Bound By Their Secret Passion. Diane Gaston

She crossed the park in front of the house in the opposite direction from the way Glenville, Filkins and the solicitors went to the vicarage. She had no destination in mind except to walk far enough to be off Tinmore’s land where she still felt his spirit scolding and belittling her. When she’d walked to Summerfield House on Christmas Day, she’d been free of him. She walked in that direction now.

      The day was grey and dismal, like her spirits, and her mind spun into knots of confusion. How could Tinmore have given her such wealth when she could not even bring herself to mourn him? What should she do with that money? With that Mayfair town house? She did not want to think of such things!

      The further she walked, the more her mind cleared itself. She was left with only the sensation of inhaling cold air into her lungs and feeling the wind sting her cheeks. The earth beneath her was frozen hard and that cold seeped through her boots. The wind whistled in her ears and rustled the bushes and trees.

      It felt glorious!

      She quickened her step and wished she could be like the deer that bounded across the fields. She wished she had the courage to run so free.

      Why not?

      She gathered her skirts in her hands and took flight, dashing across the field with nothing and no one to stop her.

      * * *

      Dell had been restless the whole day, knowing from Ross that Tinmore’s will would be read this day. Would Tinmore have done well by her?

      If not, she needn’t want for anything. He’d help her himself if it came to that. Most likely, though, he need not concern himself over it. Ross or Glenville would step in for Lorene if it were necessary.

      Any help he gave would arouse suspicions. Make it seem there was a connection between them, when there was not. True, he was related to the Summerfields, but the connection was through a distant ancestor. Possibly he was no blood relation at all. It was said the Summerfield sisters were not fathered by Sir Hollis, but by their mother’s different lovers.

      Their appearance certainly fuelled that rumour. The three ladies were about as unlike as sisters could be. Genna was tall and blonde. Tess, shorter and chestnut-haired. Lorene’s hair was the shade of fine mahogany, although it glistened with auburns and golds when the sun hit it just right. She was the shortest of the three even though the oldest. Their eye colours were different as well. Only Lorene had those dark brown eyes that seemed perpetually warm and inviting.

      He liked Lorene. He could admit that much, could he not? But that did not matter, did it? He did not want to feel any connection with her. He did not want anyone to matter to him. His family had mattered and their loss was too painful to bear.

      Grief threatened to engulf him once again.

      He strode out of the house and down to the stables. A good ride would set him to rights.

      Within a few minutes his horse was saddled and he was galloping over fields and up the hills that made the undulating Lincolnshire landscape so pleasing to the eye. He gave his mare a rest at the crest of a hill. Both he and the animal sucked in the brisk winter air and savoured it.

      Out of the corner of his eye he spied a figure in the distance. He turned and knew immediately it was Lorene, even though he was atop the hill and she below, running as if the devil himself was chasing her. What a lovely sight. The hood of her cloak had fallen back and her hat was held on to her neck only by its ribbons. Her hair had come loose of its pins and flew wild and free behind her.

      He shook himself. Why was she running? Was she in trouble?

      He signalled his horse to action and they galloped down the hill as fast as they were able. No matter his promise to avoid her—if she needed him, he would be there for her.

      He reached the valley ahead of her, still a distance away. She stopped immediately when he came into her view and waited while he slowed his horse.

      He rode to her and dismounted. ‘Lorene’ was all he could manage.

      ‘Dell.’ Her voice was equally as hushed.

      ‘How—how do you fare? Are you in need of assistance? You were running.’ What was this unease he felt being near her? She—no one—could matter that much.

      Her lovely smooth cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink. ‘I—I was running. Silly of me. I simply—wanted to run.’ She sounded out of breath.

      His shoulders relaxed. ‘I saw you and thought something was wrong.’

      ‘Nothing...bad.’ But she remained unsmiling. ‘I just needed to run. Hoydenish of me, I realise, but I did not expect to be seen.’

      He felt the rebuke. ‘Forgive me. Perhaps I should not have—’

      She interrupted him. ‘Oh, no. I did not mean any criticism of you. I simply realised how I must look to you.’

      He had never seen her lovelier. ‘May I ask the reason you—?’

      She cut him off again. ‘Why I was running? I—I felt so closed in all of a sudden. Penned in, you know. I just wanted to escape. For a little bit. I will return, of course, and preside as hostess for dinner.’

      They began to walk, a leisurely aimless pace that his horse was content to follow.

      He spoke first. ‘Ross told me the solicitors had arrived to read the will.’

      She made an anguished sound. ‘Indeed. They read it today.’