A Lady Never Tells(65)
The earl walked out of the house to hand them up personally into the carriage and bid them good-bye. Pirate trotted along beside him and sat down alertly at his feet, watching with interest as the girls climbed one by one into the carriage, but he made not the slightest effort to jump up after them.
“Pirate?” Camellia leaned out of the carriage. “Are you not coming with us?”
Beside her, Lily let out an inelegant snort. “Don’t be daft, Camellia. It’s clear he’s adopted cousin Oliver.”
The dog tilted his head, regarding them with bright interest, but he made no move. The earl looked down at him, then up at the girls. “I, ah, think that perhaps Pirate is a city dog, not meant for the country.”
Pirate let out a sharp bark, his rear end wriggling as he wagged his stump of a tail, and the girls all had to laugh. A footman jumped forward to close the door, and Stewkesbury gestured to the coachman. With a call and a slap of the reins, the carriage lurched into motion, Sir Royce riding alongside. Mary glanced back at the house they had just left. The earl was standing on the front steps watching them, the scruffy dog nestled in the crook of his arm.
Mary’s eyes went to Royce, and she could not help but admit that he cut a fine figure on horseback. His tall, broad-shouldered frame showed off well atop the dark bay, and he moved with the instinctive grace of one who had been riding almost from birth. It was a pleasure to watch him.
With an inner sigh, she pulled her eyes away. It was foolish to spend her time this way. Better by far to be thinking about how to deal with the feelings that bubbled up inside her whenever he was around—or, even better, how to stop feeling anything at all.
“Young ladies do not lean out of carriage windows,” Miss Dalrymple said, reaching over to rap Lily sharply on the knee.
“But how can I see anything?” Lily protested.
“There’s nothing out there a young lady needs to see.” Leaving Lily gaping at her, she turned her attention to
Camellia. “And pray do not point, Miss Camellia. Only the vulgar point.”
Without pause, Miss Dalrymple went on to remind Rose that a lady did not slump, even in a carriage, and to admonish Mary for not addressing the earl properly as they said good-bye. She then closed the curtains and lectured the girls on the behavior expected of young ladies. Fortunately, before long Miss Dalrymple stopped talking and began to nod, and within a few moments she was napping.
After that, the journey was more entertaining. The girls reopened the curtains and watched the scenery pass by, chatting in low voices so as not to awaken their chaperone.
They stopped at an inn along the way for a late luncheon and to rest the horses. Royce opened the carriage door and gave each of the women a hand to help them down. Mary’s stomach quivered a little, and she wished there were some way to avoid putting her hand in his, but she knew that there was not. Steeling herself, she laid her hand on his palm, and his fingers closed around hers, hard and strong. She looked down into his face. He was gazing back at her, his expression relaxed and polite. There was nothing in his face to indicate that anything had happened between them the day before.
Surely, Mary thought, she could be as unconcerned as he was. She suspected that he had had a great deal more experience at it than she, but Mary had no desire to let him see that. Her smile to him was polite and perfunctory, and she felt rather pleased with herself. But as she walked into the inn, she could not help but notice that her fingers still tingled from the contact. And she could not pretend to herself that being around him left her unaffected.
It was wonderful to be out of the carriage. No matter how well-sprung it was or how comfortably cushioned its seats, rolling along over the road for hours left them all cramped and stiff. The girls also welcomed the cold collation laid out for them in the inn’s private dining room. However, it was rendered far less pleasant by Miss Dalrymple’s admonitions on correct table manners and proper conversation.#p#分页标题#e#
Mary, forcibly quelling her temper as she worked through the meal on her plate, raised her head to find Sir Royce’s gaze on her. His eyes danced with amusement as Miss Dalrymple, having covered such social solecisms as speaking too loudly or out of turn or at too great a length—a taboo Miss Dalrymple herself obviously felt no compunction about breaking—was now droning on about what one should discuss.
“No one wants to hear a young girl talking about herself,” she announced. “Nor should she choose matters that are intellectual. One does not wish to acquire a reputation as a bluestocking, after all. Weather is always a pleasant topic, and an inquiry about another’s health rarely goes amiss. And, of course, you must always remember to compliment the decoration of the table and the quality of the meal.”