“Mmm. Was he facing up or down?”
“Down.”
“Pity.”
Both ladies turned back to the window. The viscount lounged on the stone bench under one of the apple trees, long legs stretched before him, shorn hair glinting in the sun. He grinned at something Mr. Fletcher said, his wide mouth curving. He looked like a blond Pan; all he needed was the hooves and horns.
Pity.
“What do you suppose he was doing in Maiden Hill?” Patricia asked. “He’s as out of place here as a gilded lily on a dung heap.”
Lucy frowned. “I wouldn’t call Maiden Hill a dung heap.”
Patricia was unmoved. “I would.”
“He says he was attacked and left here.”
“In Maiden Hill?” Patricia’s eyes widened in exaggerated disbelief.
“Yes.”
“I can’t imagine why. Unless he was attacked by particularly backward robbers.”
“Mmm.” Privately, of course, Lucy had been wondering the same thing. “Mr. Fletcher seems a nice enough gentleman.”
“Yes. Makes you wonder how he became friends with Lord Iddesleigh. They go together like crushed velvet and burlap.”
Lucy tried to repress a snort and wasn’t entirely successful.
“And red hair is never entirely satisfactory on a man, is it?” Patricia scrunched her freckle-covered nose, making herself look even more adorable than usual.
“You’re being mean.”
“You’re being overly kind.”
Mr. Fletcher made a particularly showy slash.
Patricia eyed him. “Although I have to admit he is tall.”
“Tall? That’s the only nice thing you have to say about him?” Lucy poured her more tea.
“Thank you.” Patricia took her cup. “You shouldn’t disparage height.”
“You’re shorter than I, and I am no Amazon.”
Patricia waved a biscuit, nearly entangling it in her gold curls. “I know. It’s sad, but there it is. I’m strangely drawn to men who tower over me.”
“If that is your criteria, Mr. Fletcher is about the tallest man you’re likely to find.”
“True.”
“Perhaps I should invite you to dine with us so that you may get to know Mr. Fletcher better.”
“You should, you know. After all, you’ve already taken the only eligible bachelor in Maiden Hill who isn’t a Jones or hopelessly simple.” Patricia paused to sip her tea. “Speaking of which—”
“I should ring for more hot water,” Lucy cut in hastily.
“Speaking of which.” Patricia trundled right on over her. “I saw you out driving with Eustace yesterday. Well?”
“Well what?”
“Don’t play stupid with me,” Patricia said, looking like an irate marmalade kitten. “Has he said anything?”
“Of course he said something.” Lucy sighed. “He discussed at length the repairs to the church roof, Mrs. Hardy’s ankle, and whether or not it might snow.”
Patricia narrowed her eyes.
She gave in. “But nothing about marriage.”
“I take back what I said.”
Lucy raised her eyebrows.
“I think we shall have to place Eustace into the hopelessly simple category.”
“Now, Patricia—”
“Three years!” Her friend thumped a settee cushion. “Three years he’s been driving you up and down and all around Maiden Hill. His horse can find the way in its sleep by now. He’s made actual ruts in the roads he takes.”
“Yes, but—”
“And has he proposed?”
Lucy grimaced.
“No, he has not,” Patricia answered herself. “And why not?”
“I don’t know.” Lucy shrugged. It honestly was a mystery to her as well.
“The man needs a fire lit under his feet.” Patricia jumped up and started trotting back and forth in front of her. “Vicar or no vicar, you’re going to be gray-haired by the time he brings himself to the point. And what’s the good of that, I ask you? You won’t be able to bear children.”
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
She thought she’d spoken too quietly to be heard over her friend’s diatribe, but Patricia stopped short and stared. “You don’t want to have children?”
“No,” Lucy said slowly, “I’m not sure I want to marry Eustace anymore.”
And she realized it was true. What just days ago had seemed inevitable and good in a predictable way, now seemed old and stale and nearly impossible. Could she spend the rest of her life having settled for the best of what Maiden Hill had to offer? Wasn’t there so much more in the wider world? Almost involuntarily, her eyes were drawn to the window again.
“But that leaves only Jones men and the truly . . .” Patricia turned to follow her gaze. “Oh, my dear.”
Her friend sat back down.
Lucy felt a flush start. She quickly drew her eyes away. “I’m sorry, I know you like Eustace, despite—”
“No.” Patricia shook her head, curls bouncing. “This isn’t about Eustace, and you know it. It’s about him.”
Outside, the viscount got up to demonstrate a move, his arm outstretched, one elegant hand on a hip.
Lucy sighed.
“What are you thinking?” Patricia’s voice cut in. “I know he’s handsome, and those gray eyes are enough to make the average virgin faint, not to mention that form, which apparently you got to see nude.”
“I—”
“But he’s a London gentleman. I’m sure he’s like one of those crocodile creatures they have in Africa that waits until some unfortunate person gets too close to the water and then eats them up. Snip! Snap!”
“He’s not going to eat me up.” Lucy reached for her teacup again. “He’s not interested in me—”
“How—”
“And I’m not interested in him.”
Patricia raised an eyebrow, patently dubious.
Lucy did her best to ignore her. “And besides, he’s out of my sphere. He’s one of those worldly gentlemen who live in London and have affairs with stylish ladies and I’m . . .” She shrugged helplessly. “I’m a country mouse.”
Patricia patted her knee. “It wouldn’t work, dear.”
“I know.” Lucy chose another lemon biscuit. “And someday Eustace will propose to me and I’ll accept him.” She said it firmly, a smile fixed on her face, but somewhere inside her, she felt a building pressure.