his return to Mowbray had made him unnecessarily sensitive to nuance. Her eyes were still warm with amusement and there was nothing to indicate that the bite he felt at her words was intentional. And even if it was, it should make no difference if her opinion of him was as low as everyone else’s in Mowbray. He had long ago stopped caring about other people’s opinions. If there was one thing he was used to, it was being weighed and found wanting. He was not about to pick up that bad habit again simply because he was in the one place he’d told himself he would never come back to.
‘That is a relief,’ he said drily.
She cocked her head to one side, her eyebrows lowering with concern.
‘Have I offended you? I did not mean to, at least not this time.’
‘I am not that easily offended. Being informed I arouse no expectations is hardly offensive. Expectations, like principles, are exceedingly tiresome. A great deal too much effort is spent either trying to live up to them or explaining why one has failed to do so.’
The disconcerting anxiety in her eyes faded, replaced once again by mischievous amusement.
‘You have developed a whole philosophy on the subject, it seems. I am glad your studies have not gone completely to waste.’
‘Who’s being provoking now? And I have made very good use of my studies. The classics set the ground for most challenges one encounters in life, and where they fall short, there are several very useful Sanskrit texts that fill the gaps.’
‘From your tone I gather I should probably not ask which texts,’ she said suspiciously.
‘Not in public at least.’
Her eyes, intent and curious, searched his for a moment, but then her long lashes veiled her eyes and she sighed.
‘And so, once again, we circle back to you trying to shock me. I’m afraid you can’t outdo the moment ten years ago when I realised what Oedipus was really about and you didn’t even mean to shock me then.’
‘I was probably misled by your name. Anyone named after the founder of Carthage should be able to deal with Greek tragedy.’
She smiled, but there was a sharp edge to her expression.
‘Queen Alissa? Nothing so grand. I believe my father suggested my name in one of his very few contributions to our upbringing—I am named after alyssum, the Greek word for sanity. Perhaps he feared having children might threaten his. Now I really should go and keep an eye on Mary and Percy. Aunt Adele is not a very effective chaperon. Could you please tell Mr Milsom I will return later for my book? Good day, Lord Delacort.’
She turned towards the door, not waiting for him to respond. He watched the door close behind her, turning as Mr Milsom stepped hurriedly out of the back room.
‘I was quite certain I heard Miss Drake,’ he said in a puzzled tone as he placed a wrapped stack of books on the counter and pulled a single book from beneath it, brandishing it at the closed door.
‘You did, but she was in a bit of a hurry, I’m afraid,’ Adam informed him.
‘But her book!’
Adam glanced at the book Mr Milsom held and raised his brows as he recognised the title. He had once read part of The Treasure of Orvieto on a voyage between Cape Town and Zanzibar, but it had been lost along with some of his belongings when they had run aground on the African coast. Still, he had read enough to know it was hardly standard reading fare for young women. Perhaps she was collecting it for her father. He had not expected that the reclusive and very annoyingly moralistic poet William Drake would indulge in popular tales of adventure. Still, he had long since learned people were rarely what they appeared.
‘I will deliver it to her, if you like,’ he said and held out his hand imperatively.
Mr Milsom hesitated, looking rather worried, but in the end he handed it over. Authority had its advantages, Adam realised. He rather thought that however diffident people were around him, there was little he could not demand in Mowbray.
Adam added the book to the wrapped stack of books on the counter and stepped outside, heading towards his curricle. He knew he should probably go and deliver her book as promised, but he did not head towards the garden promenade. He wouldn’t mind glancing at the novel again. The aggravating Miss Drake could wait until the next day for her book.
Adam glanced up at the tree, now devoid of toys and looking somewhat smaller than he remembered. It stood just at the edge of the Drakes’ cottage garden, its extensive roots creeping down the bank and into a small stream that ran alongside the lane towards Mowbray. The cottage was strategically situated at a fork in the lane that connected Mowbray with both Delacort Hall and Rowena’s old home, Nesbit House. Adam had passed it more times than he could remember.
It was rather peculiarly proportioned, with the bottom half rather long and sprawling and the upper storey built on only half the cottage. That was, if he remembered correctly, where the poet was rumoured to live and work, often not appearing for days or even weeks on end. The children had all slept, cooked, eaten and played downstairs, in a world separate both from their parent and often from the outside world. Years ago the cottage had been surrounded by an unkempt wilderness which had been extremely useful for games of hide-and-seek. Now the lawn was trimmed and a profusion of vivid summer flowers crowded neat flower beds along the short gravel path to the house and under the front windows. Despite its small size, the garden looked lush and cheerful and the cottage itself had lost its ramshackle air. It seemed Miss Drake had tamed more than her own appearance and behaviour.
This was the first time since his arrival that he had ventured off Delacort land aside from his trip into Mowbray the previous day. He planned to go riding with Nicholas later, but for the moment he just wanted to walk down the familiar lanes. When his family had first moved to the town he had found every excuse to remain in his students’ lodgings in Oxford, but from the moment he had laid eyes on Rowena, his dedication to the classics had melted under the heat of his infatuation for the local beauty. That last summer he had spent every available moment in Mowbray, vying with her many admirers for the privilege of a smile.
As a poor relation of the old Lord Delacort, effectively living in Mowbray on his charity, Adam had had few illusions about his ability to compete. He should have been suspicious when Rowena started encouraging his attentions, but at the time he had only been convinced that love was triumphing over lucre.
She had played him skilfully, ultimately convincing him that an elopement was their only chance for happiness. Yet he’d found their ‘secret’ rendezvous near the White Hart had been transformed into a scene from the worst music-hall farce with Rowena playing the kidnapped belle, himself as villain, Lord Moresby as Sir Galahad and most of Mowbray as either condemning chorus or avid audience.
He clearly remembered the scene, with his mother standing shoulder to shoulder with old Lord Delacort, demanding he leave that very day, while his father had stood mutely by, eyes downcast. And then there’d been the anticlimax of the farce as the young Miss Drake had elbowed her way past Lord Delacort and demanded that Rowena admit she had planned this all along. Rowena had cleverly fallen into a swoon, judiciously finding herself in Lord Moresby’s arms, and Adam’s fate had been sealed.
‘Not Carthage! Dido is done to death!’ a voice exclaimed and Adam
