universe, Ginny Durant might be her sister-in-law, eagerly anticipating becoming an aunt.
Maris felt a twinge of guilt to heap upon the ever-mounting pile of recriminations. Her guilty conscience had a guilty conscience. But it wouldn’t do to dwell on the mistake she’d make with Reyn Durant. A child had resulted, and certainly no child was a mistake, no matter how it was conceived. The baby was a blessed event, as Mrs. Beecham said, no matter who your god was or how you worshipped. A miracle.
Maris bid her guests good-bye, refusing, with some difficulty, an invitation to take tea at Merrywood the next week. Ginny’s lively presence reminded Maris she had not had a friend since Jane, and the last years of their friendship had been marred by Maris’s heavy secret, then Jane’s.
Well. Maris still had the problem of finding a way to speak to Reyn. She didn’t even know when he would return home. Maybe she should go to Merrywood next week. Or better yet, invite the Durants back. A woman in her condition was not expected to go abroad in public, and Ginny would no doubt be thrilled to get another look at Hazel Grange.
Seven days wouldn’t matter much; she’d waited this long. Maris went to her desk and began to write.
Chapter 23
Maris should be going through the boxes from Madame Bernard right about now, Reyn thought, saddling up Phantom. He could not wait until next week to see her. If he hadn’t gone to London, he might have seen her when she’d invited his sister for tea, though if he hadn’t gone to London, she would not be in possession of the prettiest mourning gowns Madame Bernard had ever created.
On the off chance she was so overcome with joy and thanks that she’d ride out to where they last met, he went to the oaks and dismounted, crunching rotten acorns underfoot.
The day was spring personified—green, warm, sunny, and sweet-smelling. A little too early for roses, but Maris herself smelled of that particular bloom. Reyn wanted to bury his nose in her loosened hair and breathe her in as though his life depended upon it.
That might be asking too much after all these months. Would she let him kiss her? Not if she was accompanied by that hulking manservant. Reyn hoped she would ride alone—unmolested, of course—slip from her pretty white horse, and into his embrace.
Reyn hadn’t taken another woman into his bed since Maris. His opportunities, and they had been considerable, had been easy to dismiss with a shrug and a boyish grin. He hated to hurt anyone’s feelings, so he might have given a careless kiss or two and a friendly pat. But his uncareless kisses had been saved for his countess. He simply couldn’t imagine being with anyone else.
If she refused to have an affair with him, he supposed he’d have to get used to the idea of celibacy, or change his standards and break his heart. How ironic he’d fallen in love with a bluestocking peeress who was as stern as a governess and as lush as the first rose of summer.
Reyn paced back and forth long enough to wear a trench in the grass. Maybe he should have stayed home and awaited her missive. He was always acting rashly. Why should she come? Maris wouldn’t expect him to be doing sentry duty on their border.
He looked to his horse, wondering if he should head back home. Phantom seemed happy enough finding acorns that weren’t too rotten. The horse had an iron stomach, anyway. He’d been the ideal warhorse, was a peaceful peacetime companion, and Reyn loved him.
I love that horse almost as much as I love Maris, he thought with a sudden grin.
His life was good—the best it had been since he was a boy. Ginny was well, no one was jumping out of the bushes to shoot him, and his business would take off now that he’d found a good stallion to cover his mares.
At present, Phantom was withholding his approval from the interloper, a bay named Brutus, so things were not as domestically equable with the equines in the barns as they were at the house. Soon, Ginny would leave, however, and then—Reyn wouldn’t think that far ahead. But he’d been so busy thinking and juggling acorns and congratulating himself on his good fortune that he’d missed Maris’s arrival. His heart leaped. The Prall fellow—he’ d asked his name in town—was nowhere to be seen. Thank God. Reyn pitched the acorns to