Bound by Honor

Chapter 3

“What are you doing on these rocks?” she demanded, glad that her sharp

tone disguised the lingering fear.

“I could ask you the same question, miss,” the stranger rejoined. He

glanced at the sketchbook in her lap and the pencils laying on top of the

knapsack. “It seems I have my answer already.”

Letitia’s panic eased a little. He might not be as dangerous as she’d

imagined. To be on the safe side, she held her ground.

“But why are you here?”

“To admire the view.” He leaned with his back against the same rock, a

few feet away from her, and gazed toward the village clustered beyond the

fields. The afternoon breeze played gently with his hair. “You do agree that

it is spectacular, or else you wouldn’t be here drawing.”

“Do you live nearby?”

“I do.”

“Are you Lord Stanville’s steward, then?”

He turned toward her. His eyes were as dark as his hair. He let them roam

over her face and figure in a leisurely yet bold examination, making her

bristle inside at this uninvited forwardness.

“No,” he said. “And who are you? I do not recall seeing you in the village.”

Ah, so he was a mere tenant. Wouldn’t her father have a fit if he knew she

was hobnobbing with a man from whom his steward collected rent?

“I have no reason to visit the village,” she said, wishing the stranger would

go back to admiring the view instead of making her uneasy with his

persistent gaze.

“You might enjoy it.” He finally turned away, this time focusing on the

nasty ruin surrounded by a parkland gone wild. “Are you always this

pleasant when conversing with others?”

“I am not used to being accosted by trespassing strangers. You are

trespassing, my good man, on the Earl of Stanville’s property,” she

informed him. “I advise you to remove yourself with utmost celerity.”

He only smiled at that. His words rang with a faint amusement when he

said after a moment, “I hope to find you in better spirits when we meet

again.”

“I wonder what your spirits would be like if you were to— Never mind,” she

huffed, releasing the pent-up frustration.

“If I were to…what?” he prompted. “I cannot give you an answer unless I

know your predicament.”

“I doubt you could give me an answer anyway.”

He bent down, pulled a long blade of grass from a clump nesting in the

rocks and began chewing on it. Since he didn’t seem in a hurry to leave,

she might as well try to use his presence to her advantage.

“Whose lands adjoin Lord Stanville’s property?” she asked.

The question surprised him enough to abandon the contemplation of

Wycombe Oaks’ sad prospect and focus on her again.

“Hanbury’s,” he answered.

“Ah, the old baronet’s.” Letitia sighed with feigned indifference, although

curiosity was nearly choking her. “Is he really very old?”

The stranger’s mouth quirked up in one corner, but he quickly schooled

his features.

“The baronet is…of mature years,” he replied, eyeing her with definite

interest now.

So her guess was correct. “Is he well-liked by his neighbors?” she probed.

There was that quick quirk again. “I don’t believe he is disliked by them.

However, I may be a poor authority on the subject.”

She swallowed a sigh of disappointment. Indeed, how would a tenant

know what Sir Percival Hanbury’s neighbors thought about him? “Do you

know the baronet?”

Her accidental companion tossed away the blade of grass. “Yes. He is a

little younger than you expect. With respect to everything else, you may

want to draw your own conclusions when you meet him.” At that, he

bowed, turned and left.

“Wait!” Letitia called. She was not afraid of him any longer.

But the stranger must not have heard her. He disappeared back the way

he came.

She frowned at the empty space, wondering if he had been only a figment

of her imagination. Too bad they were unequal socially. He would cut a

fine figure among the ton in London. Her painter’s eye tucked into memory

the image of his thoughtful eyes, strong features and a mouth betraying

authority. He also spoke with a more cultured accent than she would have

expected from a mere tenant.

Letitia returned to her drawing. But it did not go as well as before. Her

concentration was shattered. She still didn’t know anything about the man

she was to marry the following day.

Getting information from the housekeeper had already proven almost

impossible. The woman had betrayed an undue partiality for red-faced

squires and told her only that Sir Percival Hanbury was a good man in

need of a wife and lived on the neighboring estate not three miles away.

Her father did not tell her anything at all beyond her intended’s name. She

hardly ever saw her father anyway. He had been in a restless,

almost-absentminded and explosive mood since they’d arrived in Norfolk

more than a week ago. Twenty-three years under the same roof with him

had taught her to avoid that keg of powder whenever it was ready to catch

a spark.

Too late now, but she should have held her tongue. She could just

imagine Mr. Stranger/Highwayman recounting his little adventure over a

pint of ale in the local inn. Worst of all, he’d readily confirmed her

otherwise unfounded opinion of her betrothed. Without a doubt, her father

had handpicked a son-in-law after his own heart.

Percy arrived at the church half an hour before the ceremony. Having

done this before, he felt no particular anxiety about going through the

required motions. There was only the sense of doom uncomfortably lodged

in his chest since Stanville’s visit to Bromsholme a week earlier. Percy’s

life’s goal was now achieved, but at a cost he had never anticipated. The

deep satisfaction that his old home would be his in a matter of minutes

was marred by the impediment of a bride—the bride he would have never

chosen if he had had the choice. True, Lady Letitia seemed pretty enough,

perched yesterday on that rock at the top of the outcropping bordering

Wycombe Oaks’ park. But he hadn’t missed the hauteur when she

practically questioned his reason for climbing up there. And if half the

gossip circulating about her in London was true, that had been only a

preview of the spoiled heiress’s willful ways.

His gaze wandered to the altar and a couple of small flower arrangements

placed there for the occasion. How different from his first wedding in

London when the church had resembled a hothouse and the pews had

overflowed with guests. Then he could hardly contain his happiness, and

the wait at the altar had seemed interminable. He remembered Sarah

walking down the aisle on her father’s arm, and his adoration for her, love

bursting in his heart when she smiled shyly at him. Ah, Sarah…

He shifted his gaze to a nondescript spot on the wall and his thoughts to

the present moment. He was about to enter a marriage of convenience

from which there was nothing to be expected. And yet, nothingness was

this marriage’s most attractive promise. He did not need or want another

woman in his life.