Sincerity glowed from his dark blue eyes, and that warm sensation once more unfurled in her stomach. The man was very handsome with his lean but powerfully built physique. Lily stepped away, desperate to create more space between them, hating that she was so ardently admiring his handsomeness.
“Forgiven,” she said with a firm nod. “Please continue your ride.” Then she hurried over to Mr. Crauford and collected her basket. After ensuring her sketchpad and her book were safely stowed, she assessed her clothes.
“I must say, your father has been derelict in taking you in hand.”
Lily faltered in dusting the grass from her dress and glared at Mr. Crauford. “Papa is the one who sent me a copy,” she said, refusing to give in to the irritation surging through her veins. “The book is hardly scandalous.”
“Then he has most certainly failed in his duty to you, and—”
“Sir!”
His jaw slackened at her sharp tone.
“You will not cast any aspersions on Papa. That would not endear you to me.” She had been given every advantage possible in education by her father, despite their lack of wealth. He’d encouraged her to rea
d and taught her French and some Greek. Her father had never been a man of great property or fortune, but he had done everything possible to see his daughters looked after. He had never taught her that being able to think for herself was an unladylike thing to do. He supported her dreams wholeheartedly and had never pressured her to find a third husband. Not that he could force her, since she was of age to make her own decisions, but his support meant the world to her.
“You give your opinion too freely, Mrs. Layton,” Mr. Crauford said with a pompous air. “I will forgive it in this instance, for you were not reared in a genteel household, but you must learn what proper conduct is for a lady.”
His barbed criticism missed its mark, and the man dared to narrow his eyes at her lack of response. She glanced away to find the marquess’s arrested stare on her person.
“You’re still here,” she said and then flushed at her bad manners. “My lord, I—”
He waved away her apology with a suspiciously charming smile. “Pay me no heed, I find I am of a mind to stroll.”
She glanced back at the horse grazing the grass.
“Attila is trained to return to the stables when he is riderless. A footman will take him in hand soon,” Lord Ambrose said, smiling before tipping his hat and falling back slightly.
The dratted man was endlessly charming and too appealing.
Lily frowned, wondering if it was her imagination or if the marquess had seemed fascinated with the exchange he’d witnessed. Pushing it from her mind, she continued along the path, ignoring Mr. Crauford.
“The weather is very pleasant today,” he said after a few minutes.
Lily glanced at the sky, which seemed overcast, and proffered no reply.
“The air is also very pleasant.”
She inhaled. “Strange, I only smell manure.”
Mr. Crauford looked positively horrified. “That is not a topic of discourse for a lady.”
A choking sound came from behind her, and she glanced back to see the marquess’s eyes dancing with humor. Was he following them? Not that she could protest; it was his land, after all.
Returning her attention to the man walking beside her, she said, “I see. Then what should we talk about?”
He smiled, indulgently, and she sighed at the hollow feeling that rose inside. This was how her last two courtships had unfolded. She had been placed inside a box, where every natural passion and seemingly normal topic of conversations had been suppressed because it was ostensibly unladylike, and she had allowed it. The vicar’s constant disparaging words had been wearying. Lily didn’t believe all men were that awful, but most did believe that women were to always be proper and that any hint of passion from those gently bred souls indicated a weak and lustful character such as those of loose, immoral leanings possessed.
Mr. Crauford clearly possessed the same sanctimonious attitude. She wasn’t certain how to extricate herself from the situation without dissolving into unladylike behavior. No more. She was five and twenty, not a wilting flower. “Mr. Crauford…I believe I will continue alone from here.”
“No, my dear, there is something I wish to speak of you with,” he said with all the importance of a puffed peacock. “I’d thought to take the opportunity while we strolled.”
She glanced back, gratified to see the marquess too far back on the beaten path to overhear their conversation. “I truly cannot imagine you have anything to say that I would wish to hear, Mr. Crauford.”
His eyes widened. “I do beg your pardon. I believe I misheard.”
She shook her head decisively. “I assure you, sir, you did not.”