“You may take the bath cha
ir and return within the hour.”
“And the cake and wine?” Hoyt asked so hopefully, Alexander smiled.
“I’ll take them.”
“And the book of poetry?”
“Put that in the basket, too,” he said, mildly surprised he was indulging his servants’ ridiculous meddling in a situation that was none of their business.
Hoyt came around to Alexander’s front and pressed his walking stick into one hand and the small basket in the other. He pushed from his chair and, with a silent nod, encouraged Hoyt to grant them privacy. His manservant visibly battled with a pleased smile before departing.
Alexander swallowed away the irritable grunt. His servants’ ceaseless speculations needed to be taken care of.
Alexander made his way over to Katherine’s tree and placed the basket beside a copy of The Murderous Monk. He glanced up in the tree to see Kitty peering down at him, her mouth a moue of astonished pleasure.
“I shall be right down, Your Grace,” she called out.
Ignoring that assurance, he dropped his walking stick on the blanket, reached for the closest branch, and hauled himself up. A curse escaped at the savage pain that tore through his lower back, but he gritted his teeth and pushed onward.
He wanted to be up there with her, and by God he would do it.
Several moments later, he was standing beside her, their heads above the branches and the valley below them a stunning splendor.
Her eyes shone with rich pleasure. “You did not have to come up. I would have come down to you.”
“I wanted to stand beside you.”
“We could have done that down there.”
Unexpectedly, she stroked his brow, her fingers tenderly sifting through his hair curling above his forehead. How he wanted to lean into her touch. He reached up and gently plucked a blade of grass from her hair. “Were you rolling in the grass, by chance, Miss Danvers?”
“I was,” she said on a light laugh. “I was making a snow angel but without the snow,” she said with an irresistible smile before glancing out in the distance.
Alexander’s heart skipped a beat…then another.
“It is so wild and beautiful. And windy.” She patted her bonnet to ensure it was still in place.
He didn’t have the heart to point out that it sat askew atop her head, and a wild array of curls had tumbled to her shoulder, and lovely wisps caressed her cheeks. She looked delightfully mussed and improper.
“I can understand why you prefer this wide-open space to London. Oh, look at the birds,” she gasped, pointing to a flock of starlings that seemed to dance in perfect harmony against the skyline painted in shades of lavender and gray.
“So, we are bird watching,” he mused.
She laughed, and the infectious sound wreaked havoc with his heart. “And also land watching. And the sky. Look at the clouds. I swore I saw a monk just now playing the harp.”
He glanced up. A gust of wind scattered the clouds and reshaped them. “I see clouds.”
“Alexander,” she cried in mock horror. “Where is your imagination? Look now, do you see the man and woman dancing? I daresay it is the waltz, too.”
He peered up and made a noncommittal sound.
“Did you not create entire stories watching the clouds as a child?” she asked wistfully. “I did that with Papa often. He taught me the beauty of imagination and to see possibilities of an adventure in almost every situation.”
“He sounds admirable. My mother would have liked him.”
“She would have?”