Mariel Read Free Page B

endlessly.
    He said in a hushed tone, “I was very sorry to hear about the fire. I had no idea the damage was so extensive until I walked through there myself. Can you salvage any of it?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Her voice softened again as she spoke of the house. “It doesn’t seem possible the old Cloister is gone. It has weathered so much and watched all the changes of modern England. Now it is gone.”
    Her blue eyes rose to meet his. As he expressed his sympathy for her loss, he saw something other than rage in her volatile eyes. He could tell that for her the old Cloister was more than a building. A bit of her had died with its destruction.
    This side of Mariel Wythe he had not been told about by those eager to introduce him to all the gossip of the shire. He had listened with half an ear to what was said, for he liked to form his own opinions of people.
    â€œWill you rebuild?”
    â€œWhy? The building was an anachronism.” She shrugged. “It is Uncle Wilford’s decision.” When he regarded her with confusion, she explained, “Wilford Wythe is the name of the current Lord Foxbridge. He is abroad now.”
    Miss Phipps spoke when the silence swelled to eat at them. Her questions of how he liked Foxbridge and his new position were ones he had answered often since his arrival.
    He gave her the appropriate replies—he had honed them to perfection—while his eyes strayed again and again to the woman next to him.
    She did not taste her tea or take a cake from the plate offered by Miss Phipps. Such a rigid stance he had seen taken by those who tried to mask the mourning for a family member. Never for a pile of stone. When he inadvertently cut off Miss Phipps in mid-word by turning to the younger woman, he noticed nothing but the sorrow billowing out like a dark cloud from Lady Mariel.
    â€œI understand you are very involved in community projects, Lady Mariel.”
    Starting, she looked up at him in surprise. Lost in her grief while she mentally composed the letter to her uncle, she had forgotten Reverend Beckwith-Carter sat next to her. Drawing a shade over the vulnerable openness of her face, she straightened and said, “Yes, I am. It has long been the policy of the Wythes to be concerned with the welfare of the shire. I am simply continuing that tradition.”
    â€œI would be intrigued to hear about it.”
    â€œWould you?” She bit back the words she wanted to hurl at his perfectly composed, too handsome face. If only his hair did not curl so correctly across his forehead or his collar fold exactly as style commanded. Then she might not have made every effort to unruffle him to repay him for invading her home during her grief. She did not like people who made her feel inadequate.
    â€œYes, my lady. I have heard—”
    â€œI am sure you have.” She rose, forcing him to do the same. She smiled coldly. Sometimes convention could be used to her advantage instead of being simply a prison. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation at a later date.”
    Ignoring Miss Phipps’s hissed displeasure at his hostess, Ian nodded. He lowered his untouched cup of tea to the tray. He picked up his cane and dark hat. When he offered her his hand, she pretended not to see it and became involved with rearranging the tea table.
    â€œWhen would be convenient?” he asked.
    â€œConvenient? For what?” Mariel turned to him in surprise. She had hoped he would be offended and leave. It appeared he had thicker skin than the previous parson.
    â€œTo speak of your involvement in the village.”
    â€œI was not under the impression that my secular activities were of interest to you, Reverend.” She moved past him to the door, her dog following like a variegated shadow. Putting her hands on the dark-green velvet portieres, she stated, “If, and I stress if, I find the time to discuss this, I will inform you. Good day,