She took one of the stones in her right hand, positioned it carefully with her thumb, and tossed it across the water in the way her father had taught her with endless patience when she was a child. But she was out of practice. It hit the surface and sank from sight without bouncing even once.
Well, one must not give in to defeat after just one try, or even, perhaps, after twenty. Her second stone bounced five times—an all-time record—and was halfway across the lake before it finally sank from view. Chloe smiled smugly. Even her father had never done better than that.
Oh, Papa. Suddenly she felt like weeping.
She should have been content with the triumph of those five bounces, she thought ruefully a short while later when the fifth stone, and the third in a row, bounced once halfheartedly before sinking. Though perhaps her attempts had accomplished something. She was feeling a little more cheerful.
“It is all in the flick of the wrist,” a voice said from so close by that Chloe jumped with alarm and dropped the three remaining stones.
She peered through the fronds of the willow to her left. But she had not mistaken the voice. It was not one of the gardeners. The Earl of Berwick was standing out on the grass a mere few yards from the tree. He must have walked the direct route down from the house. He was dressed for riding, complete with long drab coat worn open and tall hat that cast his face in shadow but did not quite mask the menace of his scar. He was flicking a riding crop against the supple leather of his boots. Her heart felt as though it had leapt into her throat and was beating wildly there like a bird trying to escape.
“If you had been here a few moments ago,” she said, “you would have seen one of my stones bounce five times.”
“Braggart,” he said. “Or fibber.”
“It is true,” she protested.
What on earth was he doing back at Manville? And not just at the house but down here at the lake? She felt a little ridiculous standing where she was, as if she were cowering behind the willow fronds, hoping not to be seen. She pushed her way through and stepped out onto the grass.
He looked her over unhurriedly, a slight frown between his brows, his eyes cool and unreadable. Chloe clasped her hands behind her back and stopped herself from apologizing for being here when perhaps he had been seeking some solitude. He could have avoided talking to her, after all. It must have been obvious to him that she had not seen him come.
But why would he seek solitude in the park when he must have just arrived? His boots were covered with a film of dust, which suggested that he had ridden this time, not driven his curricle. Had he ridden all the way from London? Why?
She said something very foolish instead of waiting for him to break the silence.
“I am not going to apologize for the other morning,” she said. “I have had time to reflect upon what I suggested, and I have changed my mind. It was nothing but foolish impulse. I have forgotten it. I hope for the duchess’s sake you have brought her happy news from London.”
“Changed your mind?” he said after a few moments, during which his riding crop tapped rhythmically against one boot. “That is a pity. I came back here to offer you marriage, Miss Muirhead.”
* * *
The duke was dozing in his study, Weller had informed Ralph on his arrival, and Her Grace had gone to pay an afternoon call on Mrs. Booth. Miss Muirhead had not accompanied her. He regretted that he did not know where she was.
She was not in either the drawing room or the morning room. Ralph had looked in both. Nor was she on the eastern terrace. A gardener he had hailed had seen her walking across the east lawn in the direction of the river an hour or so ago. But she was neither down on the riverbank nor in the meadow on the other side of the bridge. Ralph looked to his right when he reached the bridge, but going that way would have brought her to the driveway and on out through the gates to the village. He would surely have seen her if that had been her destination. Besides, if she had been going to the village, why take such a circuitous route? The path to the left led in among trees and around the bend in the river to the rapids and then the falls. If she had gone that way and kept going, she would have ended up at the lake. It seemed a likely destination on such a lovely day.
Ralph took the short route to the lake past the house again and down the steep west lawn. He almost missed seeing her when he got there. The bank of the lake seemed deserted. But then a stone arced out from behind the nearer fronds of the weeping willow and bounced once at far too sharp an angle to allow for a second bounce. It sank from sight. It could only have been thrown by a human hand—a not-very-skilled one. Another followed it, and then another, with the same result.
And then he saw her, standing with her back to the slender trunk of the tree, her green dress an almost perfect camouflage against her surroundings. Except that she wore no bonnet and that red hair of hers gave her away if she was indeed hoping to stay hidden. Did she never wear a bonnet?
She had not seen him approach, and, stupidly, he almost turned back before she did. But what the devil? He had come all this way, on horseback, ahead of his baggage coach and his valet, with the sole purpose of seeking her out privately. Good fortune had been with him—he had seen neither of his grandparents first.
He had attended a ball the evening after he called upon George. There had been nothing unusual about that, of course. He often attended balls. He usually danced a few sets with ladies of his acquaintance. It would be impolite to his hostess not to dance at all. What he did not often do, though, was allow that hostess—Lady Livermere in this case—to latch on to his arm as though she had been presented with a prize trophy and parade him about, introducing him to what had seemed like an endless stream of young ladies he had not seen before. And their mamas too, of course. No self-respecting young lady attended a ball without her mother at her elbow every moment when she was not dancing.