think she would realise what was causing them by now, wouldn’t you, though?’ he asked with a wicked grin.
‘Well, really, Sir Adam!’
He raised one dark eyebrow and his eyes were alight with laughter. ‘I hope you’re not turning into a prig, Lady Summerton?’
‘Pray confine such comments to the gentlemen in future,’ she said stiffly, trying to remove her hand from the crook of his arm.
He bowed briefly, but placed his other hand over hers. She stilled immediately. ‘I beg your pardon. I thought you were beyond the series of hypocrisies and evasions that commonly make up polite conversation,’ he told her, and she couldn’t tell if he was teasing or deadly serious.
‘Then you thought wrongly.’
‘Perhaps,’ he replied enigmatically, releasing her hand at last—only to clasp it again as he helped her over a stile and onto the footpath that led to Red Bridge Farm.
‘I’m a conventional creature, Sir Adam. Despite any rumours you might have heard to the contrary,’ she made herself say airily, over the thundering of her heartbeat as she leant on his strength as briefly as she could without tripping over.
‘I don’t listen to rumour, my lady. Instead I like to gather facts and make an informed judgement for myself.’
‘If only more of our kind did that,’ she replied impulsively, and risked undoing all the good she had managed to do herself by smiling up at him as if they were more than the mere acquaintances she had assured herself they were.
Luckily he resisted such an obvious opening, and returned her look with a quizzical one of his own. ‘It has often occurred to me that most of the nobility and gentry don’t have nearly enough to do—unlike you, my lady.’
‘I hate being idle,’ she told him earnestly.
She didn’t have it in her to be as elegantly useless as her sister-in-law, although Amelia was increasing, and had an excuse at the moment, and the Dowager Countess was a martyr to rheumatics. As the only Countess of Summerton currently willing and able to carry out her duties, there was little risk of Serena becoming bored. Yet at four and twenty should her life really be so settled, so relentlessly unchanging? The suspicion that it shouldn’t had been driving her harder than ever of late, and she was almost sure Adam Langthorne had nothing to do with that unease.
‘How fortunate you married a Cambray, then,’ he now said brusquely. ‘But if your neighbours had their way, Countess Amelia and the Dowager would do more, and you would wear yourself to a wraith considerably less.’
‘The Dowager is ill and my sister-in-law in an interesting condition, Sir Adam,’ she replied, and told herself that ‘wraith’ was a gross exaggeration of her natural slenderness. She tried not to stare down at her person as if checking for too much skin and bone.
‘Since the other Ladies Summerton spend their time lying on sofas countermanding one another’s orders, it would do them a great deal of good to exert themselves now and again before the furniture collapses under their indolence,’ he observed sardonically, as if he had no idea why she was frowning down at her faded morning gown as if she had never seen it before.
If he dared to mock her preoccupation with his suggestion she was too thin she would turn on her heel and walk away, Mrs Burgess or no Mrs Burgess. Anyway, the Burgesses were Sir Adam’s tenants, and not Henry’s, so why she was here in the first place was beyond her. Tradition, the Dowager had claimed, since Burgess’s mother had been head housemaid up at the Hall, and at Windham tradition was everything.
‘It would do them both good to be more active,’ he went on, either oblivious to her frown or indifferent to it. ‘Then you could find a better use for your time.’
‘I’m happy as I am,’ she told him, dangerous ground shifting under her feet as a possible alternative presented itself.
‘No, you’re not unhappy,’ he insisted. ‘Which is a vastly different state from being truly happy. You spend your life waiting for the party to start.’
‘I have no liking for parties,’ she told him crossly.
Was he about to make her a very improper suggestion that she should spend lots of time lying about on the furniture with him, somewhere louche and forbidden? Or an honourable offer of marriage? Not to be thought of, she decided, impatient with herself for even momentarily lingering on the image of herself as a sinful houri, much too available for a gentleman’s pleasure, or an active and much appreciated wife. According to George she’d had no talent for either position and, considering how mistaken she had been about their marriage, she would be twenty times a fool to contemplate another—even if Sir Adam were ever so willing to put his head in the parson’s mousetrap, which she very much doubted from the slightly feral gleam in his eyes just at the moment.
‘Only because you lack the nerve to enjoy them,’ he told her inexcusably. ‘I’ve watched you sitting with the chaperones nobody else has the time or inclination to bother with, and playing the piano for the so-called “young people” to dance to. What happened to the eager young girl you used to be? The one I recall whispering mischief with my sister when you were schoolgirls together, and refusing to be awed by any threat or stratagem I could think up to keep you in line before you landed yourself and Rachel in Newgate? You do your best to fade into the furniture, and people have the devil of a job recalling if you were even at the few social engagements you attend. When you made your debuts my sister used to write about your mutual misdeeds so joyfully that I could tell you were doing her a great deal of good. Where did the headlong miss who danced every dance on her card and still found the energy to drive herself about the town in her own curricle and pair the next day and set the tabbies by the ears get off to, my lady?’
‘None of your business,’ she told him shortly, and glared at him as she wrestled for possession of her hand in a most unladylike fashion, winning at last only because she knew he would never knowingly hurt her.
‘Rachel’s letters used to come alive with the misdeeds the two of you perpetrated,’ he continued relentlessly. ‘Despite her terrible grief when poor Tom Hollard died, I thought such a lively neighbour would cheer her in time. Instead my sister is intent on becoming an antidote, and if the pair of you went to town for the season, I dare say you’d only attend Blue Stocking soirees and church.’
‘That we shouldn’t. We’d dance ’til dawn to prove you wrong, Sir Adam, even if we wore our poor feet raw,’ she snapped. ‘You should thank your stars we’re so conventional nowadays.’
‘Never!’ he vowed, and there was no mistaking the resolution in his steadfast gaze now, even if it did seem very different from the one she’d thought. ‘You might be happy to watch Rachel dwindle into a reclusive old maid who’ll soon start breeding lapdogs, but I’m not. I want the eager young woman Rachel was before Tom died back, and you’re going to help me.’
‘Even though you just pointed out how staid I am?’ she asked coldly.
‘You think this good enough for my sister? This not unhappy state you have fallen into as if you were both four and sixty instead of four and twenty? Well, I think it only half a life. Yes, Rachel suffered a terrible tragedy, and you endured an unhappy marriage, but life didn’t stop because of it.’
‘My marriage is none of your business,’ she informed him very stiffly, as she did her best to retrieve her hand once more from the firm, warm clasp he had taken it
