“My dear Emma, your own good sense could not endure such a puppy when it came to the point.”
Jane Austen, Emma
The following day, Nicholas walked past the edge of the garden, staring off at the lake where Briar was currently sitting in the rowboat, anchored near shore.
At breakfast, she’d asked his godmother for permission to take the boat on the lake, and of course it was granted. He didn’t believe there was a single person who could ever refuse any request she might have.
It had been on the tip of his tongue to ask if she would like him to row her, but Mr. Woodlyn had beaten him to it.
Woodlyn—who’d remained so late after dinner last night that he’d forced an invitation to stay over. Woodlyn—who’d already stolen every opportunity to take a turn with Miss Bourne, willingness to play chess should Miss Bourne like the amusement, and to ask Miss Bourne’s opinion on whatever thought crept into his hollowed-out gourd of a skull.
Mr. bloody Woodlyn.
Though, this morning, it had turned out well enough, because she’d refused Woodlyn, claiming that she had to go out on her own because it was a surprise.
Curious, Nicholas ambled closer to the pond, continuing to watch her. Occasionally, she peered over the side, her hands busily weaving a basket, of sorts, out of broad blades of grass.
“It would not be a terrible hardship for a man to pass the rest of his years in such company, I think,” Woodlyn said, rounding the outside of the garden, apparently taking another tour around the lake. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Edgemont?”
“Not a ‘terrible hardship,’ no.”
“Did I hear correctly, that you are interested in asking Miss Bourne’s uncle to find you a wife?”
Ambling near the mossy bank, Nicholas kept to the excuse he’d given his godmother. “I’m considering it.”
“Though, it is a peculiarity that her uncle would allow her and her sisters the freedom to assist in such important matters. In small parishes such as these, the congregation typically turns to one like me to find them the ideal spouse.”
“And if your wife wanted to assist you, just as Miss Bourne assists her uncle?” Nicholas asked, slyly raising his voice with the knowledge that sound traveled quite well over water.
He caught Briar’s attention. She glanced up from her weaving and automatically smiled, the sight warming him.
Woodlyn chuckled. “It is the man’s place to ensure the security and happiness of all who reside under his care, is it not?”
“And the woman’s place . . . in your esteemed opinion?”
“Why, to do all those little things that women do—sketch pictures, embroider handkerchiefs, and whatnot.”
Briar pursed her lips, flicking a frosty blue glance at the cleric, but kept her opinion out of the conversation.
Nicholas subdued a grin. “And is whatnot a euphemism for her own interests and pursuits?”
“What interests could a wife have other than seeing to the needs of her husband and children?” Woodlyn picked up a stick and trailed it absently through the tall grasses. Oblivious to his audience, he continued, gradually closing a noose around his own neck. “Certainly, a man who is courting a young woman provides allowances for a freer spirit, which one might have in their youth before true obligations are required of them. Even he may have a certain degree of wildness that needs tamed. But it is up to a man to rule himself, to take firm control and give up amusements when he is, at last, settled.”
“Are you saying that a married man is not permitted a bit of fun, even with his own wife?”
“I have counseled a few young, newly married men, and I have advised them to temper their passions quickly and to strap on the yoke of life.”
Nicholas shuddered. If this was the type of matchmaking provided by Woodlyn, he was surprised that anyone in the parish married at all. He made it all sound like nothing more than an obligation one performed—get married, have children, hate the rest of your life.
Actually, that sounded eerily similar to what Nicholas’s own marriage might have been.
“After all, a married man does not keep a sporting gig and jaunt about the countryside. That is the pastime of a bachelor who is winnowing away the husk of youth.”
“Don’t you have such a gig?” Nicholas had heard all about it in many letters over the past two weeks. Pages and pages of it riding over the countryside, until he’d hoped that the wheels would fall off.
“I do, indeed. But I am ready”—Woodlyn glanced out across the water and waved when he saw Briar looking at him—“for a landau. And you, my lord? Are you equally ready to—”
“Strap on the yoke of life?” Nicholas was unable to say it without a smirk. “I’m a bit of a free spirit. I enjoy many amusements, which I want to enjoy for as long as I am able. And, were I to marry, I should like someone to enjoy them along with me, and even invite me to enjoy some of hers.”
“Hmm . . .” Woodlyn mulled this over, swiping the stick through the grass, so lost in his own thoughts that he missed the best surprise of all.
Briar extended her foot over one side of the boat, while she dipped her shallow basket into the reedy water on the other side. Then, after only a moment, came up with a pair of wriggling fish.
In that instant, the sun glinted off the surface of the water in a shower of sparks, blinding him. He recalled with perfect clarity the afternoon she’d shared her scone and told him of his perfect wife.
All she wants is a honeymoon beside a lake, alone with you. And there, you’ll discover that there is more to her than you could have anticipated.
Perhaps you’ll learn that . . . oh, I don’t know . . . that she is a remarkable fisherman.
And Nicholas was suddenly wondering if Briar should add soothsayer to her list of accomplishments.
* * *
From beneath the stone arch of the side garden that afternoon, Briar watched Mr. Woodlyn’s curricle hasten down the drive.
Not surprisingly, after overhearing his conversation with Nicholas, she no longer felt conflicted about his attentions. Nor did she worry about wounding his feelings and ruining Temperance’s chance of marrying him. She wouldn’t wish such a man on her worst enemy, let alone her dearest friend.
She growled, swiping a climbing jasmine off the vine, and tore its fragrant petals free, one by one. “Why am I such an abominable failure at matchmaking?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Nicholas said, giving her a start as he came up beside her. “Mr. Woodlyn was quite smitten with you. I’m sure he would have made a very fine husband, and might have even let you out of the house every now and then.”
His mouth curved in a grin that was a bit too pleased and too smug for her liking.
She narrowed her eyes and tossed the wrecked blossom to the ground. “For your information, he was never supposed to be smitten with me. I’d intended him for Temperance all along.”
She relished the quick blink of shock that slackened his jaw.
“And the letters?”
“They were only meant to entice her,” she admitted, though with a sudden rise of trepidation as she remembered that they had also brought Nicholas here.
He eyed her shrewdly.
She looked down at his cravat and reached up to dust a few crumbs from it. “It might have been in the back of my mind—the very back, darkest corner, mind you—to make you the ever-smallest bit jealous as well. Why are you covered in crumbs?” She gasped, lifting her gaze abruptly and wagging her finger at him. “You found the scones, didn’t you?”
“I did, indeed.” Unrepentant to the core, he had the nerve to lick his lips.
“They were supposed to be a surprise for later.”
“Mmm . . .” He wagged a finger back at her, touching the tip of her nose. “But what I cannot fathom is how Mrs. Darden’s scones could have traveled all this way and taste as if they were fresh out of the oven. Unless some little minx gave the recipe to my godmother’s cook, when she refused to share it with mine.”
She set her hands on her hips. “As a matter of fact, I did not share the recipe. Mrs. Darden would never have approved. It is a family secret. She did, however, teach each of us girls how to make them ourselves, along with many other valuable skills.”
“Like catching fish in baskets?”
“She taught me how to weave the basket, but using it to catch fish was something I learned on my . . .” She lost track of her thoughts as he crowded closer, skimming his finger over her lips and down her throat. She was suddenly breathless. “. . . on my own. Nicholas, you cannot kiss me here. Someone will see.”
“Just one. Your lips are too tempting.” He nibbled at the corners of her mouth, his hand at her nape, the other dipping to the small of her back, pulling her flush. “I simply can’t resist.”
Briar smiled and slid her arms around his neck. It wasn’t a declaration of love, but it was the next best thing.