end of yours. My sister and I make our home at Merrywood Farm.”
“Cap—Mr. Durant. I am p-pleased to meet you.” She was playing it as he laid it for the benefit of her hulking companion. They were total strangers to each other—which was fundamentally true.
“I bought Merrywood in January. I understand you have recently come to Hazel Grange, Lady Kelby.” It wouldn’t seem odd that he knew her name. It was probably on everyone’s lips in the village, only he’d been too oblivious to listen.
“Y-yes.”
The rain was falling with some determination, and Maris’s servant shifted uncomfortably.
“Do forgive me for holding up your ride. Filthy weather, isn’t it? You must be on your way before you catch a chill. Good day to you then, Lady Kelby. I look forward to meeting you again under more clement skies.” Reyn wheeled Phantom away before she could respond.
His heart hammered. He could have reached across the horses and touched her skin. She was so very pale, just as she’d been when she’d found him at the Reining Monarchs Society. He’d shocked her then; he’d shocked her now.
How was it possible they were neighbors? Would she think he was stalking her? Nonsense. He’d come to the neighborhood first, had no idea that Hazel Grange belonged to the relict of the Earl of Kelby. When he first looked in the area, he was told a young family had leased the Grange, but that it was vacant. He’d been much too busy to worry about neighbors and let Ginny deal with visits and so forth.
Maris’s surprise had been so intense Reyn couldn’t tell if she’d been pleased to see him. Didn’t know if she would be pleased to see him again in a meeting that wasn’t by chance or rain-soaked. Swift had said she was not receiving. Would she make an exception for him?
She had to. He needed her to. His need was a palpable thing, preventing him from thinking clearly.
But there was one thing he had seen clearly. She’d been wearing his butterfly pin in the crown of her ugly black bonnet. It had twinkled amidst the raindrops. Totally unsuitable for a widow. If hope had wings—
He squelched his hope. Likely it was the first thing that came to hand when she fastened that monstrosity to her head. The woman needed him to help her shop, even for mourning clothes. Perhaps he should write to Madame Bernard.
His lips curled. By God, he was smiling. He imagined Maris’s face when she opened boxes at Hazel Grange and found the most exquisite mourning dresses straight from London. She might have reason to leave her house then. Pretty dresses were always a boost to a woman’s confidence.
She’d know at once who’d sent them. Reyn pictured her thank-you note. He’d work especially hard to interpret her loops and curlicues. She would invite him to the Grange, perhaps for tea, that huge servant nowhere around. She’d tell him she couldn’t possibly accept his gifts and then fall into his arms and kiss him.
Kiss him with all the ardor and innocence she possessed. It had been far too long since Reyn had experienced a kiss from his countess. He got hard simply thinking of her blush-pink mouth trembling beneath his . . . until a sluice of cold rain slithered down his neck.
Why couldn’t they engage in a discreet affair? It would not cause too much comment if he paid her a few visits. They were neighbors, after all. He might be there to advise her on draining her fields or her horse’s fetlock or the price of spring lambs. In a year—in less than a year—she might look to marry again, and there he would be, a respectable gentleman with a prosperous enterprise just next door.
He set to whistling. He wouldn’t leave Madame Bernard’s instructions to a letter. He’d go to London—why not leave in an hour? He was used to traveling light. He might visit Tattersall’s while he was there for a day or two and combine business with pleasure. Ginny would be fine. The young stable boy Jack would be elevated in consequence to think Reyn trusted him enough to be left alone with “the girls” for a few days.
Reyn’s whistling grew ever more cheerful as he entered the warped entryway of his home. During the winter, he’d planed the front door himself so it would shut properly, but the wood floor still bore evidence of years of incoming rain despite Ginny covering it with a moth-eaten Turkish rug