The Taste of Innocence

  Because there was no reason why.

  None she could logically conjure; none she could understand.

  He was set on his path, inflexible, determined, and as ever ensuring he got his own way, simply because…he thought that was how things should be?

  She had no idea, but what ever his excuse, it wasn’t good enough.

  Hurt and anger warred within her, but the latter was stronger; far from retreating to lick her wounds, she wanted to…grab Charlie by the shoulders and shake him until he woke up and saw what he was so wantonly turning his back on.

  If only she’d been a man…but of course that wouldn’t have worked. She was a woman, a female…

  Blinking, she halted, and stared unseeing at a dormant bush. She was a female, a woman, ergo Charlie, her temporarily demented husband, assumed she was weaker, less strong, and, most important, less stubborn than he.

  Her scowl faded; her lips, until then compressed into a thin line, eased. He would assume that if he held firm, she would in the end, without any real struggle, accept his dictate and let their marriage become the hollow entity he wished, one without love at its heart. But there was no reason she had to follow his script.

  No reason she couldn’t fight for what she wanted, a marriage based solidly on love.

  Standing amid the stumps and sticks, she savored the prospect of such a battle, one necessarily waged with actions, not words, and found it considerably more palatable than simply giving in. Whether she could change Charlie’s mind, whether she could force him to see their future through her eyes, whether he would wish to join her in making it a reality even if she could, she had no idea, but that was her goal.

  A footstep on the path behind her had her whirling. Her senses leapt, then abruptly fell flat; once again it wasn’t her errant husband who was coming toward her. She drew in a breath, summoned a smile, and extended her hand. “Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Countess.” Clasping her hand, he bowed gracefully, then released her. He glanced around at the winter-dead beds. “I saw you walking here…”

  “I’ve been taking the air.” She waved at the paths. “The lawns are so wet, it’s safer here.” She noted the papers he carried in one hand. “Is the earl expecting you?”

  His expression easy but his eyes on hers, Sinclair raised the papers. “He asked to see these—they arrived this morning from London.”

  Sarah inwardly sighed; clearly she would get no chance to battle Charlie over luncheon, or for the rest of the afternoon. “I’m afraid he’s still out riding, but he should be back soon.”

  Sinclair hesitated, his eyes searching her face, then he said, “In that case, if you don’t mind, I’ll walk with you.”

  She was surprised, but her duty as hostess was clear; with a light smile, she inclined her head and turned to pace down the path.

  It was easy to make social conversation, to ask how he found Crowcombe and his rented house, about his thoughts on the bucolic amenities of the neighborhood.

  “The bridge across Will’s Neck falls is the best spot for appreciating the Quantocks.” She glanced at his face. “Have you been there yet?”

  “No.” He met her gaze. “How does one reach it?”

  She smiled and told him. As they walked, she was conscious of his size—he was nearly as tall as Charlie and somewhat heavier—but although he was classically handsome, well set up, and graceful, although in many respects he was an older version of Charlie, Sinclair stirred her senses not at all.

  But her senses did leap when another heavy footstep rang on the path behind them. She turned, her usual welcoming smile on her lips—no matter the situation between them she doubted her instinctive greeting for Charlie would ever change—and found him regarding Sinclair, an odd, hard, distinctly challenging look in his eye.

  For a fleeting instant, she saw Charlie as a knight, armored and ready to do battle.

  Then she blinked, and Sinclair, smiling easily, transparently unaffected by the menace she’d sensed, stepped forward.

  “Meredith.” He held out his hand.

  Charlie blinked, then, moving more slowly than usual, grasped it. “Sinclair.” His gaze slid past Sinclair to her, but she couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. His face wore its usual impassive mien.

  “The countess was kind enough to keep me company until you arrived.” Sinclair brandished his papers. “I brought those reports you wanted to see.”

  Charlie’s gaze went to the papers. After an instant, he nodded. “Excellent.” He looked at Sarah. “If you’ll excuse us, my dear, we’ll be in the library.”

  Of course. Her new purpose in mind, she smiled tightly and replied, “I’ll send luncheon trays in to you.”

  He wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Thank you.”

  With a nod and a bow, both men took their leave of her. She watched them stride to the terrace, then disappear into the library.

  She allowed herself a grimace. Her gaze fell on one of the oldest rosebushes, the gnarled trunk as thick as her arm. She thought again of that odd reaction of Charlie’s, relived again that momentary impression…

  Had he been jealous?

  Was that what had made him so menacingly stiff? Just for that instant until Sinclair had reminded him why he was there—subtly assuring Charlie that he had no designs on her.

  Her eyes narrowed, her gaze sharpened—on the rosebush. And she noticed the slight bulges, the first signs of buds forming on the otherwise dead-looking branches.

  Perhaps their marriage was like the rosebush—dormant, but with the right amount of sun it would come into bloom. Indeed, with the right attention it would bloom spectacularly. Perhaps what she’d just glimpsed in Charlie was the first hint of a bud? A sign that no matter the image he was striving to project, she might yet win through and secure all she sought.

  She stood staring at the rosebush for a few minutes longer, then she turned and headed back to the house.

  She was not giving up on her version of their marriage.

  It took Charlie a few minutes to lose his stiffness, to let his idiotically instinctive hackles subside; he could only be grateful that Malcolm gave no indication of noticing, although of course he had. The very idea of having reacted in such a primitive—and revealing—way to Malcolm’s plainly innocent presence by Sarah’s side irked; he shut all thought of the moment out of his conscious mind as rapidly as he could.

  He led Malcolm into the library and they settled to pick apart the information contained in the investment reports Malcolm had brought. Crisp duly appeared with a repast laid out on two trays; they continued to discuss the flow of funds into various types of projects while consuming slices of country bread piled with cold roast beef and pickles.

  A footman eventually came and cleared away the trays, giving them space to spread the reports over the wide desk.

  He was slouched in his chair, listening to Malcolm’s explanation of the funding arrangements that had operated with the Liverpool-

  Manchester rail line, when Crisp unexpectedly entered carrying his silver salver.

  “A solicitor from Taunton to see you, my lord. I informed him you were occupied, but he requested you be given his card and informed he brings a business proposition that he wishes to lay before you.”

  Crisp proffered the salver. Charlie picked up the card. “Thomas Riley, of Riley and Ferguson, solicitors, with an address in Taunton High Street.” Lifting his gaze, he raised his brows at Malcolm. “I confess I have no idea what this is about. Do you mind if I see him?”

  “Of course not.” Malcolm made to rise.

  Charlie waved him back. “Stay, please. At least until I learn what this is about.” He glanced at Crisp. “Show Mr. Riley in.”

  Riley proved to be a typical country solicitor, self-effacing and prone to speak in low-voiced, convoluted phrases.

  Charlie cut off his lengthy introduction and invited him to pull up a straight-backed chair and sit, which he did. Malcolm had retreated to stand by one of the window
s, looking out. “Now, Mr. Riley.” Charlie leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands loosely clasped. “I would appreciate it if you could get straight to your point in requesting an audience.”

  Riley, singularly unprepossessing in a dark and dusty suit, swallowed. “Indeed, my lord. I’m only too aware of the—”

  “Your point, Mr. Riley?”

  “Ah—I have a client who wishes to make an offer for a parcel of land of which you are the owner.” Riley reached into the battered leather satchel he’d balanced on his knees and extracted a sheaf of papers, along with a pince-nez he perched on his nose. He glanced at the papers, then at Charlie. “It’s the Quilley property outside Crowcombe.”

  Charlie let his surprise show.

  Riley hurriedly continued, “My client wishes to add Quilley Farm to his already considerable holdings in the area, and given that the farm is well beyond your boundaries, he hoped you would be willing to entertain his offer.”

  Curiosity prompted Charlie to ask what the offer was, and who was making it, but there was really no point. He leaned back. “I’m sorry, Mr. Riley, but there’s no question of my selling that property.”

  Riley’s eyes widened, fear rising as he saw his fee disappearing. “But my client is willing to be most reasonable—”

  “It’s not that.” There was no purpose in prolonging the solicitor’s visit; Charlie itched to return to his discussion with Malcolm. “I can’t sell that property because it’s not mine to sell. You’ve been misinformed, Mr. Riley.”

  “But…” Riley’s wide eyes made him look like a squirrel. An aghast squirrel. “The farm belonged to Miss Conningham, and as she married you—”

  “Indeed.” Charlie paused for an instant, letting his tone—hard and discouraging—impinge on Riley. “Miss Conningham became my countess and ownership of the farm passed to me. It is, however, no longer mine.”

  Riley’s lips formed an almost comical O of surprise.

  Charlie debated whether to tell Riley who was now the owner of Quilley Farm, but Sarah was his wife and it was his duty to protect her from unnecessary pressure from the likes of Riley and whoever his client was. Nothing would be gained by referring Riley to Sarah; Charlie knew what her response to any offer to buy Quilley Farm would be.

  “You, ah, couldn’t perhaps tell me who the new owner is?”

  Charlie shook his head. “You can, however, tell your client that the new owner has no need of funds, and is therefore unlikely to entertain any offer for that land, regardless of the amount.”

  Riley deflated. His expression turning glum, he stuffed his papers back into his satchel, then rose, bowed to Charlie, and took his leave. Crisp, who’d remained by the door, followed him out.

  “Interesting.” Malcolm had turned to watch the solicitor leave; returning to the chair before the desk, he raised his brows at Charlie. “That was quick work, arranging for the sale of that farm so soon. I had no idea the orphanage had changed hands.”

  Charlie grimaced. “Not so quick because it hasn’t, in truth, changed hands at all. The title was passed back to Sarah via the marriage settlements.” He shrugged. “Her interest in the orphanage runs deep.”

  He should have pressed to learn who Riley’s client was, although the solicitor almost certainly wouldn’t have revealed his name. But…“A client wishing to add the farm to his ‘already considerable holdings in the area’—I suspect that’s solicitor code for one of the farmers on either side.” He thought, then nodded. “Both probably would like to get their hands on the property.”

  “Ah, well.” Leaning forward, Malcolm picked up one of the reports. “Where were we?”

  “The financial structure behind the original funding of the Liverpool-Manchester line.”

  “The farm was reverted back into the countess’s hands, so it’s her we need to approach.”

  “You still want the property?”

  “Oh, yes. Absolutely. It’s one of the best I’ve ever found.”

  “If that’s the case, I’ll get on with it.”

  “Indeed, but be discreet, and be prepared to take your time.”

  A few seconds passed, then, “Why?” Honestly puzzled, not challenging.

  The answer took a moment in coming, and even then was clearly reluctant. “Because at present there’s some strain between the earl and the countess. It’s not her doing, and it’s making her…sad.”

  “More likely to sell then, surely?”

  “No—more likely to cling to something she knows. Something that’s hers. However, the earl is far from stupid—I’m sure, given time, he’ll come to his senses. Once he does, the countess’s mood will lift, she’ll become distracted with other things, and…I’m quite sure, then, that she’ll be more amenable to selling.”

  A minute ticked by. “So—do you want me to wait until the earl makes the countess happy again?”

  Low laughter filled the room. “Oh, no. I might appreciate the earl’s acumen, but I’m certainly not prepared to subject my plans to his whim. You may proceed, but as I said, be careful and be patient. One way or another, I’m sure we can ensure that I’ll have Quilley Farm in good time.”

  Sarah proceeded doggedly with her plan. If she behaved as if love were openly acknowledged between them, and refused to waver no matter his aloofness, his distance, his too-formal acts, then ultimately, in time, even he would have to admit that embracing their love was more rewarding than denying it.

  Given Charlie’s stubbornness, such a plan was akin to using water to cut stone, but perseverance, she hoped, would win through.

  On Sunday, strolling away from the church on his arm, she was inwardly congratulating herself on a credible performance as a lady in love, one she felt confident had passed Clary’s and Gloria’s scrutiny, and even that of Twitters, confirmed romantic that she was, when Charlie informed her that Malcolm Sinclair would be calling after luncheon. Again.

  She bit back an acid comment, then remembered. She raised her brows. “Mr. Sinclair seems…an interesting gentleman.”

  From the corner of her eye, she caught Charlie’s slight frown; a minor triumph. At the moment, minor triumphs were all she’d garnered, but it was early days yet.

  Resigned to the afternoon being lost to her campaignwise when, after luncheon, Charlie retired to the library to search out some details he and Sinclair intended to study, she retreated to her sitting room.

  The day outside was cool. She looked out the windows, then drifted about the room; she wanted to forge ahead with her campaign, but at that moment there was nothing she could sensibly do.

  With a frustrated sigh, she sat on the chaise and reached for the basket of mending she’d had fetched from the orphanage. The staff there did all they could, and Twitters helped, occasionally convincing Clary and Gloria to assist, but there was always so much to patch and darn, so many rips to stitch together again.

  She was thus employed when she heard a footstep in the corridor. As usual, she’d left the sitting room doors propped wide; she looked up as Mr. Sinclair glanced in. He was obviously on his way to the library, but he stopped, smiled, and entered to greet her.

  Smiling, she held out her hand; Charlie using him as a shield wasn’t Sinclair’s fault, and there was nothing to take exception to in his manners or his person. “Good afternoon, sir. Pray excuse me for not rising—I’m temporarily weighed down.”

  By the blanket she was darning.

  Sinclair bowed over her hand, but as he straightened, his gaze fastened on the blanket; she could almost hear him wondering why the Countess of Meredith was darning at all, much less such an old thing.

  “It’s from the orphanage,” she explained. “I help as I can.”

  “Ah.” His face cleared. He glanced briefly around, taking in the room. “You’ve made yourself at home here—it suits you.”

  “Thank you.”

  He looked again at the basket of darning. “I’d heard that you were involved with the orphanage.” He tipped his head at the nearby arm
chair; intrigued, she waved him to sit.

  Gracefully doing so, he continued, “I’ve seen Quilley Farm—it’s visible from my front steps. As you know, I’m thinking of settling in the district. I’ve never lived outside London, and…well, I thought that taking an interest in some endeavor like the orphanage might be a good way to fill some of my hours and build bridges with the local community.”

  If he hadn’t added that last phrase, Sarah would have suspected him of bamming her; instead, she saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes.

  He leaned forward attentively. “I wonder if you could tell me something about the place?”

  She smiled, and obliged. The words came readily to her lips; she was comfortable describing the institution her godmother had established, having done it so often before.

  But she knew better than to enthuse too long. She concluded with, “Given the increasing number of factories in Taunton and the increase in shipping, too, no matter how much we might wish it otherwise there’s likely to be a corresponding increase in the need to care for children left behind in the wake of accidents and tragedies.”

  Sinclair had been listening intently. Now he nodded. “I see.” He smiled briefly, confidingly. “I was present when his lordship dismissed the offer for the orphanage on Friday. Now I understand why he said your involvement runs deep, and that you would have no interest in selling.”

  Sarah blinked. Ice slid through her veins. “Offer? To buy the orphanage?”

  Sinclair’s eyes locked on hers, swiftly—almost disbelievingly—searching. A faint flush rose in his pale cheeks. “I…apologize. I…assumed his lordship would have mentioned the matter.”

  Sarah’s features felt stiff. She waved aside his embarrassment. “No need for apologies.”

  Sinclair rose. “Nevertheless, I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  The tone of his voice—as if he were irritated, but not at her—kept her silent as she looked up at him.

  He held her gaze for a second, then his lashes flickered down over his hazel eyes and he bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, I really should join Meredith in the library. I daresay he’s expecting me.”