Bound By A Scandalous Secret. Diane Gaston
Lincolnshire—December 1815
Genna Summerfield first glimpsed him out of the corner of her eye, a distant horseman galloping across the land, all power and grace and heedless abandon. A thrilling sight. Beautiful grey steed, its rider in a topcoat of matching grey billowing behind him. Horse and rider looked as if they had been created from the clouds that were now covering the sky. Could she capture it on paper? She grabbed her sketchpad and charcoal and quickly drew.
It was no use. He disappeared in a dip in the hill.
She put down the sketchpad and charcoal and turned back to painting the scene in the valley below, her reason for sitting upon this hill in this cold December air. How she wished she could also paint the galloping horse and rider. What a challenge it would be to paint all those shades of grey, at the same time conveying all the power and movement.
The roar of galloping startled her. She turned. Man and horse thundered towards her.
Drat! Was he coming to oust her from the property? To chase her from this perfect vantage point?
Not now! She was almost finished. She needed but a few minutes more. Besides, she had to return soon before someone questioned her absence—
The image of the horse and rider interrupted her thoughts. Her brush rose in the air as she tried to memorise the sight, the movement, the lights and darks—
Goodness! He galloped straight for her. Genna backed away, knocking over her stool.
The rider pulled the horse to a halt mere inches away.
‘I did not mean to alarm you,’ the rider said.
‘I thought you would run me down!’ She threw her paintbrush into her jug of water and wiped her hands on the apron she wore over her dress.
He was a gentleman judging by the sheer fineness of his topcoat and tall hat and the way he sat in the saddle, as if it were his due to be above everyone else.
Please do not let this gentleman be her distant cousin, the man who’d inherited this land that she once—and still—called home.
‘My apologies.’ He dismounted. ‘I came to see if you needed assistance, but now I see you intended to be seated on this hill.’
‘Yes.’ She shaded her eyes with her hand. ‘As you can see I am painting the scene below.’
‘It is near freezing out,’ he said. ‘This cold cannot be good for you.’
She showed him her hands. ‘I am wearing gloves.’ Of course, her gloves were fingerless. ‘And my cloak is warm enough.’
She looked into his face. A strong face, long, but not thin, with a straight nose that perfectly suited him, and thick dark brows. His hair, just visible beneath his hat was also dark. His eyes were a spellbinding caramel, flecked with darker brown. She would love to paint such a memorable face.
He extended his hand. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Rossdale.’
Not her cousin, then. She breathed a sigh of relief. Some other aristocrat.
She placed her hand in his. ‘Miss Summerfield.’
‘Summerfield?’ His brows rose. ‘My host, Lord Penford, is Dell Summerfield. A relation, perhaps?’
She knew Lord Penford was her cousin, but that was about all she knew of him. Just her luck. This man was his guest.
‘A distant relation.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I’m one of the scandalous Summerfields. You’ve heard of us, no doubt.’
The smile on his face froze and she had her answer. Of course he’d heard of her family. Of her late father, Sir Hollis Summerfield of Yardney, who’d lost his fortune in a series of foolish investments. And her mother, who was legendary for having many lovers, including the one with whom she’d eloped when Genna was almost too little to remember her. Who in society had not heard of the scandalous Summerfields?
‘Then you used to live at Summerfield House.’ He gestured to the house down below.
‘That is why I am painting it,’ she responded. ‘And I would be obliged if you would not mention to Lord Penford that I trespassed on his land. I have disturbed nothing and only wished to come here this one time to paint this view.’
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘I am certain he would not mind.’
Genna was not so certain. After her father’s death, Lord Penford had been eager for Genna and her two sisters to leave the house.
She stood and started to pack up her paints. ‘In any event, I will leave now.’
He put his hand on her easel. ‘No need. Please continue.’
She shook her head. The magic was gone; the spell broken. She’d been reminded the house was no longer her home. ‘I must be getting back. It is a bit of a walk.’
‘Where are you bound?’ he asked.
Surely he knew all the scandals. ‘To Tinmore Hall.’ She gave him a defiant look. ‘Or did you forget that my sister Lorene married Lord Tinmore?’
He glanced away and dipped his head. ‘I did forget.’
Genna’s oldest sister married the ancient Lord Tinmore for his money so Genna and her sister Tess and half-brother Edmund would not be plunged into poverty. So they, unlike Lorene, could make respectable marriages and marry for love.
Genna had not forgiven Lorene for doing such a thing—sacrificing her own happiness like that, chaining herself to that old, disagreeable man. And for what? Genna did not believe in her sister’s romantic notions of love and happily ever after. Did not love ultimately wind up hurting oneself and others?
The wind picked up, rippling her painting.
Rossdale put his fingers on the edge of it to keep it from blowing away. His brow furrowed. ‘You have captured the house, certainly, but the rest of it looks nothing like this day...’
She unfastened the paper from the easel and carefully placed a sheet of tissue over it. She slipped it in a leather envelope. ‘I painted a memory, you might say.’ Or the emotion of a memory.
The wind gusted again. She turned away from it and packed up hurriedly, folding the easel and her stool, closing her paints, pouring out her jug of water and wrapping her brushes in a rag. She placed them all in a huge canvas satchel.
‘How far to your home?’ Rossdale asked.
Her home was right below them, she wanted to say. ‘To Tinmore Hall, you mean? No more than five miles.’
‘Five miles!’ He looked surprised. ‘Are you here alone?’
She pinched her lips together. ‘I require no chaperon on the land where I was born.’
He nodded in a conciliatory manner. ‘I thought perhaps you had a companion, maybe someone with a carriage visiting the house. May I convey you to Tinmore Hall, then?’ He glanced towards