Page 76 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake

A reluctant smile tried to form.

First, Jack Matherfield, then Shelby, and now Robyn—all victims of unrequited love. He slid Honeybrook a speculative sideways glance.

Was he also secretly smitten, despite his gruff demeanor?

Immediately upon entering the house, Shelby waylaid a footman carrying a stack of clean linens. “Where is Miss Danforth?”

“She left an hour ago, Mr. Tellinger.”

TWENTY ONE

Aubriella’s cottage

Blackheath, England

21 May 1819—Mid-morning

Dash growled low, a rumble rolling through his chest.

Roxina snapped her head up, her pulse stampeding and the air cramping in her lungs.

The scent of newly turned soil and crushed mint mingled with the morning air, carrying the sun’s warmth. A blackbird darted between a pear tree’s budding branches, its glossy feathers catching the light, while a wren flitted lower through the tangled honeysuckle, singing a morning melody.

At the garden’s edge, a hare the color of autumn wheat crouched, ears rigid, whiskers twitching. Dark, glistening, button-like eyes locked onto hers, its trembling body poised to flee.

Relief loosened the tightness binding Roxina’s ribs.

She no longer needed to fret.

Desmond could no longer threaten her.

“Dash, you silly dog. It’s only a hare.”

Rising before dawn, Roxina had already baked bread and gingerbread, both of which cooled on the kitchen table. She worked the rich earth since before the sun peeked over the horizon, pressing her fingers through thyme, mint, and rosemary.

Dew clung to her worn blue-gray gown’s hem, the damp fabric cool against her skin. But the sun’s caressing warmth had already settled over the land and heated her shoulders and spine.

The little garden thrived beneath spring’s gentle touch and her diligent care.

Last week, Roxina planted carrots and potatoes, along with parsnips, leeks, strawberries, peas, and cabbages. Soon, their tender green shoots would emerge in neat rows, lined up like disciplined soldiers.

Beyond the low, moss-covered stone wall, distant fields stretched toward the tree line, and morning mist lingered in the hollows where the sun had yet to reach.

Peace infused her, and she formed a closed-mouth smile.

Yesterday, a letter arrived from Matilda, chock-full of updates and a smidge of speculation too.

Georgine remained confined to her sickbed at Fernleigh, the doctor refusing to release her to go home, as the lead ball had chipped a bone, and she had not mended enough to warrant carriage travel. The confinement made Dear Georgie restless, uncharacteristically irritable, and—to no one’s surprise—constantly at odds with Robyn.

Georgine, normally the embodiment of etiquette and decorum, clashed with him in a way that defied reason, according to Matilda.

They sharpen each other’s tempers like whetstone against steel. I’m not one to speculate, mind you, but I vow there is something more between those two than mere hostility, whether either recognizes it. Truthfully, I have noticed an odd glint in my brother’s eye when he observes Georgine, and I bet my best bonnet that glimmer is not dislike.

Dash growled again, the sound vibrating through his ribs like distant thunder.

He did not lunge or bark but instead stood firm, his dark, scraggly fur bristling along his spine. No longer starving, his coat had thickened, and his body’s once-gaunt lines had filled out. A steady food supply—and perhaps her company—had settled him. His dark brown eyes, once wary, now held an attentive gleam and unwavering devotion.

She ran a hand over his head, smoothing the rough fur at his nape. “You’re becoming quite handsome, my scruffy lad.”