It seemed forever before Marcus rose to his feet, the hook held securely between finger and thumb, the line trailing free on the grass. ‘There you are, now you can begin again. Where is your bait?’
‘Over there, but I think I have fished enough for one night.’
‘Bacon?’ He peered into the dish. ‘What were you intending to catch with that, for goodness’ sake?’ The amusement was back in his voice.
‘Perch, of course. Bacon is excellent for perch, as you just witnessed.’
‘A veritable Izaak Walton,’ he teased. ‘Here, take your hook and line.’
He held both out to her and the act of stepping forward to take them brought her disturbingly close to him. She held out a tentative hand for the hook, but he shook his head, ‘No, on second thoughts, you are right, you have fished enough tonight.’ He secured the barb onto the reel and dropped the rod, then stood regarding her so intently that she became acutely conscious of the plain, worn gown, her hair all awry, the unruly curls falling about her cheeks.
'What are you looking at me like that for?' Antonia asked, her mouth suddenly dry. Encounters with this man in broad daylight were unsettling enough, but under the influence of the full moon she felt anything might happen.
There was amusement in the look he was giving her, but he was not laughing at her expense she sensed, rather the look was tender and appreciative and transformed his face, making him seem less harsh, more approachable. ‘Oh, I was just thinking how charmingly you smell… of fish.’
‘You – ’ She raised one hand, only for him to catch it lightly by the wrist.
‘Please, do not slap my face, not when you are covered with fish scales and slime.’ His voice was warm and insidious as he pulled her gently towards him, as if she too were a fish on a line.
Antonia found herself moving. ‘I really ought to wash my hands,’ she muttered ridiculously, irrelevantly.
‘No need, we can manage if you only keep them at your sides,’ he remarked dispassionately before bending his head to kiss her.
His mouth was moving around the curve of her upper lip, gently nibbling. Antonia gasped with the intimate shock of the sensation, but, to her own bafflement, made no attempt to break free. When he reached the fullness of her lower lip she capitulated utterly, tipping her face upwards. His hands still held hers captive at her sides, which made the embrace seem somehow more shocking, more disturbing.
‘I must come night fishing again. I would never imagine I would catch such a prize,’ Marcus murmured into her hair.
‘Marcus, I am not a fish,’ she protested into his coat front. But she had no desire to move out of the circle of his arms, away from the warmth and the strength that was evident even through his clothing. Did she feel like this because it was Marcus who was holding her, she wondered, or was it moon madness?
He sighed, his breath stirring the fine hair at her temple. ‘Agreeable as I find this, we cannot stand out here all night, Antonia. What will the redoubtable Miss Donaldson think has become of you?’
‘Nothing, I trust.’ Antonia, tried not to feel disappointed as he turned from her to collect up her fishing tackle and lantern. ‘She was asleep when I left, and I hope she still is.’
He took her arm, guiding her over the tussocky grass of the still-untamed pleasure grounds. ‘Then you came fishing on a whim? What an extraordinary woman you are.’ The lantern was attracting small moths, which rose from the lawn at their feet so that they appeared to be walking though a small cloud.
‘We cannot live on game alone and I thought fish would be a welcome variation.’ She glanced at him sideways to see how he took this reference to her licensed ‘poachers’.
‘I am not going to rise to your bait, Antonia. It is late and I am tired. I am resolved not to mention your poachers again, unless we find any on my land, not that I am happy with the example you are setting. But why do you not set that lad of yours to fishing? He has no doubt been doing it in my rivers half his life.’
So, he had decided to let that quarrel lie, she mused. Still, that did not explain why he had so unexpectedly come to her aid with the banker. ‘It sounds dangerously as if you are resigned to my remaining at Rye End Hall, Marcus.’
He stopped and looked at her, a moonlit glint that was not all amusement in his eye. ‘Take care, Antonia. You may have a penchant for angling, but do not try to fish for my motives. I told you I would not discuss them, that day in Berkhamsted.’
She was not going to let him think she was so easily discouraged. ‘It less than a week before that meeting that you were violently opposed to our remaining here and wished to buy my lands. Are you no longer interested in acquiring them?’
Marcus tucked her hand under his arm once more and carried on towards the house. ‘There is more than one way to skin a cat, Antonia,’ he remarked casually. When she gave a snort of exasperation he smiled faintly. ‘Now, which door did you come out by?’
‘The side door. It is unlocked.’
‘Have you no care for burglars?’
‘Burglars here, in the depths of the country, lurking on the off-chance that I would go fishing and leave the door open? If we are to talk of extraordinary behaviours, Marcus, why are you out at this hour? It must be all of half past two.’
‘A card party at Sir George Dover’s.’ He named a near neighbour of hers whose wife had already made her call of courtesy to Rye End Hall. ‘It was such a pleasant evening I walked over. But as you say, the hour is late. Goodnight, Antonia.’ He lifted her hand, kissed the back of her wrist, well away from her fish-scaled fingers, and strode off along the footpath into the moonlight towards Brightshill.
Antonia snuggled down in her bed ten minutes later and thought back on that extraordinary encounter. There was no doubting she had behaved most improperly, moonlight or not, but she could not regret allowing Marcus to kiss her. Again.
Her fingers, now mercifully free of fish, strayed to her lips, tracing where his mouth had roamed. Surely he was not simply toying with her affections? There was no denying that those were engaged, or if not affections, certainly something close. He was a gentleman, after all.
Yet that casual remark about skinning cats, his refusal to discuss his motives for helping her with the loan – those nagged at the back of her mind. She had refused to sell him her lands so had he now some other ploy in mind?
‘Oh, Donna, good news. Mr Blake writes to say they are most interested in my description of the property and my proposals for a lease.’
When Antonia waved two sheets of hot-pressed paper Donna put down her needlework and asked placidly, ‘Is that the answer to the advertisement in The Times? Do stop jigging around the room, dear, and let me see.’
Antonia whirled to a halt on the newly-cleaned salon carpet and handed over the letter. ‘I am so relieved. After putting all this work in hand, I must admit to dreadful apprehension that we would not find a tenant willing to take it.’
‘I, too,’ Donna confessed as she smoothed out the sheets to con them again. ‘After all, it is almost four weeks since you wrote. So much money has been spent, although I must say it is most pleasant to be able to sit in here, instead of sharing the kitchen with Mrs Brown, especially now the weather is so fine.’
They both turned to look from the wide bay window across the green swathe of lawn, finally responding to Old Johnson’s frequent scything. The fine weather had allowed the workmen to complete almost all their work on the Hall and tomorrow they would commence the smaller task of making the Dower House habitable again.
The river glinted in the sunlight, recalling her moonlight encounter with Marcus Renshaw. Antonia struggled to suppress the nagging feeling of disappointment that struck her every time she thought of that incident. She had honestly expected him to call again, to start wooing her.
She had teased herself, wondering if he was interested in her for herself or her property, and then had felt disheartened on learning that he had left for London the following day. She told herself that it would teach her not to jump to conclusions, or indeed, flatter herself that a duke would have serious intentions towards someone with no fortune, no sophistication, no experience. I would make the most inadequate duchess.
It was a wonder that he had spent so much time in the neighbourhood. Surely dukes had a full social calendar in London and business to transact on their many estates?
‘Are you attending, my dear?’ Donna had obviously been speaking for some minutes. Antonia recalled herself and apologised. ‘I was saying that Mr Blake states his intention of calling the day after tomorrow unless he hears to the contrary. I do believe we should send a positive response today, because we are quite ready to receive him.’
‘Yes, you are right. That would create a good impression and it is important that he convince his principal that this property is perfect for him.’
Antonia felt far from confident that she could negotiate the lease successfully. She had still not told Donna that it was only with Marcus’s intervention that the bank loan had been granted. By herself, she had failed utterly with Mr Pethybridge and Mr Jeremy Blake was a man of business too, probably one cut from the same cloth. And this time she could hardly call on the Duke of Allington to negotiate on her behalf, even if he had been at Brightshill.
Two days later Donna was flitting around with a duster polishing wood that already gleamed and driving Antonia to distraction. She was nervous enough about their visitor as it was. ‘Please, Donna, come and sit down, Mr Blake is due at any moment. Oh, listen. Is that a chaise I hear now?’
Donna thrust the duster under the sofa cushions and patted her hair firmly under her cap. Antonia smoothed out the folds of her only respectable morning gown and cast a hasty glance in the over-mantel mirror. She felt confident her appearance would impress an elderly lawyer. Her unruly hair was caught back smoothly under a blue ribbon, her high-necked dress was trimmed chastely at collar and cuff with Brussels lace and her only ornaments were a good amber set inherited from her mother.
She turned as their newly appointed maidservant announced, ‘Mr Blake, ma’am.’
A man scarcely older than herself stood on the threshold of the salon. Mr Blake was a pleasant-looking gentleman with a cheerful, plain face, neatly trimmed brown hair and immaculately fashionable, if sober, clothing. He was a far cry from the desiccated lawyer they had be expecting.
And if they were taken aback, so too was Mr Blake, it seemed. He was not quite quick enough to conceal the look of first, surprise, and then perhaps, pleasure as she stepped forward to greet him. He had his expression under control before he took her proffered hand.
‘Good day, Mr Blake, I trust you had a pleasant journey from Town.’
‘Thank you, ma'am. I spent the night in Berkhamsted at the White Hart in tolerable comfort.’
‘May I present my companion, Miss Donaldson.’
Antonia suspected that Donna was more in the style he had been expecting. He exchanged polite bows with Donna and accepted both the seat and the cup of tea that were offered.
‘I realise you have only had the most cursory of first impressions of Rye End Hall,’ Antonia said, attempting to sound unconcerned, ‘but may I ask if this is the sort of property your principal is seeking?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Mr Blake said warmly, then apparently seeing the dangers of appearing too eager, recollected himself. ‘That is to say, the location is precisely what Sir Josiah desires, and the house appears charming.’
‘Sir Josiah?’
‘I think there is no harm in revealing that I represent Sir Josiah Finch, who returned from the East Indies some twelve months ago and is now desirous of settling in this area from whence his family originated.’
‘How very interesting. No doubt he will find the countryside hereabouts a great contrast to the Indies.’
They continued to exchange pleasantries while the tea was drunk. Antonia talked on, doing her best not to betray her instinct that Mr Blake was not only very favourably disposed towards the Hall, but also towards herself. It was very pleasing to feel admired, and she was enjoying the respectful appreciation in Mr Blake’s eyes.
‘Another cup of tea, Mr Blake? No?’ Antonia rose to her feet. ‘Then may I take you on a tour of the Hall?’
As they crossed the entryway, Antonia paused to allow him time to observe its proportions. ‘Are you well acquainted with Sir Josiah?’
‘Indeed, I am, Miss Dane. We are related by marriage.’
‘I asked as I was wondering if he intended bringing his family. There is ample accommodation.’
‘Sir Josiah is married to Lady Finch who is my aunt. Sadly, they are without surviving children. The Indies are a cruel place for infants.’
As she murmured words of regret, Antonia was aware of Donna slipping back into the salon, no doubt to peruse the pages of Burke’s Landed Gentry for the records of the Finch family. Such a connection would explain Mr Blake’s air of easy good breeding. And, Antonia mused, it should also make negotiations much simpler. No doubt he was fully in his uncle’s confidence and would be able to make decisions without constant reference to his principal.
Mr Blake proved to be an undemanding visitor, although he made frequent notes in a small black book. He admired the number and proportions of the rooms, commented favourably upon the domestic arrangements and was fully in agreement with their decision not to decorate extensively.
‘Sir Josiah will be bringing a considerable collection of Oriental furnishings and art works,’ he explained as they descended the staircase. ‘And he will wish to hang some very fine Chinese wallpapers, if that is acceptable to you, Miss Dane?’
‘Oh, certainly, I would have no objection. You sound as though you have already resolved to recommend Rye End Hall to Sir Josiah,’ Antonia commented, her fingers crossed in the folds of her skirts.
‘I think it would suit them admirably,’ Mr Blake said. ‘Of course, the final decision is Sir Josiah’s,’ he added with a sudden return to lawyer-like caution.
‘Would you care to take a little luncheon before seeing the pleasure grounds and Home Farm?’ Antonia offered, determined to remain cool and business-like, but quite unable to hide the pleasure and relief at his positive words.
Donna had left off from her scanning of Burke’s long enough to order up a light meal to be served in the breakfast room. Antonia wished that the smell of beeswax polish was not quite so obvious, betraying all the hard work and hope which had gone into preparing for this visit but, fortunately, Mr Blake seemed oblivious to such housekeeping details.
‘Most eligible. Extremely well connected,’ Donna hissed in Antonia’s ear as they entered the room. ‘l have marked the page.’
‘Donna… shh. Do take this seat, Mr Blake. You will have a fine view down to the river.’
‘That puts me in mind of another question I must ask. Thank you, ma’am, cold pigeon would be most acceptable. Is the fishing good? And do you intend to retain the rights?’
Antonia felt herself colour up to the roots of her hair. ‘I believe there are perch, but I really cannot say. I have no intention of keeping the fishing rights, none at all.’
Her vehemence was clearly as puzzling as her confusion and she was very aware of Donna’s beady regard. She must pull herself together, stop falling into daydreams and reveries every time anyone mentioned the river. A sensible woman would conclude that, despite his dalliance on the river bank, the Duke’s absence was a clear signal that the incident meant nothing to him. She became aware that Mr Blake was speaking again and remarked hastily, ‘And no doubt pike are common.’
‘In the stables?’ Donna interjected. ‘Antonia dear, you have lost the thread of the conversation, we were speaking of accommodation for Sir Josiah’s carriage horses.’
‘I am so sorry. A syllabub, Mr Blake, or can I tempt you with a jelly?’
‘Either, Miss Dane,’ the lawyer responded warmly.
Across the table Antonia was aware of Donna’s smug expression. No doubt she was convinced that there was no hope of the Duke coming up to scratch but a lawyer with connections…
An hour later, only the stables remained to be inspected. Mr Blake expressed his intention of returning immediately and had his groom hitching up his pair while he looked around.
‘I hope to reach London tonight and speak to Sir Josiah tomorrow morning,’ he explained as they emerged from the carriage house into the sunlight once more.
‘You will be very late, surely?’ Antonia queried.
‘I shall change horses at Stanmore and expect to make good time. Sir Josiah is impatient when it comes to matters of business and he will expect a prompt report.’
‘May I ask if you are still inclined to recommend this house to Sir Josiah?’ Antonia ventured.
‘Let me just say that I shall ask the name and direction of your man of business before I leave,’ Mr Blake replied, pencil poised over his notebook.
Antonia dictated the details and London address, making a mental note to write with all dispatch to Mr Cooke at Gray’s Inn, who would otherwise be deeply confused to receive such an approach.
She was slightly taken aback at the sight of Mr Blake’s vehicle, a rakish sporting curricle pulled by a pair of handsome matched bays. She had expected a lawyer to be driven in a closed carriage, not to be tooling himself down the highway. But then, Mr Jeremy Blake was most unlawyerlike in many respects.
‘Well, I must thank you for your hospitality, Miss Dane, Miss Donaldson,’ he began, taking Antonia’s hand in his and looking deep into her eyes. ‘And I hope to be able to give you an answer within a few days...’
He was in mid-sentence, Antonia’s hand still clasped in his, when, with a flurry of hooves on the gravel, Marcus Renshaw cantered into the stable yard astride a rakish chestnut. He reined in hard, but not before the carriage horses shied in alarm, sending the groom running to their heads.