The Cummingses moved on before he reached the Bigfield House party, and Ellen’s aunt turned to him with a sweet smile. “Mr. Cynster. It’s a pleasure to see you, sir.”
Smiling affably, he took her hand and half bowed. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam. I can see you’re well.”
“Indeed, I am.” Ellen’s aunt blushed faintly. “I have to admit that after living in London for so long, I did wonder if the country would suit me, but it seems I worried for naught.” She beamed at him as he released her hand. “A lovely sermon, wasn’t it?”
“Reverend Thornley is very reliable in that respect.” Christopher nodded in greeting to Robbie and reached for Ellen’s hand—which she hadn’t extended but now yielded, accompanied by a distinctly wary look.
For the first time since their kisses in the night, their gazes met and held. In hers, he detected a certain tension, a watchful defensiveness ready to spring to life if he stepped over any line. Nevertheless, her lips curved slightly, and she inclined her head as he gently pressed her fingers, then eased his grip.
He wasn’t such a fool as to discombobulate her in public; as experienced as he was, he knew well enough to bide his time. While he couldn’t—yet—swear to the nature of what was evolving between them, he was certain that the possibility of a connection of a type he hadn’t before encountered was there. Consequently, when she made no move to retrieve her hand, he continued to lightly grasp her slender digits.
Despite her defenses being fully engaged, Ellen was utterly distracted by the feel of his fingers, warm and strong, gently clasping hers. Why the simple gesture, a normal courtesy between gentleman and lady, felt different when he was involved—warmer, more meaningful, more intimate—she couldn’t fathom.
She knew he wouldn’t kiss her fingers, much less her lips, in the churchyard in full view of the assembled congregation, yet that knowledge hadn’t saved her; her lungs had tightened, and her wits and her senses were locked on him.
Her gaze lowered from his faintly amused and inviting brown eyes to his lips and lingered.
Then she realized what she was doing. She felt a blush heat her cheeks as she forced her gaze elsewhere and belatedly reclaimed her hand.
Luckily, no one else seemed to have noticed, although she felt perfectly certain he had.
Now that the initial impact of the kisses they’d shared had faded, her mind had fastened on the underlying and, to her, more pertinent issue. She understood why he’d kissed her the first time, on the terrace at Goffard Hall; that had been a piece of quick thinking that had saved them both from exposure.
But why had he kissed her under the rose-garden arch?
The possible answers kept circling in her brain, as if he’d become a giant puzzle, one she absolutely had to solve.
Distraction wasn’t the half of it.
Dragooning her wits into order, she refocused on the conversation Robbie had initiated by asking whether the gypsies ever attended church.
“I’ve never seen them at St. George’s,” Christopher replied, “but I believe Aaron’s group is Catholic and observe a form of mass within their own band. I’ve known them to join with other bands to celebrate major religious days.”
“Well,” Emma stated, “at least they’re Christians, which is comforting to know.”
As if sensing Ellen was finally paying attention, Christopher turned her way. His eyes quizzed her. “I take it the goats are behaving themselves?”
“Thus far,” she replied, “their newly strengthened pen has repelled all attempts to escape and head over to your fields.”
Smiling, he looked at Robbie. “Your own hop fields will be flowering any day, then they’ll be at risk, too.”
“Hopper swears the new fencing will keep the animals in,” Robbie said. “To be perfectly honest, I have no idea why Uncle Humphrey is so keen on the beasts.”
Christopher knew the answer. “Your uncle bought a breeding pair on a whim and grew attached to them and they to him. The nanny and billy used to follow him around when he was walking in the garden—it was quite a sight, especially as the pair didn’t take to anyone else. Then, of course, the pair started dropping kids, and Sir Humphrey wouldn’t hear of any being sold, much less eaten, so the herd swelled to its current size.”
“Huh.” Robbie slid his hands into his pockets. “I suppose that explains things.”
“I wonder,” Ellen said, “if perhaps Uncle Humphrey would enjoy being taken to see the goats.” She arched a brow at Christopher. “Will the beasts still remember him?”
He nodded. “I’m certain they will, and indeed, it would do him good.”
The Waltons, a local family with two young unmarried daughters, approached, and Emma and Robbie—the Waltons’ primary target—turned to greet them.
After exchanging nods and smiles—and thereafter, being redundant to the ongoing conversation—Christopher and Ellen both glanced around, then Ellen put her hand on Christopher’s sleeve.
He reined in the instinctive impulse to cover her hand, possessively anchoring it on his arm, and glanced at her face.
Without meeting his eyes, with a tip of her head, she directed his attention to the church porch, where an older man with a young lady by his side was chatting with Reverend Thornley. “That,” Ellen informed Christopher, “is Mr. Kirkpatrick, and the young lady is his daughter, Julia.”
Christopher studied Kirkpatrick, who was, indeed, the gentleman he’d glimpsed in the study at Goffard Hall. Kirkpatrick appeared exactly as might be expected of a City financier. He was a large man, now slightly stoop-shouldered, yet he didn’t lean on the cane in his hand and still exuded an impressive presence. He was expensively dressed in a gray suit that, to Christopher, screamed Savile Row, and his thick silver hair was fashionably styled. In contrast to such polish, his craggy face bore deep lines, and his features reminded Christopher of nothing so much as weathered stone—sharp edges worn away by age and experience.
Even while Kirkpatrick exchanged pleasantries with Reverend Thornley, Christopher got the impression Kirkpatrick’s mind was elsewhere, thinking of weightier things.
For her part, Miss Kirkpatrick seemed to cling to her father’s shadow. Although stylishly gowned, she projected the aura of a quiet yet attentive, restrained, and proper miss.
Christopher dipped his head closer to Ellen’s. “Julia Kirkpatrick seems rather reserved.”
Ellen nodded. “She is.” After a second’s thought, she added, “I’m not sure if that’s her natural character or a reaction to her stepmother’s personality.”
Christopher considered the epitome of appearance-belying-reality before him, then suggested, “It would be helpful if we could engineer a meeting with Mr. Kirkpatrick. I’ve never met the man—if you could introduce us…?”
Ellen dipped her head in ready agreement.
At that moment, the Kirkpatricks farewelled Mr. Thornley and stepped onto the path leading to the lychgate. Simultaneously, the Waltons made their excuses and moved on.
Ellen looped her arm in her aunt’s and captured Robbie’s gaze. “Time to head home.”
Christopher hid a smile and fell in beside Robbie as Ellen steered her aunt on a course designed to intercept the Kirkpatricks. Apparently entirely accidentally, the two groups met before the lychgate.