Heat warmed Valeria’s cheeks, and as she looked away from him, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze a moment longer, she realized with some alarm that they had not gone unnoticed. She had been so drawn into his conversation, his easy charm, and the rumble of his voice that she had forgotten the dangers ofherselfbeing seen alone with a man.
This man…It was akin to putting her own name in the scandal sheets, joining the legion of ladies who had been scandalously associated, and duly spurned, as a result. Why, there were rumors that half of society’s children were actually his. An exaggeration, undoubtedly, but there was no smoke withoutsomefire.
Andherreputation could not bear any sort of dent or bad association, not now. Just talking to him could decimate her hopes of marrying before the Season concluded.
“You can leave me be,” she hurried to say. “I must go. I hope that I never see you again—thatis my desire.”
She turned to depart, but Lockie suddenly rose further up, his hand shooting out to grab Valeria by the wrist. He pulled her toward him, bent half over the balustrade, and as his warm breath tickled her neck, he whispered, “I do not accept. This is not over yet.”
Panicked by the abrupt murmur of gossiping voices, and the startling sensation of his rough, warm palm against the bare skin of her wrist, above the safe edge of her kid gloves, she snatched her hand back. Shooting him one of her most searing gazes, breathing hard at the audacity of him, she stalked off before he could even think of grabbing her a second time.
He did not attempt to follow. He did not need to, as Valeria soon realized, for his parting words pursued her back into the ball… and would undoubtedly haunt her all night, if not for days to come.
CHAPTER THREE
“Do you need rosemary?” Valeria called from the kitchen garden, swatting a fly out of her face.
A kindly, weathered face appeared at the kitchen door. “You don’t need to do that, miss.”
“Who else, if not me?” Valeria replied, smiling.
It was a beautiful spring afternoon, the birds were chirping and pecking for their luncheon, the bees were humming contentedly among the wildflowers, the sun was warm on Valeria’s skin, the sky cloudless and hazy with the promise of the coming summer. There was nowhere she would have rather been, nowhere better to shuffle off the discomfort of the previous night’s ball… and her encounter with Lockie.
She had already checked the scandal sheets for her name, relieved when she did not find it, but that did not mean it wouldnotappear. Until a week had passed without seeing it in those pages, she could not allow herself to fully relax.
“It’s not right, miss,” the cook, Mrs. Mitford, complained with a huff. “You shouldn’t be digging around in the dirt for herbs. I’ll fetch my boy from the village. He can do that, while you do what young ladies ought to be doing.”
Valeria waved a dismissive hand. “I am quite capable, and I am enjoying myself. Please, let me help. There is nothing else for me to do, and nothing else I wish to do… nor am I such a young lady anymore. I might as well make myself useful.”
“You’ll be asking to cook next,” Mrs. Mitford said with a faint chuckle.
“I would be glad to learn,” Valeria replied.
The cook must have thought she was joking, as she laughed and retreated inside, mumbling to herself. “A young lady of the house cooking her own dinner—whatever next! Sewing her own clothes? Raising her own hunting dogs? Running a household by herself?”
Valeria did not think that sounded so terrible, but as she looked up at the beautiful sandstone of Skeffington House, a pang of sadness struck her in the chest.
The manor had become so empty of late, the halls devoid of life, the rooms too large, the furniture and adornments toounnecessary; the reasonably modest residence becoming a thing of indulgence. It was still her beloved home, and it crushed her to think of what might become of it.
I could survive alone. A cottage somewhere, with space to grow things and a good fire to keep me warm in winters.She had never truly belonged in society anyway, so why not withdraw entirely—become a myth in the woods, quite content in solitude?
Just then, the creaky gate to the kitchen garden swung open and the familiar figure of Mr. Worth, the butler, came barreling through. He skidded to a halt on the stepping stone path that cut through the herbs and vegetables.
“A visitor, Miss Maxwell,” he wheezed, hands braced against his heaving ribs. “You have… a visitor.”
Valeria frowned. “Ihave a visitor?”
“Well… thereisa visitor, and as your father is not here, I’m afraid it… falls to you to greet him,” the butler gasped, stooping to catch his breath.
“Him?” Valeria blinked in confusion. No one ever visited her except her friends, Amelia and Isolde, and they were not due to call upon her until the summer. Indeed, she was supposed to be visitingthemin a fortnight.
The butler nodded, his cheeks bright red. “The Duke of Thornhill.”
“Who?” Valeria squinted, trying to place the name.
Unfortunately, she knew as much about the titles and histories of society’s peers as she did about cooking, her curious mind too filled with other things to bother remembering who was duke or earl or viscount of what.
“I’m not familiar with him either,” the butler replied apologetically.
