did not do things that offended his own sense of honour, therefore there was never anything to feel guilty about. ‘I apologise, Mrs Perowne. That was ungracious of me when you show such concern for an uninvited guest.’
‘You are forgiven, and to show to what extent, let me lead you through to the breakfast room and you may tell me what you think of our own sausages and bacon.’
Cris, ignoring Collins’s faint smile, which, in a lesser man, would have been a smirk, followed her into a sunny room with yellow chintz curtains and a view down the sloping lawn to the sea. ‘Should we not wait for your aunts?’
‘They always breakfast in their room.’ Mrs Perowne gestured to a seat and sat opposite. The centre of the table had platters of bread and ham, a bowl of butter and a covered dish. ‘Let me serve you, you will not want to be stretching to lift dishes.’ As she spoke she raised the dome and a tantalising aroma of bacon and sausage wafted out.
‘Thank you.’ He meekly accepted a laden plate and tried to work out the enigma that was Mrs Tamsyn Perowne. She was well spoken, confident, competent and a lady, even if she was decidedly out of the ordinary. She was distantly related to a viscount, but she had married a local man who had died one leap ahead of the noose.
‘That is a charming portrait on the wall behind you,’ he remarked. ‘Your aunts do not resemble each other greatly. Are they your mother’s relations or your father’s, if I might ask?’
‘Aunt Isobel is my mother’s cousin. Aunt Rosie is not a relation.’ Mrs Perowne shot him a very direct glance as though measuring his reaction. ‘They left home to set up house together when they were in their late twenties. It was—is—a passionate friendship, as close as a marriage.’
‘Like the famous Ladies of Llangollen?’
‘Yes, just like that. It was their inspiration, I believe. Are you shocked?’
‘No, not at all. Why should they not be happy together?’ Lucky women, able to turn their backs on the demands of society and its expectations. But daughters did not bear the same weight of expectation that sons did, especially elder sons, with the requirements of duty to make a good match, bring wealth and connections into the family, provide an heir to title and estates.
‘And you?’ he asked when she gave him an approving nod and turned her attention to a dish of eggs in cream. ‘What led you to make your life here?’
‘My father was a naval man and I cannot even recall his face. He was killed at sea when I was scarcely toddling. Mama found things very difficult without him. I think she was not a strong character.’
‘So you had to be strong for both of you?’ he suggested.
‘Yes. How did you know?’ The quick look of pleasure at his understanding made Cris smile back. She really was a charming woman with her expressive face and healthy colour. And young still, not much above twenty-five, he would estimate.
‘You have natural authority, yet you wear it lightly. I doubt you learned it recently. What happened to your mother?’
‘She succumbed to one of the cholera epidemics. We lived in Portsmouth and like all ports many kinds of infection are rife.’
‘And then you came here?’ He tried to imagine the feelings of the orphaned girl, leaving the place that she knew, mourning for her mother. He had lost his own mother when he was four, bearing the sibling he never knew. His father, a remote, chilly figure, had died when he was barely ten, leaving Cris a very young, very frightened marquess. Rigorously hiding his feelings behind a mask of frigid reserve had got him through that ordeal. It still served him well.
‘Do your duty,’ was his father’s dying command and the only advice he ever gave his son on holding one of the premier titles in the land. But he had found it covered every difficulty he encountered. Do your duty usually meant do what you least want to do because it was hard, or painful, or meant he must use his head, not his heart, to solve a problem, but he had persevered. It even stood me in good stead to prevent me sacrificing honour for love, he thought bitterly.
‘Aunt Izzy is a maternal creature,’ Tamsyn said. ‘She adopted Jory, she took me in.’ She slanted a teasing smile at Cris. ‘I think she sees you as her next good cause.’
‘Do I appear to need mothering?’
‘From my point of view?’ She studied him, head on one side, a wicked glint in her eyes, apparently not at all chilled by his frigid tone. ‘No, I feel absolutely no inclination to mother you, Mr Defoe. But you could have died, you are still recovering, and that is quite enough for Aunt Izzy.’ Having silenced him, she added, ‘Will you be resting today?’
‘I will walk. My muscles will seize up if I rest. I thought I would go along the lane for a while.’
‘It is uphill all the way for a mile until the combe joins Stib Valley, but there are several places to rest—fallen trees, rocks.’ Mrs Perowne was showing not the slightest desire to fuss over him, which was soothing to his male pride and a setback for his scheme to draw her out.
‘Will you not come with me? Show me the way?’
‘There is absolutely no opportunity for you to get lost, Mr Defoe. If you manage to reach the lane to Stibworthy, then by turning right you will descend to Stib’s Landing. Left will take you to the village and the tracks to either side will lead you to the clifftops.’
‘I was hoping for your company, not your guidance.’ Cris tried to look wistful, which, he knew, was not an expression that sat well on his austere features.
Tamsyn took the top off a boiled egg with a sharp swipe of her knife. ‘Lonely, Mr Defoe?’ she enquired sweetly.
Cris did not rise to the mockery. ‘It is a while since I had the opportunity to walk in such unspoiled countryside and have a conversation with a young lady at the same time.’
She pursed her mouth, although whether to suppress a smile or a wry expression of resignation he could not tell. ‘I have to go and see our shepherd about the...incident yesterday. I am intending to ride, but I will walk with you up the combe until you tire, then ride on from there. There is no particular hurry, the damage has been done.’
Cris wondered whether she was as cool and crisp with everyone or whether she did not like him. Possibly it was a cover for embarrassment. After all, he had come lurching out of the sea, stark naked, seized hold of her and then kissed her, neither of which were the actions of a gentleman. But Tamsyn Perowne did not strike him as a woman who was easily embarrassed. She had an earthy quality about her, which was not at all coarse but rather made him think of pagan goddesses—Primavera, perhaps, bringing growing things and springtime in her wake.
It was refreshing after the artificiality of London society or the Danish court. There, ladies wore expressions of careful neutrality and regarded showing their feelings as a sign of weakness, or ill breeding. Even Katerina had hidden behind a façade of indifferent politeness. And thank heavens, for that, Cris thought. Self-control and the ability to disguise their feelings had been all that stood between them and a major scandal. Mrs Perowne could keep secrets, he was sure of that, but she would find it hard to suppress her emotions. He thought of her spirited response to the magistrate, the anger so openly expressed. Would her lovemaking be so passionate, so frank?
It was an inappropriate thought and, from her suddenly arrested expression, this time something of it had shown on his face. ‘Mr Defoe?’ There
