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Roland kicked his horse, urging his stallion faster as they galloped up the frost-covered hill, the bright winter sun throwing shadows behind the bare trees. If a houseful of guests made him tug on his too-stiff collar, a brisk ride in the chill December air had the opposite effect. His blood pounded through him, filling him with a heat he hadn’t felt in months. Riding in Hyde Park was not the same as taking the countryside in hand, mastering the land as he and his mount jumped hedges and waded through streams.
But of course he couldn’t do this all day, as much as he wished to. He’d never hear the end of it from Mother if he avoided the party for much longer. He’d already skipped breakfast in favor of a tray in his room. Although, if he was being honest, he wasn’t quite sure who he was intent on avoiding. Miss Tindale had proven an apt conversationalist at dinner last night, which was somewhat refreshing after his experience with the majority of vain, single-minded women in London.
And yet, he admitted, it was not her face that came to mind when he thought of last night. No, instead of Miss Tindale’s dark hair and porcelain complexion, he saw golden curls and laughing blue eyes.
Roland turned his horse back toward the house, his breath leaving clouds in his wake. Miss Bell had proven a surprise last night, with her dry repartee and entertaining tales of the foul-mouthed parrot. When he tried to remember her in London, he could not recall much at all, save for the fact that he hadn’t found himself immediately drawn to her. That had been enough for him then, but now he could not help but think he had dismissed her too quickly.
After entering the stables, Roland dismounted and handed his reins to a waiting groom. But as he turned, he came to a sudden halt. There, in the open stall across the way, was the focus of his thoughts: Miss Bell herself, kneeling as she peered beneath a water trough, the curls around her face nearly even with the floor.
“Come here, you wicked creature,” she said in an amused voice. “You think you are quite clever, don’t you, hiding under there?”
Roland could not resist. He approached quietly, clasping his hands behind his back. “Good day, Miss Bell.”
Miss Bell jolted, banging her head on the trough and letting out a sharp yelp.
“Blast.” Roland hurried forward. He’d only meant to surprise her. “Are you all right?”
She squinted up at him, rubbing her head. “I admit, I’ve been better.”
Roland grimaced and crouched beside her. “I am sorry. Truly. May I look?” If she was bleeding . . .
Miss Bell shook her head. “I am fine, I promise.”
She did seem fine. There was no sign of the unfocused vision or slurred language that afflicted many of his friends after a bout of boxing. On the contrary, her eyes were bright and purposeful, and her words lacked none of the spirit he’d come to expect from her.
She smelled sweet, like cherries.
He hastily stood and held out his hand to her. “Might I be of assistance, Miss Bell? Are you looking for something?”
“No, I simply enjoy exploring dusty, old stables,” she said wryly as she took his hand.
His cheek twitched. “Then you are in luck. Mine is the oldest and dustiest in the county.”
Her eyebrows shot upwards, and before she could say anything, he pulled her to her feet. It wasn’t difficult, as Miss Bell was as slender as she was unexpected.
As soon as she found her feet, she took back her hand and stepped away. “I am sorry, I should not have said that about your stables. I’m certain they are well cared for.”
“I am far from offended, I assure you,” he said, crossing his arms. “But I am curious what you were doing just now.”
She blew out a breath and gestured at the trough. “I am attempting to fix the rift I created between myself and your mother.”
He squinted. “I am afraid I cannot see the connection between my mother and crawling about the stables.”
“She has lost her cat,” she said. “I am hoping if I am able to return it . . .”
“She’ll forget your mistake of last evening?”
“Precisely.”
Roland crouched once again and peered beneath the trough. Two yellow eyes stared back at him. “It is an admirable plan,” he said. “My mother loves that cat like a second child.” Never mind that it was a wretchedly spoiled creature that hissed at Roland whenever Mother was not present.
Miss Bell knelt beside him. “If only I had a treat to bribe him with.”
“Perhaps a few of your sister’s comfits,” he said with a grin.
Miss Bell looked up at him sharply. “What?”
“Comfits?” he repeated, one brow raised. “Your sister Cassandra had a great deal of them in her trunk.”
“Oh. Right. She mentioned that little mix-up.” Miss Bell cleared her throat. “Yes, Cassie is very fond of sweets, but I daresay a cat would be more motivated by a bit of milk or meat. Having none on hand . . .”
She knelt on the stable floor once more, balancing on her elbows.
“Come here, you pretty thing,” she said softly, holding out one hand. “Come out and I will take you to the house for some cream.”
The yellow eyes tipped to one side, as if the cat was considering the proposition.
“I won’t hurt you, I promise.” Miss Bell slid her hand closer. “Come on now, be a dear.”
Roland sat back on his heels, watching the young lady before him in bewilderment. Everything he had heard about Miss Bell—and had experienced briefly for himself in London when they’d met—told him she was refined and sophisticated. And yet there she was, practically lying in the dirt, talking to a cat.
As he watched, the cat crept forward and licked Miss Bell’s extended hand. “That’s it, come out,” she encouraged it as she slowly drew backwards. The cat followed, stepping into the light—and revealing its gray coat of fur from nose to tail.
Roland coughed. “Miss Bell, I do believe we have a problem.”
“A problem?” She stroked the cat’s arched back as it purred.
“That is not my mother’s cat.”
She jerked her head up to stare at him. “Pardon?”
He could not help a short laugh. “My mother’s cat, Sir Chester, is black and white, and much more ill-tempered. Actually, you might consider yourself lucky not to have found him.”
“Not her cat.” Miss Bell turned her eyes back to the cat, now rubbing against her skirts. “Thunder and turf. Though I cannot say I am surprised, considering my unfortunate luck lately.” She continued to pet the smooth gray fur.
“Unfortunate luck?” Roland asked. “How is that?” If anything, he was the one with bad luck, returning home to his mother’s ambush of a house party.
“Well, first Vi—” She stopped, then gulped. “That is, first Cassie grew sick. And then of course the incident with your mother’s painting. Now I bungle the one thing that might have redeemed me.”
Roland eyed Miss Bell. She focused on the cat, but her back was stiff. Was it worry for her sister? “Might I ask after your sister’s health? Will she be joining us today?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid she will need to recover for a few days at the least.”
“I am sorry to hear it.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Though I admit I was intimidated at the prospect of telling the two of you apart.”
Miss Bell continued petting the cat, but her eyes took on a new wariness. “I do not think it would be very difficult. C-Cassie and I are quite different in personality, if not in looks.”
Roland clasped his hands behind his back. “Really? I spoke with her only briefly when you both first arrived, but it seemed you at least share the inclination to speak your minds.”
“Oh.” Miss Bell gulped and looked down. “I must assure you I do not normally act like this. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit out of sorts with Cassie being ill, and then with that . . . misunderstanding last night.”
“A misunderstanding with my mother would unhinge nearly anyone,” he said by way of reassurance, though he was not sure why he needed to reassure her. Did she think speaking her mind was a negative quality in a woman? He had never thought so, considering he’d had his mother as his example growing up. Mother had a different way of expressing herself—more crafty than outspoken—but she never failed to make clear how she felt about something.
Miss Bell picked up the cat and stood. “I had better go inside and continue the search. Likely Miss Tindale has already found the real Sir Chester.”
“Which would be a terrible thing?”
“I suppose not. But I am a bit more desperate for your mother’s approval than Miss Tindale.”
He nearly asked her why, but he caught himself. A delicate balance existed at this house party. He was certain all the guests knew why they’d been invited—to see if one of the young ladies could tempt him into a proposal. But they couldn’t very well talk about it as if it were common knowledge.
Miss Bell sighed and held out the cat to him. He stared at the creature, then at her. “Er, it isn’t mine.”
“I know,” she said with a furrowed brow. “I just thought perhaps you knew who it belonged to.”
“The stables, I imagine.” He took a step back. He’d been around his mother’s cat enough times to be wary of sharp claws. “To keep the vermin out.”
“Oh.” She brought the cat back into her arms and tipped her head up at him. “You aren’t frightened of it, are you?”
“If you knew Sir Chester, you would understand my hesitation,” he said.
“Not all cats are horrible.” She gave the cat in her arms one last pat before setting him on the ground. “This one is rather sweet, I think.”
The cat scampered away, pausing at the stable doors to look back before disappearing out into the cold.
“Might I accompany you up to the house?” Roland asked. They were going the same way, after all. But even if they hadn’t, he felt the strangest urge to prolong this conversation with Miss Bell. When they’d met in London, he’d known only the barest details of her, a hurried sketch of her character. Now it was as though each time he spoke to her, that sketch became more detailed, with small spots of watercolor slipping in around her.
He was far too pragmatic to lose his heart on a whim. But if this small bit of intrigue he felt towards Miss Bell meant anything . . . he wanted to see where it led.
“Of course,” Miss Bell said. Then she looked down at herself and winced. “If you can bear to be seen with me, that is.”
Her white-flowered dress was covered in dirt, and she brushed at her skirts. A few of her golden curls had escaped her coiffure and lay limply against her neck. Though a lovely neck it was, he could not help but observe.
“I think I can manage,” he said, offering his arm. Miss Bell hesitated, her gaze flicking up to his. Then she slipped her hand around the crook of his elbow, her touch light.
He led her from the stables and back towards the house, attempting to keep up their easy conversation. He pointed out details of the manor and estate she might find interesting—the addition to the east wing his father had built a decade ago, and the best place to find wild strawberries in the summer. Miss Bell nodded and replied as was appropriate. Too appropriate, really. Was this an attempt to prove him wrong, that she did not speak her mind?
Women were odd creatures indeed.
Upon entering the house, Miss Bell drew her hand from his arm. “Thank you for seeing me back, Mr. Hastings.”
“Well, it would have been a great deal more awkward if I’d simply followed you here.”
A flash in her blue eyes. Amusement. But she turned away before he saw her smile.
“Roland, there you are.”
Mother marched across the entry, and in her arms was the long-haired, black-and-white cat. Miss Tindale trailed behind, hands clasped neatly in front of her.
“I see you’ve found Sir Chester,” Roland said. At least he wouldn’t be forced to join the search.
“Yes, no thanks to you.” Mother frowned at him deeply. Roland knew better than to think she was irritated he hadn’t helped look for the cat. No, she was put out because he’d skipped breakfast. “Fortunately, Miss Tindale was untiring in her efforts and located him upstairs.”
“I could hardly let the poor creature go missing, not when it distressed you so, Mrs. Hastings.” Miss Tindale peered up at Roland through her lashes. “It was the least I could do.”
“Your actions are much appreciated.” Mother stroked Sir Chester’s back. “How glad I am to have such a thoughtful and kind guest in my home.”
She did not look at Miss Bell as she spoke, but the slight was obvious all the same. Roland groaned inwardly. Mother and her pride. Miss Bell was their guest just as much as Miss Tindale, no matter the incident last night.
“Yes, thank you, Miss Tindale,” Roland said. “And Miss Bell, as well. I found her in the stables, intent on her own search for the cat.”
“That is why I am so dirty,” Miss Bell added quickly. “I was sorry to hear he was missing and wished to help.”
“I see.” Mother scrutinized Miss Bell. “In any case, Miss Tindale asked for a tour of the house, and I cannot refuse her in anything since she found my Chester. Roland, would you join us?”
He forced a smile. He did not truly have a choice. “Of course.”
Mother turned to Miss Bell. “I am certain you will wish to change, or of course you would be welcome as well.” She sounded as welcoming as a bear in its den.
“Yes, indeed,” Miss Bell said with a too-bright smile. “Perhaps later.”
She curtsied and hurried up the stairs. Miss Tindale immediately claimed his side and began questioning him on the stained-glass window in the library, but his attention stayed on Miss Bell—her bouncing curls and slim shoulders—until her skirts whisked around the upstairs corner.
She did not look back, a disappointment Roland had not thought to expect.