Mildred took a step in Estwood’s direction. She was a tall, robust woman, almost masculine in appearance.
Estwood shot Romy a look of terror.
“Fine, fine.” Carstairs nodded. “It’s already been decided that the winner of our match will have to play Granby and Lady Beatrice.” He nodded to Beatrice, who circled Granby like a lioness trying to determine the best way to take down an elephant.
Since avoiding the elephant—in this case, Granby—was at the top of Romy’s list of things to accomplish today, it was nothing short of fortuitous that Mildred had set her sights on Estwood. She did feel terrible about leaving him in Mildred’s tender clutches, but evading Granby took precedent over Estwood’s feelings.
Her host stood at the edge of the lawn, his commanding form surveying the green as if he were a general about to order his troops to charge. The day was warm, and Granby had discarded his coat. As Romy watched, a light breeze blew the fabric of his shirt against his arms, the outline of the bunched muscles beneath clearly visible. He reached up and tugged at his collar as if his valet had tied his cravat too tight.
Blythe said something, and Granby turned his face into the wind, the air sifting through the ebony waves of his hair to toss them over one eye. He brushed the thick strands back with one hand and caught sight of her.
The air grew still and quiet, the laughter of the other guests muted to whispers. Romy heard nothing but her heart, beating like a drum in her ears. His harshly carved features were remote. Detached. But not his eyes. They blazed with a heat which scorched Romy from across the green. The attraction to Granby pulled and tugged at Romy’s skirts before settling low in her belly with a delicious rustle.
Intent shimmered across the green to her, accompanied by disapproval. Reluctance. His hands curled into fists at his sides, probably restraining himself from chasing her off the lawn.
Romy jerked her chin away from him and made her way to Miss Waterstone. Granby could go hang. If she were the source of his discomfort, he had only to ask her to leave. Shealsofound the attraction between them unwelcome.
She focused her attention on Miss Waterstone, who was staring unhappily at the area where tables laden with an assortment of fruits, cheese, and small sandwiches along with other refreshments were manned by Granby’s servants. Miss Waterstone’s chaperone, an elderly cousin, was seated with Lady Meredith’s aunt. Both women shot Miss Waterstone twin looks of pity.
Romy frowned and hurried to Miss Waterstone. Here was a young lady in dire need of a friend. She regretted not calling after seeing her at Madame Dupree’s. At the least, Romy would have realized they were attending the same house party that much sooner. And possibly found a way out of coming to The Barrow.
“Miss Waterstone.” Romy reached her side. “I thought I was the only one not interested in playing bowls.”
“Lady Andromeda.” Miss Waterstone bobbed politely with a shy smile. “It appeared you would partner with Mr. Estwood.” Her lovely features took on a wistful look as she glanced in his direction.
Romy took note of her interest. “I’m not yet in the mood for a game, and Lady Mildred was eager to play.” She took Miss Waterstone’s arm. “Shall we walk for a bit? The day is fine, and the duke’s gardens are oddly magnificent.”
“Oddly?”
“I only meant, based on first impressions of the duke, His Grace doesn’t seem the sort of gentleman to harbor such a wild display of flora. I pictured neatly trimmed hedges and constrained vines. Possibly a small maze with a Minotaur lurking in the middle. His head gardener—”
“Oh, His Grace has had several. He’sveryparticular. I understand his father was much the same.”
“That is exactly my point, Miss Waterstone. This profusion of blooms seems out of character for Granby and far more exotic than I would have imagined.” Romy peered closer. “I’ve no idea what that particular bush is, for instance.” She pointed to a cluster of bright, papery pink flowers.
“The name escapes me.” Miss Waterstone tapped her lips with a forefinger. “The duke has a greenhouse which contains all manner of flowers, shrubs, and vines used to much warmer climates. A hobby of his, I think.”
Miss Waterstone appeared to have a great deal of information about the Duke of Granby.
“How unusual.”
“Greenhouses are fairly common, my lady.”
“Of course.” It was Granby’s penchant for growing things which confused her. Clawing, half-dead vines filled with thorns seemed more in character. “How would you come by such knowledge?” Surely Granby didn’t spend an inordinate amount of time with Miss Waterstone.
Romy bristled at the thought.
“His Grace has business dealings with my father, so this is not my first visit to The Barrow, my lady.” She paused. “I think at one time my father thought to make a match between myself and the duke, which is preposterous. Granby has much higher expectations for his duchess.”
Romy mulled the comment over, thinking it accurate. “Is that how you met Mr. Estwood? At The Barrow?” She squeezed her arm. “I noted your interest earlier.”
Miss Waterstone’s cheeks bloomed pink. “Mr. Estwood advises the duke on his investments, some of which involve my father. Much to my father’s displeasure, Estwood sees fit to accompany the duke to business meetings and the like. He finds Estwood beneath him.” Miss Waterstone placed a hand on Romy’s arm. “Not the duke,” she rushed to assure Romy. “I meant my father.”
Miss Waterstone’s lisp became less pronounced the longer she spoke and relaxed in Romy’s company. Romy wondered if her new friend had ever spoken to a physician about her speech problem. “A title doesn’t make a man.”
“No, but breeding does. It is the only thing I think the duke and my father have in common, outside of business.”
“Yet, Granby is friends with Estwood. Doesn’t that strike you as contrary, Miss Waterstone?”
