“And now you mean to remain here with him for an entire month?” She was incredulous. “Doing what, pray?”

“Doing nothing,” George said. “It’s to be a holiday for us. An August idyll.”

Laura didn’t like the sound of it. “If you’re fond of Henrietta at all—”

“You don’t understand these kinds of things, Laura. You’ve never seen anything of the world. Never lived anywhere outside of Lower Hawley.” Perspiration dotted George’s brow. “If you had, you’d realize that Henrietta could do a great deal worse than a fellow like Archer.”

Her gaze drifted over George’s face. What she found there startled her. “You’re afraid of him.”

George swiftly turned away. “Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s dreadfully hot.” Henrietta made her way over the bridge on Mr. Archer’s arm, joining them on the bank. “Shall we walk back to the house? I have a sheaf of new music since last you came to visit, Laura. Some marvelous duets. If you’ll play the piano for us, perhaps George and I might attempt them?”

“It sounds a grand idea to me,” George said.

“Do you sing, Mr. Archer?” Henrietta asked.

He smiled. “Not very well.”

Henrietta wrinkled her nose. “How unfortunate. But not to worry. There’s plenty to occupy us until the dinner hour. And then you may meet my father.”

Laura walked along at Henrietta’s side as they returned to the house. A footman in immaculate livery opened the front door of Edgington Park for them. He waited in the marble-tiled hall as they divested themselves of their hats, gloves, and bonnets.

“We’ll have some refreshment in the music room,” Henrietta informed him. “And tell Cook we shall have three additional places at dinner.” She looked to Laura. “You are staying, aren’t you?”

Laura shook her head. The hour was growing late. There was still much to be done at home. “I promised Aunt Charlotte I’d be back before nightfall.”

Henrietta’s mouth pursed. “Really, Laura.”

“Really, Hen. I have time enough to play a song or two for you, but then I must set out. I’m traveling to London in the morning.”

Henrietta’s pout softened. “Are you? To see that odious solicitor of yours? I can’t begin to fathom why he won’t attend you here.”

Laura felt the weight of Mr. Archer’s gaze upon her. She ignored it. “Mr. Weatherwax is a very busy man. He hasn’t the time to come to Lower Hawley.”

“When will you return? Not until the following morning, I daresay. Which means I shall have no one to chaperone me all day.”

Laura refrained from pointing out the many other ladies in Lower Hawley who might be willing to play chaperone. “I shall be home by Wednesday afternoon. You may send someone for me then. Or come to Bramble Cottage yourself if you’d like to call on my aunt.”