“I’ll lose my title if I marry?” she asked, shocked.
“No, you’ll still have it, but your husband will have the power. Like most men, the king prefers not to have a woman in charge.”
“What if my husband tries to sell off my barony, or mismanages it awfully?” The idea seemed dreadful, even though she’d been thinking about selling it off herself just a few moments ago.
“You see, that’s why you mustn’t marry Stafford, or any other fortune hunters. It would be best for your title and property to go to your children one day, along with your money. No matter your husband’s circumstances, you must manage your holdings with care.”
“But how?” she asked, throwing up her hands. “How can I do that when my husband will have all the control? Why can’t I just go wherever these Maitland holdings are, and live on my own?”
“Because men can’t stand that sort of thing. You can’t be setting up on your land, acting independent and capable. The king cannot sleep at night until you’ve been properly yoked to a more powerful man.”
The corners of his mouth turned up as he mouthed this loathsome drivel. He was joking and yet not joking. “I begin to understand why my parents hated England,” she said.
“It will not be so bad, as long as you don’t marry someone like Stafford. You must try a bit harder to attract a worthy gentleman. You must practice your manners, and wear pretty gowns in cheerful colors, and refrain from hiding behind house plants.” He moved toward her. “Lady Maitland, I wish you would not cry.”
“I’m not.”
But she was afraid she might cry, if he kept painting such a bleak picture. She had cried so very long, and for what? Nothing. She’d felt powerless her entire childhood, powerless as a young woman, and powerless now as an orphaned baroness. Nothing ever changed. It infuriated her. If what he said was true, there was no use going to Chapley anyway. She’d have to marry someone, and Lord Warren no longer seemed to want her. That left Lord Stafford, whose smiles never touched his eyes.
No, she couldn’t bear it. There had to be some other way.
“Perhaps I am as daft as you say.” She gripped her bag to her chest and backed away from him. “I have been very foolish this morning, at any rate. I would be grateful if you’d point me toward the house.”
“I will. But first you ought to have something to drink, and more to eat than that bit of bread you’ve brought.” He went to fetch his own satchel, which he’d dropped back on the ground.
“I would rather not,” she said. “I would prefer to go back before I’m discovered.”
“Hm. Lord Baxter will be angry, won’t he? But it’s some distance to the house, and I noticed your own water is nearly gone.”
He had that look, the steady, obstinate look she remembered from the ballroom. The look that said he had made a decision and must have his way. In fact, since she had glared at him and refused to cry, his manner had changed entirely, from patient irritation to…something else.
It worried her, that she could not identify his mood. He was congenial, only in a very watchful way. He took off his coat and spread it on the ground, then opened his bag and produced biscuits and apples, and fresh red currants, and a skin of water. The food proved too tempting to her empty stomach, and before long she was seated on his coat, biting into a piece of fruit. Josephine found she was powerfully thirsty. Lord Warren urged her to eat and drink all she wanted, even when she took some of his share.
They didn’t speak any more about the cottage, or her flight to Chapley, or the fact that she must wed. He asked what she liked to eat, and what sort of foods she had eaten when she lived in India and Africa. She didn’t normally like to talk about such things, but he didn’t seem disposed to mock. He seemed genuinely interested, so she told him more of her travels, safe memories and observations, until it began to seem too real again and she left off. He began to tell stories of his travels then, and the grand tour he’d taken as a younger man. He and his friends had gone to all the oldest and most cultured cities in Europe, places Josephine would have loved to go. But no, her parents had to choose Bombay, and Marrakesh, and all the little, dirty villages she couldn’t remember.
“Well,” Lord Warren said, pulling her from her thoughts. “I suppose I had better take you back. And I’m afraid I can’t keep this caper of yours a secret. I count Lord Baxter a friend, and I think he’d like to know. I mean, I would want to know if Minette ever wandered alone into the woods, so she could be properly persuaded not to try it again.”
Josephine was horrified. “You don’t really mean to tell Lord Baxter about my foolishness? Please, you can’t.”
He shrugged. “He would have figured it out anyway, yes? When the solicitor in Chapley dragged you home by the ear. This isn’t India, my dear. Unmarried ladies can’t run about the country setting themselves up in cottages.”
He was mocking her again, and she didn’t like it. “You find my situation comical? I assure you, it isn’t funny to me.”
“Not comical, no. Rather serious, actually. You know better now, but there must be consequences for this sort of subterfuge. Baxter must know what you’ve been up to.” He looked up at her from beneath his lids. “It’s a shame, I agree. I wish I didn’t have to tell him. I doubt he’ll ever trust you again.”
Those words hurt worse than anything he had said before. Kind, protective Lord Baxter, who had treated her as a true member of his family. He would see this as an awful breach of trust. As an act of subterfuge, as Lord Warren said. What an ugly word. She had to reason with Lord Warren, bargain if she must. “He cannot know. He will be so disappointed. And I—I can’t bear to lose his regard. He and Lady Baxter are the only people on earth who have a care for me.”
Lord Warren picked somberly at a bit of grass. “It’s because they care for you that they must know.”
“But I’ll never do such a thing again. As you said, I know better now.”
“My sister says the same sorts of things when she’s done something wrong. She’s still punished, as Baxter will have to punish you.”
“Oh, please, I can’t bear for him to be ang
ry with me. I beg you not to tell him. I would rather you leave me here in the forest to wander around until I die.”
He arched a blond brow. “Minette does that too. Says outrageous and melodramatic things. All the same, he must know what you’ve been up to.”
Josephine put her face in her hands. For a while, Lord Warren had seemed like a friend, but now he’d turned on her in this heartless way. “Please,” she begged, not even able to look at him. “I can’t bear for him to know.”
She heard him shift, and let out a sigh. “All right, Lady Maitland. I won’t tell your guardian what you’ve done, on one condition.”
“What condition? Anything.”
“You must allow me to punish you instead. There is no other way I could live with myself. If you won’t let me tell Baxter, I must take my own steps to discourage you from doing this again.”
“W-what kind of steps?”
“We’re in England, in the woods,” he said, getting to his feet. “A good switching seems appropriate.” He held out a hand to help her up. She stared at it. He wanted to give her a good switching?
“I don’t believe I want that.” She tried to sound firm.
“Then we’ll go see Baxter. Come now.” He wiggled his fingers. “Before the entire house is awake.”
She shook her head. He sighed and put his hands on his hips. “Are you shaking your head about going to see Baxter, or about the switching?”
“Both.”
“Well, my dear, you must pick one or the other. We can’t dither about here all day.”
How had she gotten herself into this dreadful situation? Even if she could escape him, and find her way back alone, he would still tell Lord Baxter what she’d done.
As she considered, Lord Warren lifted her bodily and set her on her feet, and went about packing up his bag. She could barely look at him, but at the same time, something compelled her to look. Perhaps it was his outdoor clothing, the worn leather and open collar that communicated casual athleticism. As he leaned to pick up his coat, she could see that his breeches hugged powerful buttocks and thighs.