“I would think so.” Still, Lucy did have a tendency to be aloof. Yet another quality he hadn’t really noticed before.
“She will no doubt make an excellent wife.”
“Absolutely.”
“By your side for the rest of your days.”
“As it should be.”
“Exactly.” Father nodded in a sage manner. “Every day, every night for the rest of your life.”
“Most certainly.”
“Until the very moment you breathe your last.”
“Of course,” Win said, forcing a bit more enthusiasm than he felt. Could he be with Lucy for the rest of his days? Until he breathed his last was a very long time.
As much as he hated to acknowledge it, he hadn’t truly considered the unending permanence of marriage until this past week. But then he hadn’t spent as much continuous time with Lucy in London as he had since their arrival at Fairborough Hall. Even the fact that she preferred Lucille to Lucy had escaped his notice until now. There were other aspects of her nature as well. Minor things, really, that he had paid no attention to, discounting them as unimportant. He had always found a great deal of freedom in the country. He was beginning to suspect Lucy—Lucille—would much prefer to spend her days in town. He was starting to wonder as well if he had made yet another rash decision. He pushed the thought from his head. Lucy was a sensible match.
“There’s nothing dishonorable in honesty, you know,” his father said in an offhand manner. “In admitting one has perhaps made a mistake.”
Win met the earl’s gaze directly. “I shall remember that, Father, the next time I find myself in that position.”
Father blew a long breath. “Stubbornness is not the same as conviction, Winfield.”
Win tightened his jaw. It was one thing to admit his doubts to himself. Quite another to have them pointed out by his father. Not that Father had done that directly. Not that Win had any doubts. “I know that, Father.”
Father fell silent for a thoughtful moment, then heaved a resigned sigh. “As long as you are indeed certain of your path.”
“Quite certain, Father.” Win drew a deep breath. “But I do appreciate your concern.”
“I don’t doubt your judgment, Winfield, or your intelligence. You should know that.” He leaned forward and met his son’s gaze. “But even the cleverest of men can lose his way when a woman is involved. And a woman who is both rational and pretty . . .” He shook his head. “They appeal both to a man’s sense of duty, of doing what he should do, as well as to his more, oh, shall we say baser desires. Lady Eustice is a lovely woman.”
“Yes, she is.”
“She is a wise choice, Winfield,” Father said with a conviction that didn’t seem entirely genuine. Or perhaps Win was reading more into his father’s demeanor than was there.
“Thank you, Father,” Win murmured, even if his father’s comment struck him as more resigned than approving.
Lucy was not merely a sensible choice but the right choice. She would indeed make a perfect countess, consummate hostess and model wife. To be by his side for the rest of his days. Every day, every night. Until the moment he breathed his last. His stomach twisted. He ignored it. After all, what man didn’t experience a twinge of anxiety at the thought of his impending nuptials? This was nothing more than that.
Odd that his father had never asked about love. But then it was no doubt apparent this was not a love match although Win did like Lucy a great deal. He fully expected the affection they now shared would grow with the years. After all, hadn’t he witnessed the very same thing among many of his friends who had married for convenience or duty? As most men of his acquaintance had done. A love match was to be desired, of course, but certainly wasn’t necessary.
No, his father hadn’t mentioned love. But then again, neither had he.
Chapter 4
“There it is.” Win slipped off his horse and gazed with pride and a certain amount of affection at the small, open-sided structure that seemed at once out of place and yet entirely natural. He turned to Lucy to help her dismount. In her green riding habit, that precisely matched the color of her eyes, with a hat sporting two long feathers nestled in her blond hair she was indeed the perfect picture of a future countess: elegant, fashionable and eminently proper. “What do you think?”
“That depends I suppose,” Lucy said cautiously. “What exactly is it?”
He laughed. “A replica of a temple, I believe, or someone’s idea of a temple more likely, but it’s always been referred to as a folly. It scarcely matters what we call it, I suppose.” The building was little more than six stone columns on a slightly elevated six-sided platform, supporting a domed roof. Stone benches curved between two pairs of columns. “In truth it’s a testament to love.”
“It doesn’t look like a testament to love,” she said under her breath. “It looks like it might well collapse at any minute.”
“Admittedly, it is in some disrepair.” He studied the structure with a critical eye. The folly sat in a clearing some distance away from the manicured grounds and gardens of Fairborough Park in a small copse of trees and sadly overgrown brush. As such, it escaped notice unless one was deliberately seeking it, probably the very reason why it had been built in this relatively isolated spot. But in spite of its need for cleaning and assorted repairs, it retained a quiet sort of dignity. He’d loved it since the first time he’d stumbled upon it as a boy. It had struck him then as a place of magic where very nearly anything could happen. And indeed it had.
Lucy tilted her head and studied the small building. “It’s leaning, isn’t it?”
“No.” Win scoffed, although it did seem a bit off-kilter. “It’s simply that the ground here is somewhat uneven. I shall make a note to have it inspected.”
She glanced around and wrinkled her nose. “The grounds need maintenance as well. It’s quite overgrown here. You should add that to your list.”
He chuckled. “I don’t really have a list.”
“You should, you know. Lest you forget.”
“Perhaps.” He moved closer to the folly, Lucy trailed behind him.
“Winfield.” Speculation sounded in her voice. “I daresay those stones, marble aren’t they?”
“I believe so.”
“They could be put to a more practical use elsewhere on the estate. Why don’t you simply have this torn down? It’s so far from the house, it’s really of no use to anyone.”
“Oh, we couldn’t possibly do that,” he said absently. The structure didn’t really look all that bad, although, admittedly, his perception might be colored by affection. “It’s had repairs through the years, but it’s holding up exceptionally well, given its age.”
“How old is it?” she asked, slapping away a fly.
“Oh, some two hundred years, I think. There’s one exactly like it on the grounds at Millworth Manor.”
Her brows drew together. “Why?”
“Fairborough Hall and Millworth Manor were originally built by members of the same family nearly three centuries ago.” He circled the structure, making notes to himself about a crack here, a shifted stone there. “Fairborough, as you may have noticed, has remained virtually unchanged, although Millworth has seen any number of structural changes, additions added at the discretion and needs, some might say whims, of the owners.” He shrugged. “Perhaps because Fairborough has been in my family since it was first built, whereas Millworth has changed hands any number of times throughout its history.”
“And the follies?” A touch of impatience edged her voice.
“I was coming to that, but it all ties together, you see.” No, with proper care the building could last forever. As it was intended to. “The folly at Millworth is older than this one and was built by a lord, whose name escapes me now, for his wife. His son, I believe his name was Thomas, fell in love with a Fairborough daughter, Anne. According to the story, legend now really, she loved the folly at Millworth. They would often slip away and meet there. Thomas had this one built in the dead of night for her as a betrothal present, to remind her of him when they were apart. Which is why it is so far from the house. He intended it to be a surprise.”