The afternoon was warm and bright, and the golden shaft of sun shone on the colourful flowerbeds of various shapes sprawled on the well-trimmed lawn. Gardeners were busy with their work, as were the masons who were immersed on painstaking restoration of the gazebo overlooking the pellucid pond off the west front of Stokeford Manor. The house itself, an imposing grey mass amidst the lush vista, looked a little less severe as the sunlight slanted across its ornate facade. Elms and beech trees were bobbing in the background and beyond them were the undulated green hills flecked with wildflowers, at the foot of which was the Forest Creek, a small strip of woodland where a gushing rivulet was hidden.

Pausing on a hillside with Faust grazing beside him, the Earl of Stokeford drank in the fair prospect. For more than a fortnight no other sight had been beheld by his eyes, and yet he couldn’t be wearied of it. Here, enfolded in the tranquility of his home and the glories of nature, he was not preyed by scandals and family obligations; here, he could indulge his time and brain in a more worthwhile pursuits. His elderly steward, Mr Hayes, had already warned him months ago the bulk of work waiting to be uncovered, and was very much gratified to have heard that his lordship was planning to start all the necessary repairs soon.

“And you could not have chosen a better time, my lord,” Mr Hayes said. “Since you hadn’t come down here for almost six months, some of your tenants had been wondering if the Manor would ever see the light of the day. But then they were just restless and scraping for information if there were some work available for them here.” He glanced questioningly at his lordship’s bandaged arm. “An accident in town, my lord?”

“No, a duel.” Seeing the old man’s aghast expression, his lips twitched. “I know, Hayes. You may chastise me for being a negligent landlord. Instead of shooting off people, I should have been down here weeks ago and started the repairs.”

Mr Hayes smiled and drew his own conclusions. “Now, why should the estate begrudged you of your time in town, my lord? You’re still a young man after all, and crave for some entertainment. I did tell you the extent of work to be done here, but they could have waited all the same.” His silvery bushy brows puckered. He said thoughtfully: “Unless you mean to settle down at no distant date, my lord?”

“I might. Family obligation, you know,” Stokeford murmured absently.

“Ah. Your chosen lady will count herself very lucky indeed to become the mistress of so lovely a place,” declared Mr Hayes confidently.

My chosen lady, Stokeford thought wistfully as he led Faust up to the hilltop where a small mausoleum was perched, surrounded by a thicket. Perhaps by now the lady whom his heart had been so ill-advised as to choose was happily betrothed to his cousin already. A bitter smile twisted on his lips. Dear Laurie, who’d been as good as brother to him all his life — who would have thought that they would one day share a passion for the same girl? Stefan had vowed to cool his own passion for Caroline, but it proved to be an unrewarded task when every waking moment she was always there in the fringes of his mind, her bright face a constant reminder of the might-have-been.

Still, he’d given up. Sooner or later we would have to marry, and he’d as lief choose Marianne as any lady whom he had but the slightest acquaintance. He frowned. The thought of being trapped into a loveless marriage made him cringe, but one must have to face the harsh reality, as his dear father did before him. What did Milborne say again? ‘Some of us are dealt a wrong hand when it comes to love, and we shall have to put up with it’. Stokeford did not have the greatest respect for Milborne’s intelligence, but he had to admit that the man could talk sense, if not often. And so he would follow this piece of advice, and perhaps one day, when all was said and done, he would look back at this tumultuous point of his life and laugh at this foolish sentimentality. After all, there’s more to relish in life than to misspend the bulk of it by repining for a love he’d never had. Perhaps the future wouldn’t be so bad as he’d gloomily anticipated.

They finally reached the mausoleum, and he ascended the few steps that led to the two iron doors. Inside was a simple rectangular marble tomb, with the inscription that simply read: ‘Lord Gregory Mathieson Beaumont, 9th Earl of Stokeford’. A twinge of sorrow overcame Stefan as he laid the small posy on the tomb that encased his father’s remains. It was strange, he reflected, that whenever the memory of his father came to mind, it had always been in the unhappy hours of his life. It was to his everlasting regret that he had not been there in the last agonizing hours of his father. To add to the bitterness of the dying man, his wife, who should have been by his side, was nowhere to be found until the few hours before his burial.

Philips had told him that the master had been very sick and could barely talk as he struggled between the lack of breath and painful spasms of cough. Towards the morning before he died however, there had been a reprieve. “His last thoughts were with you, my lord,” the butler had told him. “I was there, preparing his medicine, when he started to talk about the first time you rode your pony. I remember that particular moment so well for despite his pains, Lord Gregory was still smiling at that fond memory…” And Stokeford vividly remembered too, how he’d wept out his regret and sorrow that night in his room, because it had been too late to express how deep was his love for his sire.

Faust’s emphatic neighs obtruded into his reminiscences. The afternoon sunlight had already crept in the mausoleum, making an elongated shadow out of his figure. It was time to go back. In an hour or two the workers would cease at their work to go home for dinner. Stefan closed the iron doors behind him and descended the steps. Far ahead, on the upslope of the hill he saw someone in yellow riding coat galloping and waving his hat at him. “Laurie!” he exclaimed brightly.

“Hullo, cousin!” Laurie said as he flung himself from the saddle and clasp warmly Stefan’s extended hand. His eyes rested briefly on his cousin’s arm. “What, recovered already?”

Stefan swung his left arm back and forth. “It didn’t take a long time to heal, you know. Come, we’ll ride back to the house. You should’ve told me you were coming here so I could have warned Mrs Figurson to make the house a little habitable.”

“There’s no need, I assure you. I’m staying with Ponsby at Cheltenham. I took a look-in at the Manor before coming here, though and Mr Hayes told me you’re renovating the east wing.” Laurie threw him a curious look as he swung up on his horse again. “Is it true then what my aunt said? Is all settled between you and Marianne?”

Stefan’s hold on the reins tightened. “My mother is overeager about the prospect. I have not yet acquiesced, so you’ll oblige me not to spread it about, Laurie,” he said curtly and drew his bay into a full gallop. They rode down the sweeping grassy hills and reached a belt of trees along the dusty avenue that led to the back of the Manor. Both men were breathless from their vigorous ride when they finally entered the house.

“Gad, but I miss the place!” said Laurie as they crossed a wide hall and entered a small parlour. “Though I shouldn’t care to live here alone, you know. When do you plan to go back in town?”

“Until I finish everything here, of course,” Stefan replied. “After almost six months spent in town, I’m not anxious to rush back to London again. What larks have been kicking up that brought you to Cheltenham?”

“Races tomorrow. I’d promised Ponsby to back his cattle. Don’t you want to come?”

“I thank you, but no. There’s so much work to be done here and I can’t leave Hayes. The poor man’s getting old I fear he would not be able to manage without me by his side,” remarked the Earl with a flippant tone and went to the credenza. “Tell me about town. How do you go on? Is Robert staying there? With this infernal heat, I presume half of the populace are driven away to watering places.”

“Well, yes, Mayfair’s almost deserted but I believe he’s still there,” said Laurie. He hesitated for a moment, then went on lightly: “I’d already proposed to Miss Davis, by the bye. Last week.”

Stefan had been pouring wine in two glasses, but at this, his hand briefly halted in mid-air. His heart pounding a little, and somewhat breathless, he managed to say calmly: “I see,” then turned to his cousin and handed him his wine. He cleared his throat and in a forced cheerfulness asked: “And, ah, are felicitations in order, I take it?”

Relapsing into silence for a moment, Laurie stared contemplatively at his wine. Then his lips twisted into a rueful smile and he shook his head. “Alas, Stefan. She wouldn’t have me.”

This pronouncement almost caught him off-guard that Stefan could not quite command his voice for a while. He’d expected the worse, and had been reconciled with the fact that Laurie would still win her in the end. He said quietly: “I am sorry to hear that, cousin. Indeed, I can’t imagine why Miss Davis should refuse your offer, since it appears that she likes you very much. She’d have been far better off had she accepted your hand in marriage.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” Laurie shrugged carelessly. “But then women are such a devilish queer lot. There’s no way of knowing how to please ‘em.”

“Miss Davis is far too young. Perhaps she’s not ready yet,” suggested Lord Stokeford gently, noticing his bleak expression. “You can wait for a little more time and give it a try again. Who knows? Maybe in the end she will consider your suit.”

Laurie fixed him an enigmatic look. “Mighty good of you, cousin,” he murmured and walked to one of the windows. He said: “However, I’m afraid her mind is already made up and she merely wants us to be what we’ve always been — friends. I should be contented with that, shouldn’t I? At least I’ve not lost her — altogether.”

“Of course. Miss Davis has the friendliest nature you can ever found in a girl. Believe me, she wouldn’t give you up so easily,” Stokeford said, a faint smile hovering at his lips. Since his eyes were downcast, he did not catch the covert glance thrown at him by his cousin, or the surprise that momentarily crossed his countenance.

“I do,” Laurie said. “And I shall renew my friendship with her — someday, perhaps.”

The Earl looked up quickly at him. “Why, what do you mean?”

“By your leave, cousin, I will return to France in a few days,” he told him resolutely. “I’ve a fancy to visit jolly old Paris once again. Besides, it’s summer, and I’m not desirous of following everyone to the watering places.”

“You can do whatever you like — as if I’ve the power to prevent you! Although I wonder what precipitated this sudden decision of yours. You’ve been staying here for not above four months. Why the hurry?” He regarded him suspiciously. “Out with it, Laurie. Are you in the suds again?”

Laurie made a face. He said indignantly: “A fine opinion you have of me, Stefan! Now I know!”

“And I know as well you’re deliberately steering the conversation off the course,” the Earl retorted. “You know very well I cannot bear to think that you’re in trouble, cousin. If you just tell me — ”

“No, no, my lord fusspot!” Laurie grinned and returned to his seat. “I assure you, I’m not. All the same, I appreciate your heartfelt concern. It’s prodigious nice when one’s being looked after, but I daresay I’ll have to put up without your mollycoddling in the future. Especially,” he twinkled at him, “when you start up your own nursery, Stefan.”

There was a slight scowl on his lordship’s brows. “Why is it that you’re so set upon my being leg-shackled so soon, I wonder? If it is to gratify your wish of becoming an uncle-cousin, then I must disappoint you for a while, I’m afraid.”

His eyelids drooped; he murmured: “You’ll never know, cousin.” Somewhere inside the house, the clock struck five, and Laurie sprang to his feet. “Egad, I must be off now! Old Ponsby will expect me to join the family by dinner time. Never knew my friend’s sire is such a starchy old fellow. You’ll not mind?”

“Of course not, although I had hoped you’d join me in mine later. I presume this would be your last visit for a while?”

“I’m afraid so. After the races I’m going back straight to town.” Laurie’s smile was rather wistful, and a fleeting suspicion that he’d intended to stay in France for good had occurred to Stefan. He demanded: “You’re not planning to live the rest of your life across the Channel, do you?”

“Don’t fret, I’m not! Whatever happens, I’ll not trade England for any other home.” He gazed at his cousin ruefully. “I’ve not been entirely honest with you, you know. The truth is, I am a little dispirited of late. I guess it’s only natural when you really cared for someone and then discovered that they don’t — don’t return that kind of feeling you have for them. I’d raised my hopes too high and the blow is such that…well, until I can get over it I shall stay away for the time being.”

Much moved by this artless admission, Stefan replied a little gruffly: “Write to me often, Laurie. And don’t prolong your sojourn too much, or I’ll come and fetch you myself.”

Laurie chuckled. “Very obliging of you, cousin. Though I doubt even my most damnable fix would lure you out of your nest!” They shook hands, and as if in accord, pull one another for a brief brotherly embrace.

Moments later, as Stefan perched on the window seat and gazed after his cousin’s vanishing figure among the rolling mounds and trees, he suffered a pang of regret. Caroline, his dearest imp, had chosen to listen to her own heart than to be swayed by the allures of an advantageous offer from a man who would have made her a very devoted husband, and fate had smiled upon Stefan once more. He should be pleased by this development; yet, reliving Laurie’s wounded expression had cast a damper on his rejoicing heart. It hung like a dim shroud around his happiness, and Stefan knew that he had to wait for the right time to claim his love. Not now, not yet.

* * * * * *

August came with sultry weather and the occasional billowing warm air, and London had slowly become a sweltering place. Most of the fashionable set had gone off to Brighton, a few had repaired to the balmy countryside, but Lord Robert March had decided to spend his summer months in town. He’d visited his younger married sister in Sussex and had fulfilled his role of a dutiful brother and uncle alike. It had amused him for a few days, but since he was a bachelor who was unaccustomed to the screeches and cries of children, and had found little relish in filling the role of a makeshift pony which they were all to ride on, the amusement wearied off, and he’d returned to his peaceful bachelor’s lodging at Curzon Street once more.

The lack of company had not apparently left him wanting, for the Viscount had been endowed with a cheerful nature which no amount of pall could subdue for a long stretch of time. Lately however, on an occasion or two he’d been contemplative and had worn a brooding expression that had bemused even his manservant. His lordship might have an air of loquacity about him, but he kept his own counsel every now and then, and the curiosity his valet might have been harbouring was not quite gratified.

Actually, the Viscount was in sore need of an ear to confide all the thoughts chasing one after another in his mind. They were mostly about Stokeford, whom he’d not had a word ever since his departure to the country. Laurie had told him that his cousin was very much occupied in beautifying his estate, a thing which had given much food for his thought. He was not at all surprise to learn that the Countess was making a match between his son and Miss Marianne; indeed, he’d suspected it from the start, though it was very unlikely that Stefan should tolerate his mother’s schemes.

However, when Lady Stokeford herself had happily informed him that it was not long before they would hear an announcement, Robert had begun to feel some qualms. Perhaps Stefan’s hand was force through his mother’s relentless maneuverings? The Earl might proved adamant, but family was his weakness. A simple reminder of his obligation, or some such nonsense as he owed something to his name, and he’d surely give in. And Caroline, the poor creature, would be doomed to unhappiness should Stefan wed Marianne. And he would lay a pony Marianne was equally not desirous of the match. At all events, Lord March was determined to extricate them all out of this tangle. The question was — how?

He’d been consumed with all these ruminations when he come across a sullen-looking Milborne in Bond Street. “My dear chap!” exclaimed his lordship, pleased. “Why, I thought you went to Brighton?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Cedric, shaking his hands. The stormy expression was less harsh now, but his tone was rueful when he added: “Lady Stokeford would not permit that I escort them.”

Lord March’s lips quirked at one corner. After the lovelorn Cedric had been replaced by a simple country gentleman in Miss Winscott’s affection, he’d lost no time in shifting his attentions to Marianne, though he was taking pains in making it a secret. “No, did she? Very unfortunate indeed,” he replied sympathetically. “Perhaps the Countess is only cautious not to let her niece entertain another gentleman when Stefan and she might — Lord, what now?”

“Marianne does not want Stokeford!” struck in Cedric with a show of temper, but was quick to curb it. He averted his embarrassed gaze and muttered: “Beg your pardon. What I meant was Miss Marianne does not care for her cousin — not in that light, at least. She said so to me, and cry she did, for she feels everyone thinks dreadful things about her, and now her aunt and father are both forcing her to marry him!”

“She’d confided that much to you? Well, now, I haven’t thought you’ve become fast friends,” the Viscount raised his brows, making the younger man blushed furiously and looked away. Taking pity on him, he said kindly: “Don’t mean to embarrass you, dear chap. Certainly, it does you credit that you show some concern for Miss Carstairs and in her plight. It behooves me to warn you though, that Lady Stokeford is a force to reckon. You’re a personable young man, I grant you that. But she will not view your attentions to her niece favourably.”

“It’s not as if I’d presume to — to court Miss Marianne! Gad, to only think of coming face to face with that stiff-necked old man of hers.” Cedric visibly shuddered. “What does Stokeford say to the matter anyway? I’d like to know what he means by skulking in his estate and mooning over Caroline when he should — ” he caught himself then, and glanced guiltily at the Viscount and said hurriedly: “That is to say — ”