Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“Certainly, with his looks and connections. Anyway, we thought you’d want to know.”
Wescott nodded. “I wish him well, for all that recently passed. You must tell him he’s invited to Wescott Abbey whenever he returns home.”
“We’ll let him know,” said Marlow. “I think it will help him move on from his tendre, to see you and your wife rubbing along so well.”
“I don’t know.” August’s voice held doubt. “Towns had it pretty bad for Ophelia. He might need more time.”
“He’ll be fine once he finds someone to replace her,” Marlow said.
August picked at a blade of grass, his lips drawn tight as Wescott and Marlow exchanged glances. It would be good for August to find a woman to replace Felicity too, not that Wescott expected that to happen anytime soon.
“We ought to go back,” Wescott said, standing to fetch the swords. He tucked them beneath one arm and held out a hand to his friends. “We eat early at the cottage. I suppose Mrs. Evans has got you set up in your rooms by now?”
“Yes, when we arrived. They’ve got a lovely view of the back garden,” said Marlow. “I’ve always loved this place, Wes. When I’m here, I always feel a little less…”
“Mad?” August offered, as he dusted grass from his trousers.
He scowled at him. “A little less harried. Yes. What’s for dinner tonight, Wescott? Do you know?”
“Rabbit and roast vegetables, I believe. And plenty of Cook’s chocolate tarts.”
His friends whooped and started toward the house at a run, occasionally trying to trip one another. Bloody children, they were, driven by childish appetites. Silly, Ophelia had called them, and he’d been so much like them only a couple months ago.
How had he changed so fully in only a short time? When had life become more than tarts, the type you could eat, and the type you could bed?
Perhaps it had been the night he followed his wife up to the battlements and realized he must battle for their marriage if they were to survive. Or perhaps it had been the first night they met, when he saw her in harm’s way outside the theater, waiting to be saved.
Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who’d been saved that night. More and more, it seemed they’d rescued each other as flames tore through London and upended both their lives.
Chapter Eighteen
In Love
Wescott’s friends slept late the following day, so her husband invited Ophelia to a picnic in the meadow by the lake. Oh dear, she saw that glint in his eyes again.
Picnics were easy to plan, as they frequently took their luncheon outside, with warm clothes and shoes to protect them on the chillier days. They were well into autumn now, so the cottage’s landscape was changing. The trees grew more spindly looking, stripped of their rich, red-gold leaves.
They walked the well-trod path to their favorite hideaway, a sheltered meadow next to a lake. Even now, the water’s surface glittered, alive with aquatic life, and wildflowers blew in the breeze. As Wescott laid out the blankets for their picnic lunch, Ophelia walked amidst the boulders flanking the shore, collecting wildflowers in various colors: violet, pale pink, yellow, and white, even orange.
“You might as well pick them all,” Wescott teased as she brought an armful of blooms to the blanket. “They won’t last much longer.”
“They’re pretty, even if they don’t smell very nice.” She held them to her nose, grimaced, then lay them beside the blanket. If she wasn’t careful, she’d begin to sneeze.
“Will it grow cold soon?” she asked, picking up a meat pie.
“I fear so, although, in all honesty, the cottage is easier to keep warm than the Abbey.”
Ophelia had written to her parents, describing the cottage and the beautiful Welsh countryside. She did not tell them she was studying swordplay, for they’d probably disapprove, not that their opinion mattered now. She was a married woman and her husband loved her. That was enough.
They ate meat pies, scones, and biscuits until they were full, then packed the rest of the food away for later. Sometimes when the sun was strong and warm, they lay back on the blankets and took a nap, but today they stayed awake instead, watching the birds call across the lake. A pair of hawks soared high above them, weaving back and forth in a pattern that always brought them together again.
“They must be in love,” she said dreamily.
“Or planning a hunt together,” said her more practical husband.
“Perhaps they’re sparring together, like we do. You know, the friendly, loving way, not arguing all the time.”
He chuckled. “It wasn’t so long ago we sparred together the unfriendly, unloving way. I’m glad we don’t anymore. My parents told me that once we understood each other, there would be plenty of room for love.”
“Your parents are very wise.”
“My mother has a saying. Ask the heavens for what your heart wants.” He lifted his hand, drawing it about the meadow. “By heavens, I imagine she means all of this. The earth, the sky, the wind, the sun.”