Free A Shadow's Bliss by Patricia Veryan Page B

a twinge of apprehension. Howland could be such a dear person when he chose, and this past week he had been at his charming best, full of fun and good humour, neither goading Fleming into defending his obsession with the world’s great religions, nor mocking Royce’s “revolutionary notions.” Not once, since Lord Green’s departure, had he spoken of the baron’s admiration for her. She had hoped, in fact, that he had decided to respect her feelings in the matter. Heaven knows, she’d made them sufficiently clear. Without comment, she drew her mare to a walk, and waited.
    â€œI met Miss Caroline Morris yesterday,” he said idly.
    â€œWhen you were in St. Ives? Oh, I wish I had gone with you! Is she well? It seems an age since any of them came to see us.”
    â€œSo it is. His lordship don’t really approve of us, you know. And for my part I’ve no admiration of his high-in-the-instep condescension. The lovely Caroline is another matter, however.”
    Jennifer smiled. “That comes as no great surprise, dear. Had she a message for me?”
    â€œIndeed, yes. And some news that will surprise you. Caro sends you her affectionate regards, and…” He watched her quizzically.
    â€œWhat? What? Oh, Howland, pray do not be such a tease!”
    â€œAnd I am instructed to tell you that you are to be invited down to Breton Ridge for a few days, when her second- or third- or some such cousin arrives.”
    â€œA party?” Jennifer gave a squeal of delight. “How lovely! Which cousin, do you know? They have family everywhere. Oh, I hope ’tis the Bath Morrises. Do you recall when they came two years ago? Miss Eliza Morris was such a merry—”
    â€œIt is not Miss Eliza. Nor any sort of Miss at all, but some fellow from Surrey—or is it Sussex?—who will likely turn out to be fat as a flounder and a dead bore, with a squint and a wooden leg, so do not be indulging any romantical flights of fancy, when— By Jove! Only look who has come back.”
    Jennifer looked. The colour in her cheeks heightened as rapidly as the sparkle in her eyes faded. In low-voiced vexation she said, “You arranged this! Oh, how could you be so sly? I thought it remarkable that you should offer to ride with me, when you so seldom—”
    â€œTally ho!” Hibbard Green rode to meet them. Resplendent in a puce coat over-burdened with silver braid, and a cravat whose laces bore mute testimony to several meals, he waved exuberantly. He had an atrocious seat, and the exertion of riding had left him puffing and red faced, but he declared disjointedly that Miss Britewell put the sun to shame, damme if she didn’t. “And how are … you, Britewell? Here’s the bad penny … turned up on your … doorstep again, eh?”
    Jennifer smiled with good manners, if not warmth.
    Howland clasped his lordship’s hand and said, beaming, “Welcome, sir! May we count on your making a longer stay at Triad this time?”
    â€œBe my very great pleasure.” Manoeuvreing his mount between them, Green eyed Jennifer with exaggerated roguishness. “Any man worthy of the name delights in the chase, especially when the quarry is so enticingly curvesome, no?”
    Even Howland looked taken aback by this gaucherie, and Jennifer’s astonished stare caused his lordship to add a rather too hearty, “And never be so formal, Howland. No need to ‘sir’ me. There ain’t many years between us, y’know.”
    Blinking, Jennifer said, “Really? When I met your son Rafe, I was sure he was at least—”
    â€œAt all events, you’re well met,” inserted Howland quickly. “I recollect that I promised my father to go over the deeds to the mine with him and our man of business. My apologies, Jennifer, but perhaps Lord Green will oblige me by taking you for that gallop.”
    â€œI could not be more