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Miss Tolliver leaned close as if to impress him with her overabundant charms; Adrian reminded himself that pointedly shifting his gaze to Abby’s much more elegant figure would not advance his cause. “No,” he said, and left it at that.
The Tollivers left soon after, to be replaced by Mr. and Mrs. Heskel and their son and daughter. They, in turn, were replaced by Sir Winston Smythe, who rode in from his distant manor to check on Abby and Esme.He knew Adrian of old and conversed in bluffly genial fashion, all the while flicking glances between Abby and her unexpected guest.
“I told you so,” Adrian whispered as, Sir Winston gone, he followed Abby in to lunch.
She threw him a look but did not deign to answer.
They had barely risen from the table when the front doorbell pealed again.
“I can’t tell you in what high regard we all hold Miss Woolley.” Mrs. Pomfret, widow of the late Reverend Pomfret, fixed Adrian with basilisk eyes. “How we would go on without her sound advice, I cannot imagine—of course, we all hereabouts would be exceedingly distressed were any misfortune to befall her.”
“Indeed?” Adrian infused the word with the utmost boredom and smiled, distantly charming, even though his temper was wearing thin. Mrs. Pomfret’s was the sixth thinly veiled warning to him to stay away from Abby. He’d received three in the last hour—even for him, a record. The impulse to explain, with suitable emphasis, that it wasn’t Abby who stood in any danger from him grew, but for Abby’s sake, he nodded urbanely and moved on.
It was midafternoon and the parlor was crowded. Whether his hold on his temper would last until evening was anyone’s guess. Adrian allowed a Mrs. Woolcliffe, a newcomer to the district, to buttonhole him; while he listened to her ramblings, he watched Abby across the room.
Mrs. Woolcliffe’s gangling son was attempting to ingratiate himself into Abby’s good graces. To Adrian,Abby looked quietly bored. Quietly distracted. Apparently Woolcliffe realized—he grabbed her hand. Startled, Abby tried to pull it back.
Adrian stiffened. He was about to excuse himself to Mrs. Woolcliffe, then stalk across the room and throw her son out, when the new squire, a Mr. Kilby, moved in and spoke sharply to Woolcliffe.
One glance at Abby’s face, and it was clear Kilby had opened his mouth only to put his foot in it. Adrian forced the tension from his shoulders, and paid spurious attention to Mrs. Woolcliffe. If Abby’s would-be suitors wanted to annoy her, who was he to interfere?
He had already realized that in painting her picture of village life for him, Abby had omitted a few details. Such as her central role in village affairs, and the plethora of would-be suitors sniffing about her heels. While he had no quarrel with the former, the latter he had a definite opinion about. Not, of course, that he’d be fool enough to air that opinion to Abby, as, by the militant look in her eye, Kilby had just done.
Adrian bided his time, smoothly moving through the crowd without haste or apparent direction. He arrived at Abby’s side in time to hear Kilby declare, “Regardless, I hope you’ll have the good sense to leave off your customary jaunts on the moor—there’s sure to be more snow.”
Abby stiffened. She turned to Adrian as he joined them, and smiled warmly. “Ah, Adrian—Viscount Dere, I should say—allow me to present Mr. Kilby.”
Adrian inwardly grinned at her supposed socialstumble. She’d used his first name to irritate Kilby, and had succeeded. Kilby returned his nod stiffly.
“I hear, my lord, that your curricle ran off the road in the snowstorm. Daresay with the thaw setting in, you’ll be going on to Bellevere tomorrow.”
Adrian smiled; the gesture did not reach his eyes. “If the thaw holds, I certainly expect to be journeying to Bellevere tomorrow.”
Kilby nodded sanctimoniously. “I was just telling Miss Woolley that the moor is no place for a gently
The Tollivers left soon after, to be replaced by Mr. and Mrs. Heskel and their son and daughter. They, in turn, were replaced by Sir Winston Smythe, who rode in from his distant manor to check on Abby and Esme.He knew Adrian of old and conversed in bluffly genial fashion, all the while flicking glances between Abby and her unexpected guest.
“I told you so,” Adrian whispered as, Sir Winston gone, he followed Abby in to lunch.
She threw him a look but did not deign to answer.
They had barely risen from the table when the front doorbell pealed again.
“I can’t tell you in what high regard we all hold Miss Woolley.” Mrs. Pomfret, widow of the late Reverend Pomfret, fixed Adrian with basilisk eyes. “How we would go on without her sound advice, I cannot imagine—of course, we all hereabouts would be exceedingly distressed were any misfortune to befall her.”
“Indeed?” Adrian infused the word with the utmost boredom and smiled, distantly charming, even though his temper was wearing thin. Mrs. Pomfret’s was the sixth thinly veiled warning to him to stay away from Abby. He’d received three in the last hour—even for him, a record. The impulse to explain, with suitable emphasis, that it wasn’t Abby who stood in any danger from him grew, but for Abby’s sake, he nodded urbanely and moved on.
It was midafternoon and the parlor was crowded. Whether his hold on his temper would last until evening was anyone’s guess. Adrian allowed a Mrs. Woolcliffe, a newcomer to the district, to buttonhole him; while he listened to her ramblings, he watched Abby across the room.
Mrs. Woolcliffe’s gangling son was attempting to ingratiate himself into Abby’s good graces. To Adrian,Abby looked quietly bored. Quietly distracted. Apparently Woolcliffe realized—he grabbed her hand. Startled, Abby tried to pull it back.
Adrian stiffened. He was about to excuse himself to Mrs. Woolcliffe, then stalk across the room and throw her son out, when the new squire, a Mr. Kilby, moved in and spoke sharply to Woolcliffe.
One glance at Abby’s face, and it was clear Kilby had opened his mouth only to put his foot in it. Adrian forced the tension from his shoulders, and paid spurious attention to Mrs. Woolcliffe. If Abby’s would-be suitors wanted to annoy her, who was he to interfere?
He had already realized that in painting her picture of village life for him, Abby had omitted a few details. Such as her central role in village affairs, and the plethora of would-be suitors sniffing about her heels. While he had no quarrel with the former, the latter he had a definite opinion about. Not, of course, that he’d be fool enough to air that opinion to Abby, as, by the militant look in her eye, Kilby had just done.
Adrian bided his time, smoothly moving through the crowd without haste or apparent direction. He arrived at Abby’s side in time to hear Kilby declare, “Regardless, I hope you’ll have the good sense to leave off your customary jaunts on the moor—there’s sure to be more snow.”
Abby stiffened. She turned to Adrian as he joined them, and smiled warmly. “Ah, Adrian—Viscount Dere, I should say—allow me to present Mr. Kilby.”
Adrian inwardly grinned at her supposed socialstumble. She’d used his first name to irritate Kilby, and had succeeded. Kilby returned his nod stiffly.
“I hear, my lord, that your curricle ran off the road in the snowstorm. Daresay with the thaw setting in, you’ll be going on to Bellevere tomorrow.”
Adrian smiled; the gesture did not reach his eyes. “If the thaw holds, I certainly expect to be journeying to Bellevere tomorrow.”
Kilby nodded sanctimoniously. “I was just telling Miss Woolley that the moor is no place for a gently
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