Her presence clouded his goal, which had seemed so clear prior to his arrival.
“You have a nice selection,” Hugh said as he watched the horses, many with blankets on their backs to chase away the chill.
“It’s been a joy to select them.”
“Do you intend to race any?” Hugh asked. Racing was a rich man’s sport. Racing stud farms could cost upwards of 30,000 pounds a year.
“I prefer fox hunting for now. I have a Suffolk Punch that’s brilliant.”
“Impressive.” Hugh nodded. The draft horse was heavier than a thoroughbred but well suited for hunting. Fox hunting season ran from November to March, months that didn’t interfere with the growing of crops.
“Any Irish Hunters?”
Waverly grinned as he turned to look at Hugh. “I have several. Come take a look.” He turned to walk toward the stables.
Irish Hunters had the stamina to go all day and were among Hugh’s favorites.
“If the snow melts, we’ll hunt,” Waverly said as he looked up at the sky as if to weigh the chances. “You’ll come?”
“I’d be honored, sir.” It had been a few years since Hugh had been hunting. His father hadn’t kept any hunters to ride nor any hounds for the chase for years. Both were expensive to maintain. Hugh should’ve realized how poor their finances were when his father had sold them.
The reminder of how much money he needed to pursue his goal was a sobering one. Wealth made life easier, but he was beginning to wonder if it might be even more important to have a woman he loved at his side.
He spent the next hour touring the stables with Waverly, admiring the horses. A few of the other guests joined them, including Viscount Jameson.
“Impressive,” Hugh said as they returned to the house.
“I’ve had my eye on an Irish Hunter,” Jameson said. “After seeing yours, I think I’ll go ahead and make the purchase.”
Waverly responded enthusiastically.
Hugh pushed aside a pang of envy. Soon, he told himself. Somehow, he intended to find a way to buy a few horses and build his dream. Marrying Emma would speed the process, but he no longer thought that was possible based on his growing feelings for Lucy.
Yet a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his father’s asked if those emotions would last. How often had the earl told Hugh and his brothers that marriage had nothing to do with feelings as they wouldn’t house, feed, or clothe them?
He had to be practical about his future or determine some other way to make his fortune. Which was it going to be?
Chapter Eight
“No, not that way.” Aunt Edith’s lips tightened, a clear sign of her displeasure. Displeasure with the way she felt. Displeasure with the pillow Lucy was adjusting. Displeasure with Lucy.
Times like this made Lucy consider how long she could continue to care for her aunt. God bless the woman, but she could be difficult, testing Lucy’s patience until she was tempted to throw her hands in the air and stomp from the room.
What had set off Aunt Edith this time, Lucy didn’t know. She’d been in fine spirits that morning when they’d made kissing boughs. Luncheon had gone well enough. But by mid-afternoon, her aunt’s spirits had lowered, bringing physical symptoms with it. It was now evening and nothing had improved.
Reining in her frustration, Lucy resituated the pillow behind her aunt once more. “Is that better?”
Aunt Edith heaved a sigh as she leaned back. “I suppose.”
“How about a cup of tea,” Lucy suggested. “The cook might have a special blend to make you feel better.”
That was a bold statement, considering the fact Lucy had yet to determine what was wrong with her aunt this time. From what little she’d said, her current condition involved a combination of fatigue, an unhappy stomach, and an aching head. Although those same symptoms appeared frequently with her aunt.
“No. That won’t help.”
“Very well. Shall I read for a time?” Lucy tapped the leather-bound volume that lay on the side table. “We were just reaching the exciting part of the novel.”
One advantage of dealing with an ailing Aunt Edith at Waverly House was the massive library. Lucy loved to read, but she and her aunt quickly went through the books offered by the tiny version of a lending library located within the haberdasher in their village. Reading the same stories over and over wasn’t as pleasurable as diving into a new tale.
“I don’t want to be a bother,” her aunt said with a sniffle. “You should join the other young people.”
The reminder of what she was missing sent a wistful twinge through Lucy. Her aunt’s condition had kept the pair in her bedchamber, eating their dinner here rather than with the others.
Just when Lucy had decided to enjoy herself, fate stepped in and closed the door. Should she take that as a sign to reel in her wishes? Perhaps she should be satisfied with her life as it was and avoid new experiences, including time with Hugh.
“Not at all.” Lucy drew a chair forward and sat, reaching for the book. “I’m happy to keep you company. I’m just sorry you’re not feeling yourself.”
“Mayhap we should’ve remained home for the holiday,” her aunt said. “I’m much more comfortable there.”
“Why don’t we think about that on the morrow? For now, we’ll read about Miss Merriweather’s terrible predicament.” Lucy’s chest tightened at the worry that Aunt Edith would decide they should return home before the house party ended.
But perhaps that would be for the best. Why bother to explore her feelings for Hugh or hope to share another kiss with him?
Her life had been fine before she’d met him, Lucy reminded herself as she opened the book. She had been content with her lot. Mostly. If they were home, she wouldn’t feel so torn between assisting her aunt and joining the guests. Nor would she so frequently compare her life to Emma’s, wishing for things that weren’t to be.
Half an hour later, Lucy decided Miss Merriweather was a ninny. What woman in her right mind ventured outside at night in a storm to search for the source of a strange noise? The lantern she held would no doubt be blown out by the wind or rain she was presently enduring.
Luckily, Aunt Edith had fallen asleep, so Lucy didn’t have to see whether she was right. She marked their page and shut the book, watching her aunt sleep for a moment. By her slow, even breaths, it seemed like she would rest through the night.
Lucy checked her pin watch, realizing the hour had grown late. She had no desire to seek out Emma and the others if they were even still together.
Yet her restlessness indicated she wasn’t ready to turn in for the night. She added more coals to the fire to keep her aunt warm and closed the door behind her.
The house was quiet, suggesting most of the guests had retired. Deciding to read for a time until she felt sleepier, she collected a book from her bedchamber and sought the small sitting room down the hall.
Coals glowed in the fireplace, casting a golden light around the room. She lit the candles in the candlesticks nearby so she could see better and sat on the settee before the fire, allowing the peace and quiet to settle over her.
She read the first few pages of the mystery, but her thoughts weren’t on the story. She tipped her head back against the cushion only to pause at the sight of the kissing bough directly overhead. Someone had hung it above the settee rather than near the window where Emma had placed it. Lucy didn’t care for the new position since she often sat in this spot.