We track the graceful birds for a while, swapping the binoculars between us.
“So, what do you do here all day, apart from watching birds and avoiding chopping wood?”
I’m rewarded with the shy smile again, and my stomach does a small flip.
“Oh, you know, the usual. Host gala balls, receive ladies for tea in the drawing room, alter the cut of my britches with my valet, terrorise the under footman. Swive the stable boy.”
I don’t know what swive means, but I can hazard a guess. “Very funny, Lucien. I’m a poor lad from a council estate in Wolverhampton. I haven’t got a clue what someone like you does to run a place like this in the twenty-first century.”
He sighs. “Nor did I until about eighteen months ago. I