Mr. Harley,” she said, making an excuse as she always did when he issued such invitations. But she was still feeling somewhat upset over the morning’s events. And she was twenty-five years old, she reminded herself, and would no longer allow herself to love Aled. Could she do better than Matthew Harley? He was English, which fact she must not hold against him. He was also the Earl of Wyvern’s steward, a man of some importance. A man who would be able to support a wife in some comfort—she shook off the thought as unworthy of her. He was a man who must not be blamed for being tough over rents and tithes and other matters. He was merely doing a job.
He had already bidden her a good morning and turned onto the downward path she had just walked with Marged.
“Mr. Harley,” she called impulsively, and when he turned back to her she had no choice but to continue. “Perhaps later this afternoon? Perhaps you would like to come to tea? Mam would be pleased. And we could take a walk afterward.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I should like that.” He touched his hat to her and continued on his way.
She was left feeling breathless and almost panic-stricken. What had she just started? She was not at all sure she even liked him. She felt almost repelled when she imagined him touching her—or kissing her. But that was only because for years she had thought of no man that way but Aled. It felt like being unfaithful to invite another man to tea, to suggest walking out with another man. And that was ridiculous.
Besides, he was only coming for tea and a little walk. There was nothing in that.
For two days after his arrival at Tegfan, his large Welsh Carmarthenshire estate, Geraint Penderyn, Earl of Wyvern, did not venture beyond the house and park. It felt strange to be back.
He had other estates in England and other grander houses, including the one in London. And yet this one felt strangely large and empty despite the presence of servants. He should perhaps have brought some friends down with him. He had not thought of it at the time.
Of course, the house really was unfamiliar to him. He had lived in it for only a few weeks at the age of twelve before being packed off to England and the waking nightmare that had faced him there. Tegfan had been bewildering and intimidating. His grandfather had been terrifying. His mother had been absent. He had not been allowed to see her. Despite his twelve years and despite the fact that he had been a bold urchin from infancy, he had begged and pleaded for her. And cried for her.
They had been as hard as nails, his grandfather and the servants appointed to look after him for those few weeks.
And he had lived in this house for three weeks at the time of his mother’s funeral. Three weeks before fleeing back to London and vowing never to return, a bewildered boy caught between two worlds. And in love for the first time—and the only time—and gauche and foolish. And very unhappy.
During those two days of rain and heavy clouds, he stood a great deal at the window of his bedchamber, gazing broodingly out over the rolling land of the park and across the distant river, or wandered about the house, or paced through the stables, or strode over soggy grass and among dripping trees. Wishing he had not come. Wondering why that snippet of a conversation between strangers had impelled him to such uncharacteristically impulsive behavior. Wanting to go beyond the park. Wanting to return to London and the familiarity of his life there without further ado.
On the third day he rode over to Pantnewydd, the neighboring estate, smaller than his own, its lands less prosperous, its house less grand. Sir Hector Webb lived there with his wife, Geraint’s aunt, his father’s sister. They had not met many times. There was no closeness between them. Understandably, he supposed. Tegfan was unentailed. For twelve years after the death of her brother, Lady Stella had fully expected that the estate would be willed to her and her husband.
And then Geraint had stepped suddenly and unwillingly between them and their expectations.
He was given a correct, if somewhat frosty welcome. He was regaled over tea with an account of the shameful goings-on at a neighbor’s estate a few nights before, when a mob had burned down Mitchell’s hayricks