“You can tell your Viscount that my decision has remained unchanged. There will be no canal across myproperty.”
Robert stepped around her and left herfuming.
* * *
“Luddy,I am so sorry, I did everything I could. I was ever so sweet to him and I stayed out of the way and gave no indication that I knew the delegation’s purpose in meeting with him. I truly thought he might respond to yourdelegation.
Ludlow stood at his bay window studying a flock of swallows swooping in thesky.
“Then I shall need to up the ante, I see,” he said with his back toher.
“Oh, Luddy… I am notsure…”
“When is his book beingpublished?”
Amelia was stricken. “How do you know about thebook?”
He turned to her. “You toldme.”
“I could not have. I was sworn to secrecy. No one is to know he is theauthor.”
Ludlow laughed. “My darling, Amelia. You have no secrets from me. I know everything aboutyou.”
Now Amelia was frightened for Robert. “What are you planning todo?”
Ludlow tapped his lip as he contemplated. “You do not think I am going to tell you, do you? You would run off and tattle to your dear brother and then I should have noleverage.”
“Then I shall tell him you are planning something and to be on thelookout.”
Ludlow laughed. “Truly? And jeopardize your seven and a half percent? I thinknot.”
* * *
Diana had been correct.Robert was stymied in his writing by not being able to base his next book on a new adventure. But he was not able to travel just yet. His book would be launching in the autumn and he wanted to be present when it came out. Did this mean, then, that he was going to be a one book author? He certainly hopednot.
He went to his globe and spun it around as his father had done and used his finger to stop it—landing in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Not a very promising destination. He spun it again and found himself in the wastelands of greater Russia. Also, not very appealing. It was clearly not the time totravel.
Frustrated and restless, he turned from the globe. Perhaps his orchids might calm him, but he was too agitated to concentrate on the simplicity of his plants. He needed something more vigorous. A ride to inspect his borders, perhaps? No. The agitation was in his mind not his body. He realized physical exercise would be insufficient to calm his presentrestlessness.
Maybe he could calm himself at his little house on the river. Its simple confines might help contain his restlessness. But without a stimulating subject to write about, he would still be in this frustratingsituation.
Then he thought about Diana’s books. He had promised to read them and that might be just what he needed to distract himself from his own confusion. He went to his desk and picked up her first book,The Flowers ofFarthingale.
He slipped the book into his coat pocket. He opened the doors from the library and headed down the path that led along the side of the lake. A fish jumped from a portion of the lake covered with lily pads where new lilies were just starting to bloom. He walked until he came to the Roman temple at the farend.
A gentle and warm early May breeze wafted through the pillars and Robert pulled up a comfortable chair, stretched out his legs, opened the book, and began toread.
It was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon by the time he checked his pocket watch. How was that possible? He was nearly three-quarters through the book and had become so entranced, he read through lunch and it was now teatime.
He realized he was hungry and thirsty and headed back toward the house. But his mind was buzzing with the pleasant sensations he had experienced whilereading.
Diana’s book was not a tale of adventure—but a tale of the heart. But it was far from boring as he thought it might be. It thrilled him. Rarely had he experienced such deep emotion, as he recognized Diana in the character of the heroine. It gave him even deeper insight into this marvelous woman whom he so admired and respected. He was proud that she was to be the face of hisbook.
But it set him to thinking about her book as opposed to his book. Would her readers accept his masculine adventure from the author of such a gentle and touching story asFlowerswas? That gave him pause and he thought he ought to meet with her and discuss the disparity in their content andstyles.
But first, he wanted to finish her book. He sat in his favorite chair in the library, as Sithens served him tea and scones, and lost himself once again in the rest of Diana’sbook.
By the time he finished his tea he had also finished the book. He put it down on his lap and folded his hands resting them on thebook.
Splendid. Simply splendid. His first thought was to dash over to Cambridge and corral Diana and pump her for information about her writing. But it was already late afternoon, and it would soon be suppertime at the Browning household. No. It would need to be anothertime.
But the reading had accomplished what he had hoped it would. He felt calmer and more at ease. His anxiety over his writing frustrations had lessened and he knew that he could be patient until he was ready to write again—even if it meant he would need to wait until he was able totravel.
