“My lady, good day.” Will could not bow over Lady Susannah’s hand because she was still holding the book in one hand and the parasol in the other. “A pleasure to see you.”
“Likewise, Mr. Dorning. Georgette has apparently regained her privileges in the park. Della and Lord Effington are strolling closer to the Serpentine. You might want to avoid them.”
To blazes with his lordship, whom Lady Susannah also probably wanted to avoid. “Shall we bide here for a moment, my lady? What are you reading?”
“A critique of Shakespeare’s tragedies. Does Georgette want you to do something with that stick?”
The same stick, of course. “If that stick were taken from her, and hidden in the farthest reaches of the most obscure hedge of the park, she’d find it. It’s hers now.”
“I feel the same way about my books. My sisters say I’ve grown eccentric.”
Will enjoyed this about Susannah Haddonfield. She was honest, had no airs or affectations. When she spoke, she spoke the truth. He peeled off his gloves, stuffed them in a pocket, and held out his hand.
“May I see the book?”
She passed it over, though her gaze followed her treasure the way Georgette kept track of a beloved toy. The book had been read many times, the spine well creased. Pages were not dog-eared, though, nor was anything scribbled in the margins. One could tell a lot from a person by how they cared for what they claimed to value.
“This was your father’s?” Will asked, reading the inscription.
“My mother gave it to him. She had a gift for reading dramatically. Shall we sit, Mr. Dorning? Della will make an entire morning’s work of toddling around at Effington’s side, and they have a maid with them to observe the proprieties.”
Will snapped the book closed. “Leaving nobody to observe the proprieties on your behalf, my lady.”
“You sound like my brother Nicholas.” Her ladyship plucked the book from Will’s grasp. “He’s become a Puritan since the title befell him. You and I are old friends, Mr. Dorning, and nobody will remark our passing a few minutes together in a public park.”
Will did not like the sound of “old friends.” Lady Susannah was quite youthful, and he was…hardly doddering. He accompanied her ladyship to the nearest bench, which sat beneath a canopy of maples in their vernal glory. The park was at a grand pause, between tulips and irises, a few of each in evidence, but not enough to overpower the sheer, lush greenery.
“This place keeps me sane,” Will said when he and the lady were sitting side by side. “My dogs love it here, and for an hour at a time, I can pretend I’m back in Dorset, taking a long walk to work out some problem, or simply enjoying a pretty day.”
Lady Susannah set the book aside and untied her bonnet ribbons. “The libraries keep me sane,” she said, placing her bonnet on top of her book. “As do the Bard, Mr. Pope, Mr. Donne. Books, books, and more books.”
“I’ve seen you from time to time,” Will said as Georgette settled at Lady Susannah’s feet. The dog commenced gnawing on one end of the stick, a habit that would content her by the hour, though she’d stop short of destroying her toy. “The last time was at Almack’s. You dance beautifully.”
Every time Will saw Lady Susannah turning down the room, he was pleased for her all over again. She had never been an ugly duckling, but she made an impressive swan. When he caught sight of her, he’d find a convenient pillar or palm to shield him from her view. He satisfied himself that she was faring well, and did not intrude on her happiness.
“I dance adequately now,” she said, turning her face up to the sun. “I was a proper disaster at it as a girl. I’ve never thanked you for rescuing me.”
“Hardly a rescue, my lady.” Will had been dragooned by his university acquaintances into accommodating Lady March’s demand for young men to partner the girls at her tea dances. These were the practice sessions held for prospective debutantes, the private entertainments that ensured the young ladies had some confidence before facing their first Season.
For Lady Susannah, the result had been quite the opposite of confidence.
“You still don’t enjoy dancing, do you?” Will asked.
Her ladyship was risking freckles, enjoying the sun that way. For years, Will had told himself Lady Susannah Haddonfield was a sweet memory from his youth. Then another spring would come around, and he’d find himself leaning against another shadowed pillar as she twirled past with some other fellow.
She looked in want of something. A favorite toy, or…kisses, perhaps.
“I enjoyed dancing with you, Mr. Dorning.”
Her eyes were closed, her expression serene. If she’d been a dog, a cat, a horse, or even a bird, Will might have gathered insights from her posture, her expression, her attitude, her breathing. She wasn’t a dog, and neither was he, but the only conclusion thumping through his male brain was, “Yes, kisses. Lots of kisses.”
He’d been away from Dorset too long.