Free A Gamble on Love by Blair Bancroft Page B

expected, necks craned, hands waved,
and speculative looks were quickly followed by the light of
recognition. Miss had done it, by God, and found herself a man. And
a right fine one, if looks were not deceiving.
    As Miss Trevor and Mr. Lanning spoke with the
wide-eyed milkmaids at the dairy farm, the workers manning the
drying racks at the oast houses, or accepted a basket of ripe red
apples from a farmer and his wife—all of whom beamed ear to ear
upon being the recipients of Mr. Lanning’s sudden return to
bonhomie—Relia wondered once again at her betrothed’s ability to
put on different faces for different people. Outside the chaise, he
was all that was affable. Her tenants seemed to take to him
immediately. Inside, the chaise might as well have been suffused
with the icy winds of January.
    Yet, was she not participating in the same
game? Smiling and gracious when playing lady of the manor; sulking
in a corner when she was not?
    They were on their way back now, and Relia
knew she must assert herself. Mr. Lanning had made an almost
too-fine impression on her people. Somehow they had looked . . .
well, as relieved as she was. If not more so. Miss Trevor was not
altogether pleased. Her tenants, after all, did not have to live
with the man!
    Did they realize what a sacrifice she was
making? Relia glared out the window, for once not appreciating
either the beauty or the profitability of her acres. “Mr. Lanning,”
she declared, “there is a matter we must discuss.”
    “ Yes?” Though his facial features did
not change, Relia was quite certain his tone turned instantly
wary.
    “ I had thought to bring this matter up
during your visit, so it should not come as a surprise. But now . .
.” Miss Trevor clasped her hands, transforming into a vulnerable,
beseeching maiden. “My father quite doted on Pevensey Park, and I
would like to keep his name alive. Therefore I wish you to assume
his name. I believe you will find Trevor-Lanning has a fine ring to
it.”
    As she caught the look on his face—now very
far from blank—Relia slid back into her corner. She had been
prepared for an initial objection, but it appeared Mr. Lanning was
about to burst out in a roar that would blow her straight out of
the chaise. Yet as she watched in horrified fascination, he leaned
back, knuckled his forehead, and began to laugh. His shoulders
shook. His other hand gripped his knee. Finally, he produced a
handkerchief and wiped his streaming eyes.
    “ Miss Trevor,” he said at last, “before
agreeing to our initial meeting, I had my solicitor look into the
history of Pevensey Park. The name of the owner has changed with
all but one generation for well over a hundred years. “Your request
is outrageous, but all of piece for a young woman with enough pride
and presumption to employ a solicitor to find her a husband. Oddly
enough”—Mr. Lanning sat up and looked directly at her—“oddly
enough, I admire your courage. Will I change my name? No. Will I
allow my poor children to be saddled with such an awkward mouthful
as Trevor-Lanning? No, I will not. As for our marriage . . . ?”
Thomas Lanning shook his head. “If we do not kill each other in the
first month or so, I believe we may deal well together. Certainly,
you are no niminy-piminy creature without an ounce of backbone. You
may annoy me at times, but you do not disgust me.” Unfortunately,
Mr. Lanning chose that moment to end his monologue.
    Miss Trevor opened her mouth, closed it. She
did not disgust him. How utterly delightful. The temperature in the
chaise, warmed by Mr. Lanning’s laughter, plunged back to bleak
winter. Relia eyed the basket of bright red apples on the floor at
her feet and conjured dire thoughts of a Cit who could be so
charming to the lower classes and treat his betrothed as if she
were dirt beneath his feet.
    She needed him. Pevensey Park needed him. But
as soon as Lord Hubert and his family were chased away and Squire
Stanton realized her acres would