“What is it?”
Agnes jumped, as if startled by the voice. “What is what?”
“The matter that makes you so melancholy.”
“I am hardly melancholy.” Agnes smiled, dismissing the gray clouds of her face for faint rays of sunshine. “It is only that such events often tire me. There are so many gentlemen, and they do seem to vex you with such attentions—”
“You must not fret on my account.” Georgina grinned as the carriage pulled to a halt. “I am quite used to both encouraging or discouraging them at my pleasure.”
“Yes.” More clouds. “I know.”
“Agnes—”
The carriage door opened, and before Georgina could question her cousin further, they were both handed down by—
“Mr. Oswald.” Surprise raced through her, as she had anticipated her footman and not the host of the picnic. “Have you taken to servant duties?”
“I would take to anything that might permit nearness to you.”
The flattery sent a second jolt of surprise. He was beginning to sound like all the others—and she was not certain if that delighted or disappointed.
“Are you not impressed?”
She settled her hand in the crook of his arm, as he led them across the shortly trimmed yard. Lavish tables gleamed with colorful grapes, silver dishes, endless trays of meats, cakes, nuts, and teapots. Guests already visited on various quilts, and a small group of gentlemen engaged themselves in a game of skittles under a shading elm tree. “Yes, it is all lovely.”
“I was not referring to the picnic.”
“Oh?”
“That might have as easily been orchestrated by a frivolous lady of the ton. In fact, it was.” He laughed. “My sister.”
“Then with what accomplishment am I to be impressed?”
“The weather, of course.” He leaned close enough to whisper. “For although Eleanor arranged the insignificant details, I took the honors of deciding upon a date. Considering this is the first warm day of the year, I find that reason for at least a little arrogance, do you not?”
She laughed, shook her head in amusement, as her eyes traveled the length of the yard—
Simon Fancourt stood leaning against one of the white pillars on the oval-shaped porch, his face too shaded to see. But she knew by his stance. The shape of his shoulders. The height that would tower over most anyone present.
“You seem astonished.”
“No.”
“As you have already rejected his offer of marriage, I did not imagine his presence would affect you, else I would not have invited him.”
She glanced at Mr. Oswald’s face, a knot weaving in her stomach. “He told you?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“Modesty has never been one of my qualities, Miss Whitmore. I am not ashamed of my methods, but rather fiercely boastful of them.”
“Which is to say?”
“What you already suspect.” He grinned as he led her closer to one of the refreshment tables. “I followed Mr. Fancourt to your town house the day he proposed, and as your answer did not leave a pleasant look on his face and as you also did not know of his coming today, it is logical to assume he was rejected.”
Heat flooded her face, as she withdrew her arm from his. The insensitivity of his conjectures, the reality that he had followed Simon Fancourt to her town house, spying as if she was—
