Then she might as well fly to the moon to hide, if she were dreaming of impossible things.
Her discomfort must have been obvious. Lady Scofield interjected herself into the conversation and deftly changed the subject, asking Willsworth about his latest excavation. Given that he went on to describe animal bones and what he was hypothesizing about them based on fusions in the vertebrae—rather than Sheridan’s inexplicable fascination with shards of pottery and Druid ruins—it would have been an interesting conversation. If only her mind weren’t an absolute muddle and her stomach a matching knot.
Every time she moved, she caught a whiff of the jasmine in her hair, bringing back those terrifying moments on the road. And she’d no sooner shake that off and look over at Lord Scofield than she’d hear Sheridan’s name in her mind again and see Bram’s self-satisfied smirk as he announced that he had the perfect solution to their woes.
As if the thought of her simply remaining at home unmarried any longer was a woe.
The meal finally dragged to its conclusion, which unfortunately meant that the string quartet went from soft serenades to livelier melodies that they’d be expected to dance to.
She couldn’t bear that. Not tonight. The moment Willsworth pulled her chair out for her again, she sprang to her feet, excuses ready to trip off her tongue.
“Well, what a pleasure it has been to make your acquaintance, Lady Elizabeth,” Lady Scofield said. She wore a gracious smile that said she forgave her for completely failing to hold up her end of the conversation.
“Quite so.” Lord Scofield helped his wife to her feet as well. “And when I see your brother next week for our squash game, I’ll be sure and tell him you were looking well and happy, that the seaside agrees with you.”
Escaping to the moon was sounding better and better. “You needn’t trouble yourself, sir.” She kept her tone casual—she hoped. Perhaps he’d forget by then that he’d ever met her and Bram would be none the wiser that she was in the Scillies. “I’ve been giving my mother regular updates.”
“No trouble at all, my dear.”
Her smile probably looked as weak as it felt. She spun away, mumbling something that vaguely resembled “Excuse me” to Lord Willsworth, her eyes flying over the group in search of Charlotte. She had to get out of here. Now. But if she left without telling anyone, they’d probably send someone to find her.
She eventually spotted her friend laughing with a young man who may or may not have been the wealthy Mr. Bryant. But she managed to catch Lottie’s eye and gesture her toward the garden gate she’d entered through, moving toward it herself even then.
Freedom beckoned from the road. A glance over her shoulder told her Lottie was coming, so she secured a bit of that liberty by stepping outside. Then took another step, and another. She was nearly to the road by the time Lottie surged through the gate, her laughter a half huff. “Libby Sinclair, where are you going?”
“I’m not feeling well. Thank you for having me, Lottie. It’s a lovely dinner party.”
“Well, you can’t just leave, not by yourself. We were going to have the Bankses walk with you.”
She didn’t even know who the Bankses were, but she wasn’t about to wait for them. “I’ll be fine. It’s right down the road.”
“But it’s full dark now.” Lottie edged closer, peering out into the night as if it might scarf her up whole. “And haven’t you heard all the stories in town? There’s been a ghost prowling lately.”
“Lottie.” She hadn’t, in fact, realized that the stories had made their way to St. Mary’s, though she supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. “There’s no such thing.”
“There has to be something, doesn’t there, to inspire the stories?” Charlotte shook her head hard enough to dislodge a curl. “I never discount such tales, not with all the time we’ve spent in Ireland. I have no doubt at all that fairies are real—and they’re nasty little creatures. Scillonian ghosts could well be the same.”
“There are no ghosts on St. Mary’s. And I can walk the five minutes home without—”
“Please don’t.” Lottie seized her arm and held it tight. “I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you. Just wait a moment, that’s all, and I’ll have Daddy take you home.”
She didn’t want to wait for Mr. Wight. Didn’t, frankly, want to walk home with him. She cast a longing look down the road—and nearly laughed with relief at the familiar figure walking their way. “There’s Beth Tremayne’s brother. He can accompany me.”
“Where?” Lottie dropped her arm and turned with her. “What’s he doing here?”
“He’s giving the sermon tomorrow—he’s probably walking to the vicarage or something.” She saw no reason to mention that he’d be coming from her cottage. Or that the vicarage was in the opposite direction. She didn’t know why he was walking this way, but she wasn’t about to complain.
Lottie pursed her lips. “All right, he’ll do, I suppose. But I’m going to make sure he agrees before I leave you.”
And get a look at him, no doubt. Lottie was nothing if not consistent in her desire to catalogue and rank the handsomeness of all eligible bachelors in England with as much care as Libby had given her study of butterflies when she was fifteen.
Either Oliver recognized her in the light spilling from the garden or he lifted a hand in greeting to every person he saw. Which, come to think of it . . .
But he was smiling as he drew near enough for her to make out his features, and he said, “Lady Elizabeth, good evening.”
“Mr. Tremayne.” She edged a step away from Lottie. “I wonder if I might impose upon you to escort me back to my cottage? I’ve a trifling headache but don’t want to pull the other guests away.”
“No imposition at all.” He stopped a step away and held out an arm, nodding a greeting to Lottie. “Good evening.”
“Good evening.” Lottie didn’t make any subtle noises hinting at an introduction, but she did send Libby a look that said, He’s a handsome one, isn’t he? Lottie had perfected the art of saying such things without words—when in a gentleman’s presence. She’d put words aplenty to it the moment he was gone.
No, the moment they were gone. Let her do her exclaiming to Lady Emily. Libby tucked her hand into the crook of Oliver’s arm. “I’m in your debt, Mr. Tremayne. And thank you again, Lottie, for inviting me. Tell your parents it was lovely.”
They started back along the road, Libby waiting until she heard the gate latch before whispering, “I don’t know why you were coming this way at just that moment, but thank you.”
He chuckled. “I’ve been walking back and forth for fifteen minutes. Mabena said you wouldn’t last but an hour before you found an excuse to leave, and I didn’t want you walking back alone.”
“I really am in your debt.”
“Nonsense. I love nothing so much as a stroll on a summer night. And it’s made all the sweeter with sweet company.”
She ought to have indulged that sweet company on the way to the dinner as well. Maybe then the stranger wouldn’t have accosted her.