The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

  “War,” Mrs. Dawson exclaimed. “And politics. That is all you gentleman think of. I’ll hear no more of it at my dinner table, if you please.”

  “I apologize, Mrs. Graham,” Lord Wanstead said. “I should have recalled that such discussions would be painful to you.”

  Lucinda stared at him blankly. Of course, her supposed soldier husband. Unable to meet his direct gaze, she looked down at her plate.

  The butler entered with the dessert, a huge bowl in the center of a silver tray. He set it in the middle of the table.

  “Floating island pudding,” Miss Dawson said, her dark eyes laughing at her dinner partner.

  “I remembered it was always a favorite of yours, Wanstead,” Mrs. Dawson said with obvious satisfaction.

  “And Arthur’s,” Miss Dawson added.

  Lucinda hadn’t had floating island pudding since she left her family home. The creamy scent seemed to transport her to another world where she had felt happy and loved. She couldn’t wait to taste it.

  “I thought I might find Arthur here this evening,” Wanstead said as the butler filled their dishes.

  “He promised to attend my birthday ball at the end of the month,” Miss Dawson said.

  “If he can drag himself away from London,” Mrs. Dawson added. “Do you plan to catch the end of the Season in London, Lord Wanstead?”

  “I have no desire to go to London,” Lord Wanstead said.

  Mrs. Dawson beamed her approval. “Then it is settled. You will attend our ball.”

  Lord Wanstead had the look of a man hoist with his own petard. Lucinda repressed a smile. She could not help but admire Mrs. Dawson’s tactics, even if they were quite shocking. She tasted her pudding. It was just as delicious as it looked. She wondered if Annie Dunning knew how to make the rich dessert.

  “I have eaten more than my fill,” Miss Dawson declared.

  “You don’t eat enough to keep a sparrow alive these days,” her papa said with a worried frown at her half-full plate.

  No wonder she kept her slender figure. She hadn’t touched more than a mouthful of each dish. And yet when Lucinda tried such tactics, she only felt ill. She certainly never got any thinner.

  “You need to keep your strength up, Miss Dawson,” the vicar urged, his expression intent. “Think how disappointed you would be if you were not well enough to attend all of the festivities.”

  Lord Wanstead narrowed his eyes. “Festivities?”

  “We are planning a village fête,” the reverend said. “To raise funds for the church and possibly to hire a schoolteacher. Mrs. Graham suggested we think about opening a school in the village.”

  “I had no idea there were enough children in Blendon to warrant a school,” Lord Wanstead said.

  “There certainly are not,” Mrs. Dawson said with some asperity. “Educating the poor only leads to trouble.”

  Lucinda’s heart sank. Unwittingly, Lord Wanstead had played right into Mrs. Dawson’s fears. “There are quite a number of children on the farms nearby, in addition to those in the village. With less and less work in the county, many are lured to the city in hopes of employment,” she said. “If they were educated, then they would be more likely to find something suitable.”

  “You speak as if you have firsthand knowledge, Mrs. Graham,” Lord Wanstead said. “Did you live in London before you came to Kent?”

  Every eye at the table swiveled in her direction. She flashed hot, then cold. Stupid, stupid blunder. Why could she not keep her foolish tongue still? “I simply state what I have read in the newspapers, my lord.”

  “And yet you speak with some passion on the matter,” Wanstead observed.

  “Surely it is a subject that should engage the passion of anyone who cares about the human condition, my lord?”

  “Well said, Mrs. Graham,” Postlethwaite said. “But you see, Wanstead, we are somewhat stymied in our plans. The village green is nowhere near large enough to accommodate people in sufficient numbers to ensure a large enough profit.”

  “There is lots of room on the lawn in front of Grange,” Squire Dawson said with a glower at his wife.

  Lord Wanstead looked slightly stunned. “Surely you are not suggesting . . .”

  “Of course not,” Mrs. Dawson said.

  “It would be for a worthy cause,” the vicar said.

  Lucinda threw him a grateful glance.

  Lord Wanstead’s gaze traveled from her to the vicar and back, assessing, weighing. Lucinda’s palms felt suddenly damp. A flush crept up her face, hot and uncomfortable. She placed her spoon and fork on her empty dish and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin.

  Mrs. Dawson snorted. “Why would anyone want a parcel of yokels tramping across their grounds, not to mention the unsavory characters such things always attract. Don’t listen to them, Wanstead, or you will find yourself inundated with the worst sort of people. I refused to have them at the Hall. Ladies, let us adjourn to the parlor.” She rose to her feet.

  The gentlemen followed suit with much scraping of chairs on the wooden floor.

  “We will leave the gentlemen to discuss their politics and wars over their port,” Mrs. Dawson said. “I do hope, Lord Wanstead, you will join us for cards afterward. And you, too, of course, Vicar.”

  The gentlemen nodded their assent. Inwardly Lucinda groaned. She had hoped to make her escape immediately after dinner. But cards would be impossible without an equal number, and it would be rude to leave her hostess in such a fix.

  • • •

  How she came to be partnered with Lord Wanstead in a one-sided game of whist against the elder Dawsons, Lucinda wasn’t quite sure. Her refusal to be persuaded to play the pianoforte had been her undoing, she supposed. It left the vicar, who cheerfully acknowledged disinterest in gambling, to join Miss Dawson in singing a selection of ballads, their voices mingling in pleasant harmony at the other end of the room.

  The squire laid the first card in what Lucinda hoped would prove to be the last hand of the evening, since she and Lord Wanstead were significantly ahead. She followed his lead with a club.

  Mrs. Dawson laid a king of hearts.

  “What are you thinking, wife?” the squire muttered as Hugo laid a trump.

  “Mrs. Dawson could do nothing else,” Lucinda said, having endured an evening of such remarks with growing impatience. “The king is the lowest heart she has left in her hand, while Lord Wanstead has only trumps.”

  Lord Wanstead raised a brow and stabbed her with a piercing stare. “Very astute, Mrs. Graham.”

  She winced. Why could she never remember females were not meant to be able to count? “It is simply a question of keeping track of what has gone before.”

  Mrs. Dawson gasped. “Everything?”

  “Mrs. Graham is an absolute whiz with numbers,” the vicar said from across the room. He beamed to the company at large. “She helped me enormously with the church accounts.”

  “I’m only too glad to assist, Vicar,” Lucinda said.

  Lord Wanstead cast her a lazy glance from beneath lowered lids. “Then I for one am glad that you are my partner, not my opponent.”

  “I’m not cheating, if that is what you think,” she replied.

  “I suggested no such thing, Mrs. Graham,” his lordship drawled.

  He did not sound annoyed. In fact, he seemed to have mellowed as the evening progressed, but after the amount of wine he had drunk, she wouldn’t want to stake her life on his temper. She remained silent.

  “I must say, your knowledge is uncanny, Mrs. Graham,” the squire said jovially.

  Lucinda glanced down at her hand with a sigh. Once again her reputation as some sort of oddity was assured. Why could she not be like every other woman of her acquaintance and profess no knowledge of anything except the price of muslin and the latest style in hats? Why had she said anything at all? Absently, she rubbed her collarbone and wondered if she should lose in order to appear normal. Why did she care if Wanstead thought her an enormous freak of nature?
>
  Lord Wanstead picked up the trick and laid his last card. A trump. “Personally, I prefer chess to whist. Do you play, Mrs. Graham?”

  “A game of strategy, my lord? Yes, I played as a child with my brother.”

  “I didn’t know you had any family living,” Mrs. Dawson said. “Where do they reside?”

  Words turned to gravel in her throat. She placed her card on the table, a high trump, using the pause to gather scattered wits. “My brother lives in the north.” Blast. Too vague, too evasive. “In Yorkshire.”

  “Would you not find it more convenient to live closer to your family?” Wanstead’s tone was idle, but the tension in his body gave away his interest.

  A sudden longing for her family pierced her heart, a pain so sharp that for a moment she couldn’t speak. She drew in a steadying breath. “I prefer to live here.”

  Mrs. Dawson’s next card hovered above the table. “You will not find a better county in which to live than Kent, nor a better village than Blendon.” She dropped the ace of hearts on the table.

  The squire groaned. “That’s it then. We lost again, Mrs. Dawson.” He wiped his damp brow with his handkerchief. “A very good game, indeed. Anyone for another hand?”

  “I regret it is time I went home,” Lucinda said. “I promised Annie I would not be late.” In truth, she should not have accepted Mrs. Dawson’s invitation. Only the vicar’s request for support in seeking Mrs. Dawson’s agreement to host the fête at the Hall had tempted her to take so bold a step. And Lord Wanstead’s presence seemed to make her feel so much more uncomfortable than she usually felt at social occasions. Perhaps because he noticed too much and listened too well.

  She rose to her feet and held out her hand to her hostess. “Thank you for a very pleasant evening.”

  Mrs. Dawson’s eyes widened as the gentlemen stood.

  To her chagrin, Lucinda realized she had played too grand a lady for the widow of a mere lieutenant. She bobbed a suitably humble curtsey to her hostess and, in no time at all, had made her farewells and retrieved her wrap.

  The butler ushered her out of the house and into warm evening air smelling of earth washed clean by rain. Beyond the circle of light cast by the porch lantern, the night drew around her like a comforting cloak. Free from prying questions and curious stares, tension streamed away. She let go a sigh of relief. Never again would she let herself be wooed into company. As always, her eagerness had been her undoing. Composure firmly in place, she strode down the squire’s gravel drive.

  Footsteps crunching behind her brought her to a halt. She whirled around. Her heart picked up speed and rattled in her ears. The approaching bulk outlined by lamplight could only be one person. “Lord Wanstead,” she said.

  “May I drive you home in my gig, Mrs. Graham?”

  How had he extracted himself from Mrs. Dawson’s clutches so swiftly? And why? Her pulse stuttered, not in fear precisely, but definitely trepidation. “I wouldn’t dream of troubling you, my lord. Please don’t leave the party on my account.”

  “No trouble, Mrs. Graham. Come.” He took her elbow, a light guiding touch of fingers and palm, without significant pressure, yet commanding. The warmth from his hand seemed to infuse her skin, spreading from where he touched her arm all the way across her shoulders. To shake off his hand would seem churlish, so she turned in the direction of the stables and quickened her pace.

  His hand fell away as he matched her steps. The gig stood waiting in the courtyard with a groom at the horse’s head. He must have sent word to the stables before setting out on her trail. Clearly a man of strategy.

  If she had realized he would follow, she would have tried to avoid him. To refuse his escort in an open gig now would seem distrustful, especially for a woman alone at night. He assisted her into his vehicle, his hand firm in the hollow of her waist, his height and strength reinforced by the ease with which he helped her up, as if she weighed no more than the tiny Miss Dawson.

  She forced herself to ignore the attendant trickle of heat in her veins, the pleasurable shimmer of awareness accompanied by shortness of breath. Her nervousness was a perfectly reasonable reaction to a man who a few short days ago had glared at her in anger.

  She settled her skirts and straightened her spine, keeping close to her side of the seat. He leaped up beside her. “I hope you will forgive old Bob, here,” he said, setting the horse into a steady plod with a flick of his whip.

  “It might be faster to walk.”

  She felt him shift. Her stomach sank. Denbigh hated the swift banter she’d engaged in with her brothers.

  “It might be faster if I got between the traces,” he said, his voice amused, not tight or fierce or any of those other warning signs of temper. “But I don’t want to insult old Bob, even if he does look as if he’d prefer to ride. It is, after all, a fine evening for a leisurely drive.”

  “I appreciate your thoughtful offer,” she lied.

  “If not the means of carrying it out?” He gave a crack of a laugh. “Don’t answer that, Mrs. Graham, if you please. My sensibilities cannot stand another of your set-downs.”

  Was he teasing her? The trickle of heat turned into a river of fire. Her insides tightened and pulsed in a most alarming manner. She shut her eyes, seeking an inner source of calm, only to discover her mind churning like an ocean in a storm. Inhaling a quick breath, she caught the scent of his cologne, bay and the faintest hint of lemon and deeper tones of the man himself. She clutched the side of the carriage like a lifeline and tried to ignore the warm mountain of man at her side. “I would not dream of criticizing your conveyance, my lord, since I have none myself.”

  “Forgive my levity. A widow, living on an army pension with a young child, must not have an easy time of it.”

  His quiet murmur sounded sincere, caring. Her heart seemed to still. She squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment, gathering strength. The man was a menace, a wolf in bear’s clothing. “I manage. There are many worse off. Take the children infesting London’s streets, for example.”

  His head turned toward her, but she could not make out his expression in the dark. “We are back to that, are we?”

  She clenched her hands, caution advising her to subside into silence, to admit defeat the way she had with Denbigh, yet knowing she would not forgive herself if she did. “Why won’t you let the vicar hold the fête on your lands? Annie Dunning tells me that your grandfather always did so.”

  “Now you mention it, I recall something of the sort.” He sounded surprised. “I haven’t recalled it for years. My mother didn’t like the fuss and bother after my grandfather’s death. She wasn’t well, you understand,” he added quickly. “I do recall having a splendid time as a small lad, though.”

  “It would be a wonderful way to begin your tenure as earl. With your support, we are sure to get a good turnout. No doubt all the gentry in the county will also want to welcome you.”

  “Kind of you to think of my welfare, Mrs. Graham.” He heaved a sigh. “Before I know it, they will be parading their eligible daughters under my nose.”

  A smile forced its way to her lips at his gloomy tone. “A daunting prospect indeed.”

  “Terrifying. I’d sooner face Marshal Ney.” He chuckled, a warm deep sound in the dark.

  With studied nonchalance, she leaned against the seatback, ignoring a tingle of awareness that seemed to raise the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck. Awareness of him as a man. Of his heat dashing against her side in waves, of his interest in her as a female. She couldn’t remember a time when she felt quite so alive, or so much a woman. Sadly, her body lied.

  “Mrs. Graham, I must thank you for bringing the Drabets’ plight to my attention,” he said. “I also apologize for my rudeness.”

  His voice sounded hoarse, as if used to barking orders rather than delivering apologies.

  “I am grateful you were able to have the roof repaired so quickly,” she said.

  He sighed, a sound all but drowned in the beat of h
ooves and the creak of wheels. “It is but a temporary patch. Their cottage will need a new roof before the winter. The whole terrace needs extensive work, as you so rightly pointed out.”

  “An expensive proposition, but worthwhile, I should think?”

  “I don’t believe I knew a Lieutenant Graham,” he said so abruptly she jumped. “What regiment?”

  A typical male ploy, to go on the attack as a form of defense. Her brothers and Denbigh were masters of the art. “The Buffs.” At least that practiced lie came readily to her tongue.

  “A fine regiment,” he said. “They did a remarkable job at Oporto.”

  “So I understand.” She hesitated, not wanting to be too specific, though she had read the obituary in The Times. Lieutenant Thomas Graham, age 25, late of the Buffs, killed in a minor skirmish at Avientes. The family home was inherited by a distant relative, her man of business had discovered. “It was shortly after that . . .”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. “I should not have brought up so painful a subject. I wondered if I might have met your husband. I did not. I am sorry for your loss.”

  Guilt wracked her at the lies piled upon lies. The breeze tugging at the wisps of hair around her face seemed suddenly chill. “I prefer not to discuss my husband.” Her voice sounded colder than she had intended, almost bitter. She pressed her lips together.

  Another awkward silence ensued while he apparently digested her words. He must think her a veritable harpy. She let go a breath. “I apologize for my sharpness. It is a difficult subject for me.”

  “No, indeed. Forgive the intrusion.”

  She relaxed her hands, unclenched her jaw. He would not question her any more about her husband. He was too much of a gentleman to pursue an unwelcome topic.

  The dark outline of Brackley Woods took shape, and off to the right a lamp twinkled a greeting. The Briars came into view, a square, comfortably solid shape among the shadows of the forest, a haven from probing questions. The gig halted at the gate in the low privet hedge. “Here you are, Mrs. Graham.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She gathered her skirts and alighted before he had a chance to leap down to assist.