaps after the house party, you and His Grace might discuss the situation further.”
Griffin passed Haverford his hat. “I could get a mortgage. For the settlements. For Biddy.” He pronounced the word mortgage carefully, using the English term.
“A mortgage?” Haverford said slowly, as if Griffin had offered to contract a wasting disease. “Who explained mortgages to you?”
Griffin studied the head of the duke’s walking stick. “A friend explained it to me. I could sell some of my acres instead. I have hundreds of acres, all mine.”
Elizabeth heard a sound that might have been Haverford’s molars grinding.
“Griffin, please don’t sign any mortgages or sell your acres until we’ve had a chance to speak further,” Haverford said. “After the house party, we can discuss the nuptials as much as you please, but I’d ask you not to make any decisions until then.”
“Biddy said mortgages are bad.”
“And Biddy,” Haverford said, “is a woman of great good sense. Witness her devotion to you. You will please keep Grandpapa’s walking stick.”
The walking stick had been carved into the shape of a dragon, with an intricately scaled tail winding down its length.
“You want me to have Grandpapa’s walking stick?”
“You are out tramping around far more than I am, and I’ve had it long enough.”
Griffin held up the walking stick, grinning at the dragon, who appeared to smile back at him. “Thank you, Julian.”
Elizabeth remained silent, as did Haverford. He was quivering to lecture, advise, exhort, and be the duke—she could feel that too—but he said nothing.
“We can talk about mortgages after your guests have left,” Griffin said. “I won’t sign anything or make any promises. Biddy said I have to be careful about promises too. I want to marry her, Julian. I love Biddy Bowen.”
Griffin’s smile was beatific.
“I love you,” Haverford said, kissing his brother’s cheek. “My thanks for your hospitality. Miss Windham, shall we be on our way?”
Heavenly days, she was proud of them both. “Of course, Your Grace. Griffin.” She curtsied, he bowed, and before the door had closed behind them, Griffin was bellowing to Biddy about his grandfather’s walking stick.
“I shall curse now,” Haverford said. “I shall curse and rant and behave most unbecomingly.”
“Good,” Elizabeth replied, taking his hand. “You’re entirely allowed, once we get past the barnyard.”
When they had cleared the stile and gained the footpath behind the hedgerow, Haverford did not curse or rant, or even carry on unbecomingly. He took Elizabeth in his arms, kissed her passionately, and then gathered her close, all without shouting anything at all.