Free Regency Masquerade by Joan Smith Page A

in embroidery. I daresay you are not. It took me months to make it.”
    “Is that how you passed your time in Scotland, Lady Crieff, with needlework?”
    “Needlework and Gothic novels. I am a sad, shatter-brained creature,” she replied.
    Yet he remembered very well she had been reading a complex article on politics when he interrupted her that morning, and reading it with considerable interest. Her healthy face and lithe body told him she did not spend her entire day warming a sofa. Other than the clothes, she seemed like a genteel provincial, excited by even a simple call on a relative. At times, he felt there were two Lady Crieffs—one a wanton, the other a lady he could easily grow fond of.
    She looked out at the passing scenery. “This is horrid countryside, is it not?” she asked. “All those flat marshes, so unlike the lush and rolling hills of—of Scotland,” she said, pulling herself up short.
    He noticed her hesitation and wondered at it. No doubt Scotland had lush and rolling hills, but it was more famous for its rocky Highlands. Surely sheep were raised on those rocky bluffs. Lush and rolling hills were more suitable to cattle.
    “Take away the water and we could be in parts of Devon,” he replied blandly. “The moors, you know.”
    “I hear they are desolate and dangerous,” she replied, making conversation.
    “It is easy to lose your way, but they are not all desolation. There are villages tucked in along the road. My own estate is not on the moors. Parts of Devon are well cultivated and civilized.”
    Moira gazed dreamily out the window. “It is strange that a tiny island like Britain has such varied landscapes, is it not? Everything from this”— she gestured to the view beyond the window—”to the Highlands, to the chalk downs, to the beautiful Lake District and London. All we lack is a desert, and we would be a world unto ourselves.”
    This seemed a rather serious thought for the hoyden Lady Crieff had acted last night. It confirmed his view that the girl was an anomaly. The face of a provincial miss, wearing a lightskirt’s bonnet. He made a noncommittal reply.
    Moira found the conversational going extremely rough. Not only was she worried that Hartly would make physical advances, she also had to remember to be vulgar, yet not so vulgar as to disgust him, if it turned out he was not a friend of Stanby’s.
    “You have an excellent team” was her next effort. “David will be enjoying himself immensely.”
    “He seems a nice lad. Does he give you much trouble?”
    “David, trouble? Good Lord, no. I don’t know what I should do without him.” Now, why was he frowning like that?
    “You will soon find out,” he said. “He is returning to Penworth when you remove to London, is he not?”
    “Indeed he is, but I shall have other company once I reach London. I know people there. He has provided good company on a long evening,” she added.
    It was a relief when the spires of Cove House appeared before them, soaring into the misty sky. The house was indeed a Gothic heap, complete with moldy stone, pointed windows, and even a pair of flying buttresses. The land around it was so damp and low-lying that it created a sort of moat, unfortunately without a drawbridge. The road had been raised to allow carriages to enter. Hartly thought it a derelict old place, but when he glanced at Lady Crieff, he saw her face was dazed with ecstasy.
    “Oh, if I had known it was this lovely, I would have come when Cousin Vera invited us to live here!” she exclaimed.
    A quick frown creased Hartly’s brow. He had assumed Lady Marchbank was some kin to the Crieffs. Why would she invite Lady Crieff and David to live with her when David had Penworth Hall?
    “After your husband’s death, do you mean?” he asked.
    For a fleeting moment, she stared at him, startled. “Yes, that was my meaning.”
    “She wanted you and David to live with her?”
    “Yes. David was younger then, of course, as I was myself.