The Summer of Wine and Scandal: A Novella by Shana Galen Read Free Book Online Page B

come.”
    He froze and looked up, disoriented at first to see the object of his thoughts standing before him. He looked about and smiled with accomplishment. “I found it.”
    “You were looking for this place, then?” she asked. He noted she did not ask if he looked for her.
    But of course he had been. And she did look pretty today. She’d worn a yellow and white gown that was a far sight prettier than the drab green one he’d last seen her in. But her petticoats were caked with mud, and she stood rather than lounged on the ground as she had the other day.
    Had she dressed for him?
    “I was looking for you,” he said.
    She pressed her lips together. “Why?”
    “Good question. I don’t know, to tell you the truth. I find I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
    “I suppose you want to kiss me again.”
    Of course he did, but he didn’t like the way she’d said it. The way her eyes tightened as though she expected the worst from him. What the devil had happened to her to give her such a poor opinion of men?
    “No,” he said, mentally flogging himself.
    She folded her arms across her chest. “You don’t want to kiss me again?” She sounded skeptical, as well she should considering he was lying through his teeth.
    “I want you to kiss me.”
    She emitted a bitter laugh, and he held up a hand. “Only if you want. I’m not in the habit of taking liberties. I would like to kiss you again, but you shall have to be the one to kiss me this time.”
    “And if I don’t want to kiss you?”
    “Then we won’t kiss. We will simply talk.”
    She narrowed her eyes at him. “You walked all this way to have a conversation with me.”
    “No. There’s the view as well.” He lifted a stick and tossed it into the water. “As I said before, it’s pretty here.”
    “It’s pretty at the Friar’s House.”
    He looked back at her. “You’re not at the Friar’s House. I enjoy our conversation, although I realize it is a bit one-sided.”
    She lowered her arms and moved closer to him, toeing a white pebble half buried in the ground. “How so?”
    “You never tell me about you.”
    Her body tensed again, and her look turned wary. “There’s nothing to tell.”
    “I suppose I shall have to share my news, then.” He crouched beside the water and watched it ripple by. Had it been his imagination or was that the flick of an orange tail? A fish? Overhead, birds chirped, and he imagined he might find a frog if he searched hard enough.
    “What is your news?”
    “The committee has decided,” he said with an air of exaggerated pomp and circumstance. “I am to judge the Hemshawe Fair Wine-Tasting.”
    “That is quite an honor.”
    “One I don’t particularly want. After all, someone will win and everyone else will lose, and I do so hate to make enemies.”
    “Oh, not to worry. The worst the losers will do is mutter about you behind your back.”
    “That’s not my only concern.” He lifted a long stick and poked it into the water, testing the depth of the stream.
    “Oh?”
    “I must admit that I have a prejudice.” He could see her smiling at him, the look on her face one that said she thought he was quite amusing. He was glad he could amuse her. He liked to see her smile. “I think all British wine is rubbish.”
    “Perhaps you should have informed the committee.”
    “I tried, but Miss Gage shot daggers at me with her eyes every time I opened my mouth.”
    “She terrifies you, does she? All six stone of her.”
    “Clearly, Wellington is fortunate I was not at Waterloo. The battle might have gone the wrong way.”
    She perched daintily on a log that looked as though it had been dragged near the stream for precisely that purpose. “You’re wrong, you know.”
    He stood. “Wellington could have used me at Waterloo?”
    “No.” She laughed. “I suspect Wellington never missed you. You’re wrong about British wine. You may accuse me of prejudice, since my father has his own vineyard, but