Page 44 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

She took another evaluating glance at him. His eyes were fixed on the path in front of them, unmoving and unflinching, but what she could see of his profile was tired and wan. Every now and then, as it had done all morning, a shadow passed over his face, as if he were remembering some awful torment. Perfect. Everything was as it should be, so why did he not speak? Plainly he detested the very sight of her now; plainly he wished to end their ludicrous engagement, and yet even with a clear opportunity and complete privacy, he would not speak. What more did he need?

Lydia followed him around the edge of the tarn, frowning. A breeze fluttered the flounces on her skirts and then the festoon of organza ribbons securing her beehive bonnet. Lydia reached up to still the ribbons, then paused. Yes! She unravelled the strings and, watching Ashford to make sure his eyes were firmly on the path ahead, she threw her hat across the tarn with all her might.

‘Oh no!’ she announced. ‘My hat has fallen from my head.’

Ashford turned. He looked toward the hat – incomprehensibly floating in the centre of the tarn – and then back toward Lydia.

‘Oh dear,’ he said without any emotional inflection whatsoever.

‘I do not wish to catch the sun,’ Lydia said, with a worried glance up to the sky.

‘Lady Phoebe brought a parasol with her,’ Ashford said. ‘I’m sure she will allow you to use it.’

He made an encouraging hand gesture. Lydia did not move.

‘It belonged to my mother,’ she lied.

Ashford’s gaze went once more to the tarn. Lydia understood his reluctance. It looked very murky. She would not wish to go in there, were she him. Unfortunately, however, she was going to make him.

‘She gave it to me just before she died,’ she added, the final cherry.

Ashford sighed. ‘Fine. I shall fetch it for you.’

He looked down to his Hessian boots rather mournfully, as if evaluating the merits of soaking them beyond repair against how fussy he would appear if he took them off. Appearing to conclude ‘boots on’, he did, however, remove his coat of blue superfine and cast it gently on a nearby rock. Then, he took in a deep breath and stepped in to the tarn. It was a scenario in which there was no winning. A tentative, ballerina insertion of the foot would have made him appear ridiculous, but the determined stride he opted for – while altogether more masculine at first – ran him immediately foul of the slippery rocks on the lakebed. His arms windmilled furiously as he tried to step upright.

‘Don’t fall over now,’ Lydia called.

‘Very helpful,’ she heard him mutter under his breath, as he regained his balance.

He began to tread carefully forward.

‘How on earth did it go so far in?’ he demanded. ‘It is not even a very windy day.’

‘It was one of those unexpected summer gusts,’ Lydia said sagely. Then, when he stumbled again, added: ‘It might be slippery!’

‘Thank you so much,’ he said sarcastically.

He was thigh deep in water before he got in arm’s reach of the hat, which he grabbed quickly and turned back with a great sloshing sound.

Lydia clapped her hands joyfully.

‘Oh bravo,’ she said. ‘Bravo.’

‘Perhaps you might tie it a little more tightly this time?’ Ashford began, with a poor excuse of a smile. ‘Then we can catch up to the—’

Lydia never heard the end of the sentence. Ashford’s foot had landed poorly, on something very, very slippery; with a shout of shock, his leg skidded out from under him, and he fell back into the water with an almighty splash. The tarn was just deep enough that his entire head went under for a moment, too, before he emerged, coughing and spluttering, water and algae pouring off him.

‘Oh dear,’ Lydia said, pressing a hand to her mouth to contain her laughter. ‘Oh dear, it was rather slippery, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes!’ Ashford said savagely, climbing to his feet with the grace of a newborn foal. ‘Yes, it was, Miss Hanworth – rather slippery indeed.’

He dragged himself from the water, resembling a very cross sea monster.

‘And now look at me!’ he said, looking down at his tarn-soaked self and letting out a wild peal of quite deranged laughter. ‘Just when I thought my lot could not get any worse!’

‘You do look rather uncomfortable,’ Lydia observed.

It was a comment that appeared to light the smouldering flames of Ashford’s rage.