“I feel for him. I truly do,” Lord Chilmond said with a heavy sigh. “It is not easy to inherit our fathers’ estates. There is the pressure to live up to their names, their memories, and do right by them as well as the people we are now responsible for.”
Very slowly as they walked, Dorothy looked back at Stephen, something Lord Chilmond didn’t seem aware of as he continued to stare ahead.
Stephen looked back at her, wondering what she was thinking. Was she still thinking of Allan? Or was she thinking of Stephen himself?
One of the nicest memories Stephen had of Dorothy was the day after he had buried his father. He had gone to Allan’s house, still dressed in the same clothes he had worn to the funeral because he had not gone to bed. Allan hadn’t yet returned from a business trip.
Seeing what a state Stephan had been in, Dorothy had urged him to sit down in their drawing room. They’d ended up having a big argument, as he hadn’t wanted to sit down. He hadn’t wanted tea either, though, somehow, he had found himself sitting by a roaring fire, a blanket on his lap, and a teacup in his hands. She had been a friend to him that day, and somehow, he had fallen asleep in that chair. He hadn’t thought much of that day since.
Now, she had the same expression she’d had that day by the fire on her face. It wasn’t angry anymore, but warm, almost… tender.
Stephen felt a sudden desire to rip Lord Chilmond from her side.
“What do you say to going this way?” Lord Chilmond directed their path, and Dorothy nodded, following him.
She would have rather gone the other way.
Stephen didn’t need to catch a glimpse of the way she glanced at the wilder path that led to the trees. He knew it instinctively, regardless.
They walked on for a while before they discovered they were not the only ones in the garden. At a distance, Stephen could see that Lady Frederica and Lady Charlotte had come out for a walk. They stood between two borders of daffodils, their yellow blooms just beginning to open.
Hmm… Lady Frederica.
Stephen couldn’t deny that she was a beauty, but what had made him think of her most when he had met her the night before was her quietness—her timidity, too. She was a quiet lady and didn’t speak unless spoken to. She was everything that Stephen’s father had said was ideal in a duchess.
“Yes, quiet. Quiet like a mouse, that’s what you want, Stephen. No man wants to be challenged under his own roof.”
So many times, Stephen had heard these words. Something about it grated on him now, though, as he glanced at Dorothy.
Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to be challenged a little bit in life. One could end up too complacent, with the same opinion, unless someone else challenges it quite wisely.
To his dismay, he found himself admitting that Dorothy had already challenged him on more than one political opinion. She wasn’t always wrong.
“What do you think?” Lord Chilmond asked, and Stephen redirected his focus to their conversation. The Viscount was gesturing to the house, as the wind had picked up, and the air was growing chilly. “We can take refuge from the wind.”
“Erm…” Dorothy was stalling, looking at the copse beyond the gardens as Lord Chilmond went up the steps by a door that led back into the house.
Stephen saw a chance to sabotage her efforts once again, just as she had done with him last night.
“I’m afraid the wind will not disturb Dorothy’s wishes for a walk, My Lord,” Stephen explained, moving to Dorothy’s side. “Last winter, her brother and I found her walking back home in a storm after a particularly long hike. Like a drowned rat, she was. Mud all over her gown, too.”
This didn’t seem to please Lord Chilmond, though he flattened his lips in an attempt to hide his sentiment.
“Stephen!” Dorothy subtly stomped on Stephen’s foot, and he tried to hide his wince. “He is exaggerating. I was not that bad, but I may take a little longer walk yet. I shall join you inside shortly.”
“I look forward to it.” Lord Chilmond bowed, seeming reluctant to leave without her, before he went inside.
“He’s attentive for a man who has only just met you,” Stephen grumbled, still staring after Lord Chilmond as Dorothy rounded on him.
She jabbed a finger in his arm. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”
“What was that you said last night? Oh, yes, all’s fair in love and war, Dorotheo.”
“This is no time for Shakespeare.”
“It wasn’t Shakespeare, but a writer called John Lyly.”
“How is it you know everything?” She thrust her arms up in the air in frustration.
