Free Shades of the Past by Sandra Heath Page B

unsettling lack of diplomacy sprang to the fore again. “Oh, Blair, I hope you’re going to honor your promise, for I do so like Mrs. Reynolds and want her to be my chaperone.”
    He bridled slightly. “Since when have I not honored a promise?”
    “I don’t know, but you may choose to make an exception of this occasion because she’s so like Celina.”
    Blair flushed angrily. “That will do, Marianna.”
    “Forgive me, Blair, but it has to be said.”
    “No, miss, it doesn’t!” he snapped.
    Laura exchanged a dismayed glance with Stephen. If Marianna wished to sabotage everything, she was going the right way about it. Blair clearly found the resemblance to his late wife something that was very hard to accept, and his sister’s careless observations didn’t help in the least.
    At last Marianna realized she’d trodden on sensitive ground, and became effusively apologetic, which was almost as bad. “Oh, Blair, I—I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean anything, truly! Oh, I feel dreadful now. Please forgive me, I just didn’t think.”
    “You seldom do.” Blair stood, and turned to Laura. “Mrs. Reynolds, perhaps you and I should walk together, away from unwelcome interruption?”
    Marianna blushed. She blushed still more when she caught Stephen’s eye and saw disapproval written there.
    Laura rose, and as she slipped her gloved hand over his sleeve, she was aware that even such a formal act became sensuous because it was him. As if it was merely a prelude to much, much more...
    The arbor was close to steps down into a private walled garden that was overhung to one side by mature trees. Pattering paws on the flagged path to the fountain signaled canine company as Blair assisted Laura down the steps. An Italianate marble fountain, encircled by a decorative parapet upon which to sit, played among formal flowerbeds that were also Italian in layout. The sound of water was refreshing, and as sunlight flashed through the cascades Laura didn’t need to be told that it was Celina’s garden, because the late Lady Deveril’s presence was almost physical.
    Blair spoke suddenly. “Mrs. Reynolds, I trust you’ll excuse my sister’s lack of reserve. I fear she believes in saying what she thinks.”
    “I seem to recall that last night you were equally as forthright,” she replied, because plain speaking wasn’t the sole preserve of the Deverils.
    He didn’t respond, but invited her with a gesture to be seated on the fountain’s stone parapet. Then he took out a Spanish cigar. “Do you mind if I smoke, Mrs. Reynolds’?”
    “Not at all, sir.”
    He searched for his luminaries, and shortly afterward a thin curl of smoke rose from the cigar. He looked at her. “You’re justified in pointing out my rather ungallant conduct last night. I’m afraid I coped rather badly. I’ll be honest with you. I hoped that this morning your resemblance to Celina might be less apparent, but you’re a painful reminder of losing her two years ago.”
    His sadness carved through Laura like a knife, and she loathed Sir Miles Lowestoft even more than before. Nothing excused the vicious spite behind the plot, and she hated herself for having anything to do with it, albeit under duress. She was helping shatter what was left of Blair Deveril’s already broken heart, and it was despicable. For a moment she couldn’t speak, but at last found her tongue. “I—I’m sorry I’ve aroused sad memories, Sir Blair.”
    “It’s hardly your fault, Mrs. Reynolds, “nor is your resemblance to Celina of the significance I think you fear.”
    She didn’t understand. “It isn’t?”
    “No.” He met her gaze, and added, “It has a bearing, of course, but is far from being everything.”
    She still didn’t understand, and it seemed he had no intention of explaining, for he continued, “Truth to tell, everything reminds me of Celina anyway, especially this house, and this particular garden. It’s become too much.”
    She looked quickly