The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

  She must have thought his anger directed at her because she reached for the child the moment they arrived at a fork in the path, one leading to the village, the other to the Grange. “We really should not impose on you further.”

  Now he’d frightened her off. Damned good thing, too.

  “You will be quite safe from here,” he replied, pleased to note he sounded suitably distant, once more in command. He lifted the child down and placed her in her mother’s outstretched arms.

  She set the child on her feet. “Say thank you, Sophia.”

  “No,” the little girl shouted. “Horsy.” She stamped her foot.

  Mrs. Graham colored. “As you can see, she is fast becoming spoiled.” She bent to face the child at eye level, affording Hugo a view of her delicate nape caressed by fine tendrils of light brown hair. He wanted free access to that tender perfection. He fought a sudden feral urge to possess.

  “Sophia,” Mrs. Graham said, “no tears. If you are naughty, his lordship won’t let you ride his horse again.”

  The little girl looked up at her mother, then at Hugo. She stuck a finger in her mouth.

  Hugo nodded.

  “Say goodbye and thank you,” her mother commanded.

  “Sank you,” she said around the pink finger. “Bye bye.” She waved her other hand.

  Mrs. Graham raised her chin and fixed her direct gaze on him in a most fetching way. “Thank you for your indulgence. I really must hurry; it would never do to keep the denizens of Blendon waiting.”

  “The pleasure was all mine.” Not nearly as much pleasure as he wanted.

  A smile teased the corner of her mouth in a way he had not seen before, as if she guessed the direction of his thoughts and did not object, and that miniscule softening kindled heat in places he shouldn’t be aware of in her presence.

  “Give my regards to Reverend Postlethwaite,” he said. “He has my deepest sympathy. At least in regards to the other denizens.”

  Laughter lightened her expression for the briefest of moments, and her dark blue eyes danced with points of light, like the reflection of stars in the sky at dusk. “I’ll be sure to pass on your condolences.”

  Pride in his ability to make this reserved woman laugh held him enthralled. “Remind him of my invitation to drop by.”

  She nodded gravely. “I certainly will. I suppose you wouldn’t reconsider the idea of holding the fête on the lawn at the Grange?”

  Trapped. A brilliant maneuver. And one that deserved to be acknowledged. “I will give it serious consideration. I would, however, require a favor in return.”

  She recoiled a step.

  So, she was not unaware of the attraction humming between them. He masked his delight behind a neutral expression. “My cook’s household accounts are in a dreadful condition, utterly confused. Postlethwaite bragged you were good at that sort of thing. I wondered if you might assist Mrs. Hobb in sorting them out?”

  She blinked and angled her face away, staring off into the distance almost as if . . . as if disappointed at the innocence of his request. He smiled wryly to himself for wishful thinking.

  “Are you saying, my lord, that in exchange for assisting with your accounts, you will consent to hold the fête on your property?”

  Dear God, persistent and not very trusting. “Yes. A foolish idea. Forget I mentioned it.”

  A triumphant expression crossed her face. “It is too late to go back on your word, my lord. When shall I meet with your housekeeper?”

  When indeed. The glint of excitement in her gaze made him want to laugh like a fool. Instead, he looked away, recalled the miserable state of his affairs, and wished he’d never strolled down this particular path. “I would need positive results before I made a final commitment. Are you agreeable?”

  Could he be more unreasonable, more discouraging? He thought not.

  She nodded. A half smile curved her full bottom lip, and her soft round cheeks blushed a delicate shade of rose and tantalized his very being. It was as if a veil had dropped away from some lush eastern beauty, and yet it was only the briefest of smiles replaced instantly by a questioning frown. “Would Wednesday be soon enough?”

  “As good as any other day, Mrs. Graham.” He executed the sharp bow of a crusty old soldier.

  “Then I bid you good afternoon, my lord.”

  Dismissed, like a junior officer. Hugo had to admire her style. The woman would put Wellington to shame. He swung up onto Grif, careful to show no sign of pain, and watched her saunter along the path with Sophia’s hand in hers. Her hem swished with each motion of those exquisitely rounded hips beneath the straight fall of her gown.

  The ache in his groin joined the dull throb of his thigh, fueling a flare of anger. What had he been thinking? Hadn’t he learned anything at all? Women of gentle birth must be kept at a distance. After what he’d done to his wife, he wasn’t fit to touch a decent woman.

  What was so fascinating about this one? Was it her magnificent body or her no-nonsense air or the glimpses of passionate depths that crumbled his vows? Did the knowledge she, too, had suffered a loss so deep she could not speak of it bring her closer in spirit? Or was it her air of secrecy? If he stripped bare her cloak of mystery, would she lose her uncanny allure?

  He wanted to bare everything.

  The image had him as hard as a rock.

  Devil take it.

  Chapter Six

  In the smaller of the two bedrooms at the Briars, Lucinda bent over the sleeping Sophia and pressed her lips to a delicate blue-veined temple. Eyelashes feathered on the child’s delicate cheeks, and a tiny bubble moistened the rosebud lips. So tender, so precious, and so terribly vulnerable.

  After so many years of praying for a child, to have had this little angel placed in her arms seemed like a gift from the gods. One false move and she might be ripped away. The visit of the Bow Street Runner showed just how delicate a thread held her world together.

  After a final twitch of the bedclothes, she picked up the candle and hurried downstairs to the kitchen. Beneath the rack of shining pots, a scarlet-cheeked Annie looked up from rolling out pastry. She raised a brow.

  “She’s asleep,” Lucinda said. Marmalade, the orange ball of fluff who’d arrived, all skin and bone, at their door one morning, clawed his way up her skirt. She freed him from the fabric and rubbed her cheek against his soft furry face. “She shouldn’t wake for an hour or so. I will surely be back by then.” She deposited the kitten back in his basket by the hearth. “I really shouldn’t impose on you like this. You have enough to do.”

  “Ho hum, Mrs. Graham. Your little lass is no trouble at all. I’ll get this pie cooking, and when she wakes, she can help me make some jam tarts with the leftover dough. I’m right glad to have found this work, ’til my Sam gets his first wages.”

  “He has found work, then?”

  “Not yet, more’s the pity. The vicar’s been sayin’ there might be work at the Grange now his lordship is working the land again, but there’s no sign of it.”

  The other woman’s worried expression pulled at Lucinda’s heart. If only she could offer hope, but unless there were more horses on the earl’s estate and more farm implements in need of repair, there wasn’t enough work at the local smithy to support an extra man with a growing family. Annie was right: there was little sign of improvement at the Grange. All Lord Wanstead seemed to do was ride around on his stallion or hide out in his study. He was no better than Denbigh, who spent all his time gambling.

  “Sam is a good man. I’m sure he will find something before the child is born,” she said.

  Annie spread her fingers over her swollen stomach. “I hope so.”

  The gesture twisted what felt like a sharp blade in between Lucinda’s ribs. She would never know the joy of carrying a child in her body. She’d tried every remedy known to woman. The red hartshorn suggested by her mother hadn’t worked, nor had inhaling the fumes from catmint as advised by her doctor. She had wanted to try an electric bed, som
ething that one Harley Street doctor had advertised, but when she had suggested it to Denbigh, he’d taken it as an insult to his manhood.

  Why pine for something that could never happen when she had Sophia and she had her freedom, both impossible dreams only a few short months ago.

  “I’ve lived in Blendon all my life,” Annie said. “I hates the thought of leaving. And I’ll miss your little one when I goes.”

  “Oh, Annie, we will miss you, too.”

  Dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron, Annie sniffed. “Isn’t it time you left? His lordship will be wondering where you are.”

  Truth to tell, and despite the increasing patter beneath her breastbone, Lucinda was looking forward to the afternoon immensely. The chance to glean detailed information about her brother’s regiment in Spain beckoned seductively. And the chance to spend time with him, a little voice whispered. A voice she detested.

  She retrieved her coat and hat from the coat stand beside the back door. The sound of a vehicle outside gave her pause.

  “Who’s that, then?” Annie asked.

  Lucinda ran from the kitchen to the parlor and drew the curtain aside. “Why, it is Albert with the gig.”

  “Well now, there’s what I call considerate,” Annie said, lumbering into the room. “His lordship must be very keen on that there invention.”

  “Inventory,” Lucinda said, her knees feeling wobbly. Was Wanstead worried she would fail to keep her appointment? The flutters she’d been denying ever since lunch seemed to have turned into a bevy of grasshoppers jumping around in her stomach.

  She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and saw the truth, a plain and plump pretend-to-be widow grateful for a crumb of attention from a handsome soldier. Her stomach headed for the floor. Whatever the reason for the warmth in his gaze, it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with the poor shape of his accounts. There must be another way to convince him to host the fête without the torture of looking at something as tempting as fresh cream cakes and knowing she couldn’t taste. Why, it was worse than Denbigh’s diet of dry crackers and vinegar. Unfortunately nothing had occurred to her so far, and if she failed to appear, he would no doubt simply disappear back into his lair and be glad of the excuse.

  Never had she seen a man so desperate for company. Loneliness lurked amid the wintry bleakness of the front he presented to the world. He tried to hide it with bluster and gruff questions, but she wasn’t fooled. She knew too much about desperation.

  Oh, yes. The fête would not only be good for the villagers, it would be good for him, too. Her feelings about him did not matter one whit. Indeed, she must not have feelings. This was not about her. It was about helping the people of the village. She took a deep breath and headed for the front door.

  “Don’t you worry about the little one,” Annie said.

  Lucinda wasn’t worried about Sophia, not one little bit. It was her own peace of mind that seemed to be in danger.

  • • •

  Inside the Grange’s hall, the ancient Jevens took her pelisse. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Graham. His lordship is in the library.”

  Lord Wanstead stuck his head out of a door. “Ah, there you are at last.”

  Her pulse gave a strange little hop as if the grasshoppers had found their way into her veins. She clasped her hands at her waist, holding down a nervousness she had not felt since she emerged from the schoolroom to attend her first ball.

  “Ask Mrs. Hobb to join us, please, Jevens,” Lord Wanstead said. “And bring tea for Mrs. Graham.”

  “At once, my lord.”

  Lord Wanstead gestured for her to enter.

  As Lucinda passed by him into the library, she inhaled the enticing aroma of bay and warm male. She forced herself to focus on her surroundings. Leather-bound books lined two walls from ceiling to floor. Lucky man. The only reading material in her London townhouse had been The Gentleman’s Magazine and La Belle Assemblée.

  “Please, be seated.” He indicated one of the overstuffed chairs by the unlit fire. Chairs large enough for his big frame. Comfortable for her, too. She imagined him sitting here of an evening, cigar in hand, reading a book or a newspaper. Or playing chess. A game was in progress on a fine mahogany board in front of the hearth. Black seemed to be on the run. She shook her head at the offered seat. “I would sooner get straight to work, your lordship. I have to be back when Sophia awakes from her nap.”

  His firm lips pressed together, whether in annoyance at her blunt speaking or disappointment she could not be sure, indifference replaced it so quickly, but once again a sense of his loneliness swept over her. Anyone would be lonely living in a house that echoed with the lack of human presence. She repressed a shiver and pointed to the table by the window containing writing implements and a ledger. “Is that where I am to work?”

  “Yes, indeed. Please sit down. Mrs. Hobb will be along momentarily.”

  She took her place at the table.

  A moment later, Jevens marched in with a silver tea tray. Behind him tiptoed an elderly woman with crisp gray curls, gaunt, wrinkled cheeks, and a tin box under her arm.

  “Set the tray on the table,” Lord Wanstead ordered. “Mrs. Hobb, sit down. Listen to Mrs. Graham. She is here to help.”

  With Wanstead looking like a surly bear and issuing commands in parade-ground voice, was it any wonder the poor woman seemed scared out of her wits?

  Lucinda gave her a welcoming smile. “Yes, do sit down, Mrs. Hobb. I assume those are the receipts in that box? You can set them between us.” Jevens set the tea tray at her elbow. It contained three cups and saucers in addition to a fine silver tea service. She glanced over at his lordship. “Would you like some tea, Lord Wanstead?”

  “No, thank you.” He sat on the white side of the chessboard. “I am sure I can leave everything in your capable hands.”

  She blinked. It had been a long time since anyone described her as capable, not since she used to help her father with his business affairs. A warm glow spread out from the center of her chest, rose up her neck, and heated her face. Good lord. He’d made her blush. Again. A slight smile kicked up one corner of his straight stern mouth, deepening her heat.

  Swiftly, she turned her attention back to pouring the tea. Mrs. Hobb’s hands were trembling so hard that Lucinda was not surprised when the elderly lady made no attempt to pick up her cup.

  Opening the card-covered ledger at the spot where a red ribbon marked the last entries, Lucinda barely repressed a cry of dismay.

  Beside her, Mrs. Hobb gave a little moan. “It’s a terrible mess, ma’am.”

  “Do you think you can make head or tail of it, Mrs. Graham?” Wanstead asked.

  She turned in her seat and met his hard piercing gaze over the rim of a glass full of brandy. He tossed the whole thing off in one swallow. She tried not to wince. “It will be fine if we take it one step at a time.” She flipped through the earlier pages until she found columns of neat figures and readable entries. “See. This looks like a good place to start.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Hobb cried. “That’s from a year ago. It is going to take hours to put it straight.”

  “Take as much time as you need, Mrs. Graham,” his lordship said. “I will be eternally in your debt.”

  She might be here for all eternity. “I doubt we can complete all the work in one afternoon. We will see how far we get and then decide what is to be done next.”

  • • •

  In no time at all, Lucinda had a page of her own entries written, debits and credits reconciled to receipts. The clock in the hall struck three. An hour had passed already? Lucinda straightened her back, aware of a knot between her shoulder blades. Mrs. Hobb looked ready to drop. “I think that will be enough for today,” Lucinda said.

  “Yes, Mrs. Graham. Thank you.” Mrs. Hobb popped up to her feet. She made a grab for the tray and whisked out of the door.

  “My word,” Lucinda muttered. “I had no idea she was so spry.” She stacked the receipts they�
�d matched against the entries in the ledger into a pile.

  A soft deep chuckle behind her made her jump. Her heart pounded wildly against her ribs. Dash it. She’d forgotten all about him. He’d come up behind her without her noticing and now leaned over her shoulder, warm and large and very male. “How bad is it?”

  She struggled to get her breathing under control and turned to the page where she had started to enter everything over again. “Quite bad,” she admitted. “You see some items have been paid for twice and others not at all, or at least not so far . . .”

  He bent his dark head closer, the better to follow her pointing finger.

  Much too close. She nudged the book in his direction. He didn’t take the hint. His shoulder all but brushed against hers, his breath stirring the air at her cheek. From the corner of her eye, she observed the unyielding angles of his face, the large manly nose and fierce jutting brow, combining to create stark, unrefined male beauty on a magnificent scale. Yet beneath his aura of cool self-sufficiency, which gave the impression of a man in control of himself and his world, there permeated a strong sense of sadness.

  It was none of her business. “There are so many mistakes that I wonder you do not find yourself under the hatches, quite honestly.”

  “Mr. Brown has managed to hold the creditors off, I gather.”

  She closed the ledger and frowned. “You don’t think he . . .”

  “That he has been cheating me? No. My father played deep. He kept his steward in ignorance of his state of affairs by handing cash to Mrs. Hobb to pay the most pressing bills while he drained the estate of every penny.”

  She swung around in her seat and stared into his shadowed gaze.

  He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Don’t ask me why. And things are not in such bad case they cannot be put to rights. But I do need to know who is owed what. I would very much appreciate it if you would keep what I have told you in confidence.”

  Trust. It sparked to life a place she thought Denbigh had killed, the eager part of her spirit thirsting for approval and respect. She managed a shaky smile. “Yes, of course.”