Bound By A Scandalous Secret

They fell silent again.

‘Do you miss this place?’ he asked. ‘I don’t mean this folly. Do you miss Summerfield House where you grew up?’

Her expression turned wistful. ‘I do miss it. All the familiar rooms. The familiar paintings and furniture. We could not take much with us.’ Her chin set and her eyes hardened. ‘I do not want you to think we blame Lord Penford. He was under no obligation to us. We knew he inherited many problems my father created.’ She stood again and walked to the edge of the folly. Placing her hand on one of the columns, she leaned out. ‘The snow seems to be abating.’

He was not happy to see the flakes stop. ‘Shall we venture out in it again?’

‘I think we must,’ she said. ‘I do not want to return late and cause any questions about where I’ve been.’

‘Is that what happens?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ Her eyes changed from resentment to amusement. ‘Although I do not always answer such questions truthfully.’

‘I would wager you do not.’

* * *

Rossdale again pulled Genna up to sit in front of him on his beautiful horse. How ironic. It was the most intimate she had ever been with a man.

She liked him. She could not think of any other gentleman of her acquaintance who she liked so well and with whom she wanted to spend more time. Usually she was eager to leave a man’s company, especially when the flattery started. Especially when she suspected they were more enamoured of the generous sum Lord Tinmore would provide for her dowry than they were of her. No such avaricious gleam reached Rossdale’s eyes. She had the impression the subject of her dowry had not once crossed Rossdale’s mind.

They rode without talking, except for Genna’s directions. She led him through the fields, the shortest way to Tinmore Hall and also the way they were least likely to encounter any other person. The snow had turned the landscape a lovely white, as if it had been scrubbed clean. There was no sound but the crunch of the horse’s hooves on the snow and the huff of the animal’s breathing.

They came to the stream. The only way to cross was at the bridge, the bridge that had been flooded that fateful night Tess had been caught in the storm.

‘Leave me at the bridge,’ she said. No one was in sight, but if anyone would happen by, it would be on the road to the bridge. ‘I’ll walk the rest of the way.’

‘So we are not seen together?’ he correctly guessed.

She could not help but giggle. ‘Unless you want a forced marriage.’

He raised his hands in mock horror. ‘Anything but that.’

‘Here is fine.’ She slid from the saddle.

He unfastened her satchel and handed it to her. ‘It has been a pleasure, Miss Summerfield.’

‘I am indebted to you, sir,’ she countered. ‘But if you dare say so to anyone, I’ll have to unfurl my wrath.’

He smiled down at her and again she had the sense that she liked him.

‘It will be our secret,’ he murmured.

She nodded a farewell and hurried across the bridge. When she reached the other side, she turned.

He was still there watching her.

She waved to him and turned away, and walked quickly. She was later than she’d planned to be.

She approached the house through the formal garden behind the Hall and entered through the garden door, removing her half-boots which were soaked through and caked with snow. One of the servants would take care of them. She did not dare clean them herself as she’d been accustomed to do at Summerfield. If Lord Tinmore heard of it, she’d have to endure yet another lecture on the proper behaviour of a lady, which did not include cleaning boots.

What an ungrateful wretch she was. Most young ladies would love having a servant clean her boots. Genna simply was used to doing for herself, since her father had cut back on the number of servants at Summerfield House.

She hung her damp cloak on a hook and carried her satchel up to her room. The maid assigned to her helped her change her clothes, but Genna waited until the girl left before unpacking her satchel. She left her painting on a table, unsure whether to work on it more or not.

She covered it with tissue again and put it in a drawer. She would not work on it now. Of that she was certain. Instead she hurried down to the library, opening the door cautiously and peeking in. No one was there, thank goodness, although it would have been quite easy to come up with a plausible excuse for coming to the library.

She searched the shelves until she found the volume she sought—Debrett’s Peerage & Baronetage. She pulled it out and turned first to the title names, riffling the pages until she came to the Rs.

‘Rossdale. Rossdale. Rossdale,’ she murmured as she scanned the pages.

The title name was not there.

She turned to the front of the book again and found the pages listing second titles usually borne by the eldest sons of peers. She ran her finger down the list.

Rossdale.

There it was! And next to the name Rossdale was Kessington d. D for Duke.

She had been in the company of the eldest son of the Duke of Kessington. The heir of the Duke of Kessington. And she had been chatting with him as if he were a mere friend of her brother’s. Worse, she had hung all the family’s dirty laundry out to dry in front of him, her defiant defence over anticipated censure or sympathy. He’d seen her wild painting and witnessed her nonsense about Boadicea.

She turned back to the listing of the Duke of Kessington. There were two pages of accolades and honours bestowed upon the Dukes of Kessington since the sixteen hundreds. She read that Rossdale’s mother was deceased. Rossdale’s given name was John and he had no brothers or sisters. He bore his father’s second title by courtesy—the Marquess of Rossdale.

She groaned.

The heir of the Duke of Kessington.

Chapter Two (#u4effa6c4-5cae-55ce-a353-1c7099a2e2a9)

Ross sipped claret as he waited for Dell in the drawing room. The dinner hour had passed forty minutes ago, not that he’d worked up any great appetite or even that he was in any great need of company. He was quite content to contemplate his meeting with Miss Summerfield. He’d been charmed by her.

How long had it been since a young woman simply conversed with him, about herself and her family skeletons, no less? Whenever he attended a society entertainment these days all he saw was calculation in marriageable young ladies’ eyes and those of their mamas. All he’d seen in Miss Summerfield’s eyes was friendliness.

Would that change? Obviously she’d not known the name Rossdale or its significance, but he’d guess she’d soon learn it. Would she join the ranks of calculating females then?

He was curious to know.

The door opened.

‘So sorry, Ross.’ Dell came charging in. ‘I had no idea this estate business would take so long. I’ve alerted the kitchen. Dinner should be ready in minutes.’

Ross lifted the decanter of claret. ‘Do you care for some?’

Dell nodded. ‘I’ve a great thirst.’

Ross poured him a glass and handed it to him.

‘First there is the problem of dry rot. Next the cow barn, which seems to be crumbling, but the worst is the condition of the tenant cottages. One after the other have leaking roofs, damaged masonry, broken windows. I could go on.’ He took a swig of his wine.