Page 9 of Jillian’s Wild Heart (Ladies of Munro #4)

L ewis sipped his coffee in silence. He fought the urge to slurp a little, or even a lot, just to annoy his father.

It wasn’t a very mature approach for a thirty-year-old barrister, but he was tempted nonetheless.

It was the only way to get his father’s attention.

Philip was not there—probably off riding.

If so, there was a very good chance he was meeting up with the Sangford sisters, who enjoyed a bit of morning exercise within Munro Park, along with many other of the city’s riding enthusiasts.

Miss Irene Sangford, the elder of the two, had caught Philip’s eye, and both sets of parents heartily approved the match.

Lewis could not think of anyone more opposite to Miss Kinsey, who was all light and laughter.

Philip was welcome to Miss Sangford—her money, her status, and her joyless personality.

Mother was never at the breakfast table. She preferred to take a tray in her room, where she sat under the heat of several layers of coverlets for her legs and a thick, woolen shawl for her shoulders. Downstairs did not warm to her liking until at least noon.

He had no idea where Penelope was. His younger sister was the only salvageable element of their family, himself included.

He was painfully aware of his status as the spare, and the bitterness it had bred in him.

Pen, as he liked to call his younger sibling, was even worse off, being born a girl.

But she could not be bothered in the least. She happily denounced every suitor, knowing full well she would lose her independence to her husband, and was perfectly content to embrace spinsterhood, consequences be damned.

It would be just like her to run off and seek her own fortune if her family did not wish to take care of an old maid.

It must have been the sheer magnetism of her temperament that prevented their parents from making a marriage arrangement on her behalf.

Perhaps they, like Lewis, suspected she might very well cut her hair and go to sea if they forced her hand.

That being the case, Pen had tremendous freedom within the grounds of the barony. Provided she toed the line in public, they gave her a very long leash in private. Which was why, at this moment, she could be anywhere on their vast estate.

In many ways, his sister and Miss Kinsey were alike.

That was probably at least half the reason he had been drawn to the lovely friend of the viscountess.

Penelope’s willful insistence on being her true self had shown him a different path than the one his parents desired for him was possible.

And Miss Kinsey would walk with him on such a path.

He could picture them being the best of friends, if only their parents would allow such a friendship.

It would be good for Pen. Despite her independent streak, he often wondered if she was lonely.

Her self-imposed exile from the marriage mart meant that much of her time was spent roaming the estate by herself.

Miss Kinsey would make the perfect companion, being unafraid of whether such random activity was suitable or not.

It was a pity that the rules of society should force such exceptional souls from each other’s company.

Lewis eyed his coffee once more. His father was making his way through the morning post, his head slightly bowed so that the baldness at the top of it was exposed.

Lord Bradford had a ring of hair about his head, feathering upward to soften the expanse of pink flesh where baldness had won.

The effect of this style mimicked the laurel wreath commonly associated with Julius Caesar.

Lewis very much wanted to shoot a paper pellet at the fleshy target.

It reminded him of his days at university, a time when he’d been able to lark about as much as he liked, provided he passed his exams and didn’t embarrass Philip, whose years of study had overlapped with Lewis’s.

Growing up had come with an expectation of more sober behavior yet no matching privilege, save the respect he had earned from his fellow intellectuals at court.

It was small compensation when all Philip had to do to inherit the advantages of being a future baron was to exist.

“Ah, Lewis, one for you,” his father said suddenly, handing a letter folded into a complex self-locking design to the footman standing nearby, even though Lewis sat but one seat from his father.

The footman took the letter with a small bow, turning in mid-bend and handing it to Lewis before straightening again.

Lewis rolled his eyes. The manners of the aristocracy were very questionable.

He could just imagine what Miss Kinsey would say.

He looked down at the address. Munro House. But it was not the handwriting of Lord Howell. How curious!

He fought with the letter somewhat, not wanting to tear the paper while pulling apart the tightly folded form. With one deft tug, he managed to release the full page and searched at once for the signature.

Miss Kinsey.

The urge to turn his back to his father so that he might not see who had written had to be overcome, for it would draw attention to the very thing Lewis wished to hide.

Miss Kinsey was not au fait with the finer etiquettes, but even she should know it was a terrible risk to her reputation to write directly to him.

What could she possibly need to say that could not have been communicated via their mutual friend the viscount?

He had scarcely read the first line and managed to suppress an involuntary cry of surprise when he decided quite suddenly this letter was best read elsewhere. He tucked it into his pocket, placed his serviette on the table, and stood.

“If you will excuse me, Father.”

“Hmph,” said Lord Bradford.

With the usual minimum of parental acknowledgement, Lewis made his way to the library, where he quickly opened the letter once more, his eyes darting across the page and growing wider as they did so.

He looked at his pocket watch. Almost ten o’clock!

He considered his attire. Hardly the right gear for riding.

But a carriage would take far longer to ready than a horse.

He rang the bell pull more savagely than it was designed for, and a footman appeared in an awkward dance between haste and decorum.

“Tell the groom to ready my horse. At once. Go!”

The footman obeyed and disappeared at as close to a run as possible without actually breaking into one.

Lewis tore upstairs to retrieve his overcoat from his wardrobe, then circled round to the bricked courtyard where a stablehand was assisting the groom in the final adjustments to his horse’s bridle and stirrups.

“Make haste!” he shouted somewhat unfairly, since they were clearly working as fast as they could.

Lewis felt the minutes slipping away. It was half an hour to Munro House by carriage.

He could do that in a quarter hour on horseback.

Miss Kinsey said she would be leaving late morning.

How late was “late”? Ten-thirty? Eleven-thirty?

If it was the former, he was cutting it very close, indeed.

Unless Miss Kinsey had found a way to delay her departure.

Five minutes felt like hours, but Lewis was finally on his mount and away, the ground disappearing beneath his horse’s hooves as clods of mud spat up behind them.

He half-expected to have to chase down the Howell carriage en route to Trenton Grange.

But when he had conquered the country miles and the long drive to the main entrance of Munro House, the viscount’s carriage still stood at the entrance.

Two footmen had just lifted a trunk onto its roof and now wrestled with leather straps to tie it down.

The step had not yet been lowered and no one stood impatiently by the great oak door, waiting to enter the carriage cubicle.

Lewis scarcely slowed, jumping from his horse and throwing his reins at the footmen.

He bounded up the steps and… stuttered to a halt.

He could not enter the company of ladies looking as disheveled and flustered as he did.

Lewis tugged at his sleeves to smooth the creases, patted his cravat, and ran his fingers through his hair.

His hat! He had forgotten his hat! No matter, he would not need it inside the house, anyway.

He puffed out a few slow breaths to settle his booming heart.

Gripping his lapels, he maneuvered his neck until he felt that all sat upon him as it should. One more deep inhale. And exhale.

Lewis rapped on the knocker, the sound pulsing through the thick wood that sealed the entrance. The butler appeared, quickly swallowing his initial surprise at seeing Lewis there.

“His lordship was not expecting you, Mr. Bradford. Miss Kinsey is departing this morning, and they are busy with their farewells.”

“That’s all right, Branson,” Lewis replied, stepping past him into the foyer. “I am not here to see him.” To the waiting footman, he said impatiently, “You may take my coat.”

The unusually wide-eared footman glanced at the butler, who nodded. Lewis offered his back and the footman slipped the warm outer coat from his shoulders. “No hat, sir?” asked the footman.

“No, no hat,” said Lewis without further explanation. “Branson, please let Miss Kinsey know I have arrived.”

“If you would be so good as to wait in the drawing room, sir, I shall inform the young lady.”

Lewis knew the way and showed himself through.

However, once he’d entered the room, he was at a loss as to what to do with himself.

He had evaded disaster and made it to Munro House in time.

But now the moment for which he had raced like the dickens had finally arrived. And suddenly, Lewis was nervous.