Free The Courtship by Catherine Coulter

my lord.”
    He laughed, a full, rich laugh that wafted through all the splendid old oak and maple trees surrounding them. It was getting easier, sounding positively natural now, this magnificent laugh of his. Luther raised his head and snorted. Eleanor started toward him. He lifted his hand and she rubbed her nose against his palm.
    He looked over at Miss Helen Mayberry—her dark-blue riding skirt stained and wrinkled, her riding hat askew, the little bunch of grapes in his jacket pocket—and said, “What if I told you I would prefer to be your lover rather than your partner?”
    She took a step closer to him and stared him straight in the eye. “Have you no curiosity, my lord? Don’t you wish to know what this is all about? Don’t you wonder why I, a woman of infinite resource, am in need of a partner?”
    â€œNo.”
    It was her turn to laugh. “I will say this for you, sir—you are certainly not short.”
    â€œAs in I haven’t swooned at your feet?”
    â€œI can’t imagine you ever swooning at anyone’s feet.”
    â€œI haven’t. Now, tell me what use you have for me, as your partner.”
    She was searching his face, for signs, he supposed, that he would give her a full hearing. “Talk to me, Miss Mayberry.”
    â€œThis will take a while. May we sit over on that bench?”
    She walked beside him, her stride as long as his, at least in her riding habit. Blond hair was creeping out from beneath her riding hat. He stopped her and tucked it back under. Then he took her chin in his palm and turned her to face him. He studied her upturned face. He rubbed a bit of dirt from her cheek. He brushed his palm down the back of her riding habit, smoothing out wrinkles. There were also wrinkles down the front of her that needed smoothing, but he controlled himself. “There, you are once again presentable. A partner—something I had never considered. What possibly could a lady involve herself in that would require a partner?”
    She sat down, smoothing the front of her own gown and skirts. “It isn’t that I really need a partner, it is just that I need a pair of new eyes, and behind those new eyes I require a very sharp brain that would bring new ideas, new perspective. You would bring me that and possibly more.”
    â€œTell me what you are involved in, Miss Mayberry.”
    â€œI told you that I own an inn in Court Hammering called King Edward’s Lamp.”
    â€œYes, you told me. Somewhat unusual occupation for a lady, but I suspect you would try your hand at whatever interested you. Why do you call your inn King Edward’s Lamp?”
    â€œI knew you would immediately peel the bark from the tree. I knew I was right about you. There is such a lamp, you know, called King Edward’s Lamp. At least I believe with all my heart there is. I discovered the myth of the lamp when I was still in the schoolroom. My father happened to come across this ancient text in an old chest shoved into the corner of a friend’s library. The friend had died and bequeathed all the contents of his library to my father. It was written in very old French, but I finally managed to get it translated.”
    She was thinking about that manuscript and that lamp, he thought, looking at her face. She was looking beyond him, beyond the park, to something he couldn’t see or feel, something that moved her unbearably.
    â€œTell me,” he said quietly.
    â€œActually, I don’t know all that much, but enough, truly. It was an account written by a Knight Templar toward the end of the thirteenth century, telling how he had broken his vows to his order because of his love for his infant son. It seems that King Edward saved the boy’s life when three Saracen warriors were going to spit him and his servants on their swords. The boy was wounded when Edward rescued him. The king took the boy up before him on his war horse and rode