He frowned. “Common sense.”
Kindness, even if he wouldn’t admit it. The more she got to know him, the more she realized the gruff exterior hid a gentle soul. “If we are going to look at the grounds and be back in time for the meeting, we must make haste.”
The teasing glance that had so unnerved her on Wednesday rested once more on her face. “Allow me to assist you.”
While she guessed his intent, she didn’t quite believe he could lift her so high until she took flight with his hands around her waist. It felt wonderfully feminine. As she let her hands rest on those broad, broad shoulders and felt the sinew and muscle ripple beneath her fingers, she momentarily forgot the past, the mistakes, the pain. She smiled down at him.
He winked, and she felt herself blush like a schoolgirl.
As he set her on the box, a grimace of pain tightened his lips. She followed his progress around the carriage with narrowed eyes. He definitely hadn’t been drinking. She would have smelled the spirits on his breath. Even so, an odd jerkiness interrupted the flow of his natural athletic grace. A well-disguised limp? One that had worsened since his arrival? He was proud enough to hide the effects of his wound.
He climbed up beside her and took up the reins.
“Does your injury still bother you?” she asked.
A startled expression crossed his face. He busied himself turning the carriage in the lane and urging the horses out at a smart clip. He made the whole exercise look effortless. Having watched Geoffrey learn to handle the ribbons and having once tried her own hand at it, she could only admire his skill.
The carriage turned onto the road bounded by the Grange wall on one side and a hedgerow on the other and headed toward Blendon. As they bowled along, she fought to ignore his strongly muscled thigh alongside hers, his broad shoulders taking up too much room, and the lemony scent of his soap that scrambled the thoughts in her brain and turned her insides to warm porridge.
“Does it bother you?” she asked again, for something to say as a distraction from those unruly sensations. “Your wound?”
He shrugged. “It gives me a bit of trouble on wet days,” he said. “And when I’ve been sitting too long.”
And no doubt gave him a twinge when he lifted someone the size of a pony, even if he was too polite to say so. Was the wound the reason he staggered occasionally? Not the brandy? “Should you seek the advice of a doctor?”
“A rather personal question, Mrs. Graham.” The chill was back in his gaze.
She clutched her reticule tighter. “It is altogether too personal to show up at a single woman’s house and take her gallivanting around the countryside in what I’ve heard young men in London call a lady-killer. However, here we are.”
“Do you know much about what young men in London say?”
There it was again, the careful probing. Once more he had her on the defensive, and in order to avoid her question to boot.
“Even those in the north have heard tales of the great metropolis.” Her brothers had talked of little else as they chased their manhood.
“Really. From whom?”
“My husband.”
He stared straight ahead, lips pressed together in a thin straight line.
Reminding him of her widowed state served like check and mate, apparently. She tucked that knowledge away and leaned back against the well-sprung seat, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face and inhaling air scented by new-mown hay and sweet clover. The light breeze stirred the profusion of Queen Anne’s lace growing along the verge. Blackbirds and sparrows serenaded from the hedgerows.
He turned off the main road and entered what appeared to be a cart track. The brambles reached out to scrape the paintwork on each side of the carriage while an arch of beech filtered golden rays onto the shady track.
“How pretty,” she said. “Where does it lead?”
“You’ll see.”
Back to the gruff answers. Better that than probing questions. “No doubt. And yet I would like to have some idea of where I am headed.”
“Why?”
“You said it wasn’t far from the village, and yet we seem to have turned in the other direction.”
“Suspicious and bossy,” he muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said not only are you suspicious, you also like to rule the roost.” He sent her a sidelong glance as if to test her reaction, but the twinkle in his eyes took the sting from his words.
The horses halted at a dead end bounded by trees on three sides before she could think of a suitable retort. Somewhere in the distance she heard the sound of running water.
“This is as far as we can go in the carriage,” he said. “The rest of the way will be on foot.”
She grabbed on to his last words the way Sophia reached for a biscuit. “I am sure the ground is far too damp for walking.”
“Nonsense.” He sounded altogether too smug, and she glared at him as he helped her down. Although he didn’t hold her longer than was needed to set her on her feet, on his release the heat from his hands lingered on flesh that once crawled at the feel of a man’s hand, yet now seemed to regret the loss. A shockingly pleasurable sensation and one she must not notice.
He fished around under the seat, producing a hamper and what looked like a rolled-up tent.
She frowned. “What is this, sir?”
“I would hate for you to miss your lunch.”
He cast her an innocent look. Having grown up with four brothers, it didn’t fool her one little bit. For all her attempts at distance, he was clearly as aware of her reactions to him as she was herself and had decided to push her to the limit.
She repressed the urge to laugh at his bold maneuver. “The ground is far too damp for eating out of doors.”
He waved the bundle in his other hand. “Groundsheet and blanket.” Those wicked green sparkles were dancing in his eyes again. He was so sure he’d won. “A trick I learned in Spain. Sleeping on bare ground leaves one stiff and sore by morning.”
She shuddered. “I can imagine.”
He laughed. “Most of the time we billeted with the townsfolk.”
“Yes, my b—Tom wrote to me about how bad those billets were, especially if the French used them first.”
He did not seem to notice her slip of the tongue. “Wrote to you, did he? Then you know a good deal more about it than most people in England. They seem to think it is all a glorious adventure.”
“I have no such illusions.”
A breath of disgust hissed through his teeth. “Damn my runaway tongue.”
He looked so contrite, almost miserable, that she couldn’t help but nod.
He held out his hand. “Would you care to take my arm?” The return to formality chilled her, as if the sun had disappeared behind one of the lazy clouds drifting across the blue sky. While her mind told her to welcome it, a tiny ache squeezed her chest. This had to stop. No matter how much she might wish for things to be different, she had nothing to offer this man, or any other.
“I can manage, thank you.” She followed his broad back over verge and stile and along a path skirting a copse of hazel and birch.
The trees ended at an open space which in her younger and fanciful days she might have labeled magical. Bounded on one side by a babbling brook and shielded from the lane by the stand of trees, an expanse of emerald grass spread before them like a carpet. A small wooden bridge with a basket-weave handrail led across the stream to a Romanesque-looking summerhouse.
“Oh, yes,” she said, circling. “This is perfect. We could set up the booths there against the trees. Over there we could have games—you know, three-legged race, egg and spoon, that sort of thing for the children.”
Hearing his sharp intake of breath and a curse, she turned to look at him and was shocked by the pain in his expression.
“I’m sorry. Here I am babbling on, and your leg is hurting you. You should have let me carry some of that stuff.”
“Stuff?” He
looked blank for a moment and then placed the hamper and the bundle on the ground. He wiped a hand across his eyes as if to clear his vision. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
He must have wrenched his leg again. Since he seemed disinclined to discuss his distress, she could only ignore it. “I was simply waxing poetical about the beauty of this spot and deciding where we ought to set up the various booths and events.”
“Peddle can set up over there,” he said, his face assuming its normal stern lines. “Lots of shade and far enough from the water that no one will fall in.”
“We would need an awning,” she said, “in the event of rain. We wouldn’t want water in the ale.”
The strain around his mouth disappeared. “No, indeed.” He looked at the river speculatively. “And if it is hot, perhaps some of the young’uns might want to bathe.” His eyes widened and he shook his head. “No. Probably not a good idea.”
He was thinking about what they would wear, she just knew it. She wanted to laugh. The sound sat in her chest like a bubble waiting to burst. She refused to set it free. “I agree. But what we might do is have a rope pull from bank to bank. How about the Grange against the Hall.”
“I suppose so,” he said, looking dubious. “I doubt if Jevens or old Albert would be up to it, but Trent and Brown might, and perhaps Drabet now he’s working in the stable.”
So that’s how he’d solved the problems of the little family at Mile Lane. She put her head on one side and pretended to measure him with her gaze. “A man of your size would probably make a whole team by yourself.”
“Hey,” he said with a short laugh. “No mocking folks who didn’t have the sense to stop growing.”
“But you are right,” she went on, “Mr. Brown and Trent would make a good team.”
Lucinda strolled around the perimeter, pointing out the suitability of this spot and that. Lord Wanstead seemed content to wander by her side. He bent over and plucked a stem of grass, placed it between his thumbs, and blew. It made a loud and rather rude noise.
“Not exactly music,” she said.
He did it again, longer and louder, and then to the rhythm of reveille, his cheeks puffing out in the most ridiculous way.
The giggle she had repressed burst free and once she started laughing, she couldn’t stop. She pressed her hands over her ears. “No more. If you don’t cease this instant, I will . . .”
He dropped his hands and looked at her hopefully, rather like an overgrown puppy. “Eat lunch?”
As if joining the plot, her stomach gave a little gurgle. She clutched a hand to her waist. “Lunch it is.”
“Thank God,” he said fervently. “I was not looking forward to Mrs. Hobb’s face if I returned to the house with nothing eaten.”
Lucinda sobered. Would everyone in the village know about this picnic?
“We’ll eat under the oak tree. The grass seems a little less damp,” Lord Wanstead said. He glanced back over his shoulder. “That is, unless you prefer another spot?”
“The tree is fine,” she said.
He spread the canvas and blanket, set the hamper in one corner, and gestured with a sweep of his hand. “Please, be seated.”
Lucinda knelt at one edge. Picnicking in the woods with a bachelor could cause a scandal of the worst sort in such a small village, and yet as a widow, her reputation wouldn’t suffer like that of an unmarried miss. If only she were really a widow.
He dropped down beside her and opened the lid of the basket. “What do we have here, I wonder?” He poked around. “Wine. Bread and cheese and cold roast beef. A couple of pasties. Some pickles. And, yes, apples and raisins.”
The hamper seemed bottomless. Mrs. Hobb wasn’t much with accounting, but as a cook she excelled. “She must have thought you were getting up a party, not feeding two people.”
“Water,” he said, picking out a jug and setting it beside her. He lifted a bottle. “Wine?”
“Water for me, please.”
He opened the flagon. She dug out two sturdy pewter goblets and handed them over. He filled one and passed it back. It hovered inches from her chest, the bowl almost disappearing in his fist.
She reached for the stem.
Their fingers grazed. Bare skin instead of cotton gloves. A sensation like hot sparks skittered up her arm. She gasped, snatching her hand back as he let go.
The goblet dropped. He caught it before it landed, diamond-bright droplets flying. Dark blotches spread on the blanket between them.
Shadows swirled in the depths of his eyes. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
Clumsy idiot, Denbigh’s scornful tones echoed in her ears. She steeled herself for Lord Wanstead’s anger.
“Damnation.”
She flinched.
He snatched up a napkin and dabbed at the damp spot. “Are you . . . Can I . . .”
He leaned forward, the white square of linen aimed at her lap, where pearly beads of moisture were sinking into the gray wool fabric.
“Oh,” she said, heat and cold shooting through her at the thought of him mopping her up. “No, really. It is quite all right.” She whisked the napkin from his hand and brushed the drops away.
He retrieved the goblet. “I really must apologize for being so awkward. Let me see if I can make a better job of it.”
The earl might not have her dandy husband’s exquisite address or his elegant wardrobe or incomparable good looks, but he had a warrior’s courage to accept responsibility for his deeds. A flame-like warmth danced in the pit of her stomach.
“There,” he said and held out the glass.
“Thank you.” She smiled.
For a moment he stared at the wine and then seemed to think better of it. He filled the other goblet with water.
“Let me pass you a roll and some beef,” Lucinda said, putting them on a plate and handing it to him.
“Thank you. I should have brought a tray.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He took a huge bite out of his roll, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. “A tray. A flat surface for the glasses. Then it wouldn’t have spilled.”
“No harm done, my lord. It was only water.”
His gaze dropped to the basket. “You are right. It could have been red wine.” He looked as if he wished it were red wine.
She bit into a meat pie. The golden crust melted in her mouth, the meat and potatoes spicy and with just the right amount of gravy to make the whole thing deliciously moist. She closed her eyes. “Mmmm.”
“That good, eh?”
Oh, God. He would think her disgustingly greedy. Most young ladies picked at their food. In the Armitage household, appreciation for a good meal had been demanded. She returned the pasty to her plate and raised her gaze to his face. “Excellent.”
He didn’t look revolted or nauseous. Quite the opposite. “They are good, aren’t they?” He sounded pleased. “I asked Mrs. Hobb to make them specially. May I have one?”
She passed one over, and he popped the whole thing in his mouth, nodding as he chewed. “Oh, yes. Just as I remembered. The best pasties in England.”
She opened her mouth to remark on those made by her mother’s cook but stopped herself just in time. Instead, she took another bite of pasty. “They are very good indeed.”
“Try the sliced ham. Home-cured.”
Shaved into the thinnest of slices, the ham did indeed look delicious. She spread pale yellow butter on the white crusty bread and added two slices of ham. She peeked into the basket. He leaned forward. “What do you want? Mustard or horseradish?”
“Oh, my,” she said. “You thought of everything. Horseradish, please.”
He handed her an earthenware jar. “Here you go.” He helped himself to ham.
They ate to the sounds of the brook splashing over rocks, birdsong, and rustling leaves. He devoured the food as if it might be his last meal, while it was all she could do to swallow, her heart felt so strangely full.
He picked up his glass and downed the wat
er in two gulps. As his throat muscles convulsed above the snow-white linen, she could not help but notice the powerful neck, the shoulders a lion would envy, and the breadth of his chest in his skintight coat.
Her stomach rolled, long and slow, giving the sensation of falling from a great height. She forced herself to look at the scenery, the stand of birch, the glimpse of water beyond the green bank, yet even when he did not fill her vision, she was acutely aware of his nearness.
No, her mind warned. To encourage him was wrong. She was living a lie. She snatched up her goblet and held it between them like a shield, sipping the water to cool her fevered blood.
“Tell me, Mrs. Graham, did you have a happy childhood with picnics and such?” The deep voice sounded wistful.
Memories flooded into her mind. Picnics on the lawn at Armitage house had never been quiet affairs. There were always too many children. Nine to be exact. And most of them younger. Mother had always sat in the middle of the circle and made sure everyone ate every crumb until the children felt so full, they thought they might burst. Lucinda didn’t mind the quiet, but she did miss her parents and her sisters and brothers. Leaving her country home, where everyone was loved, no matter what their size or shape, had been a huge mistake. She realized it now, too late, but at least she had found her own little corner of England.
“Blissfully happy,” she said.
His eyes widened. “Blissful?”
She gazed across the clearing to avoid that piercing gaze. Had she said too much? Shown too much of her longing? And yet denying her family was one betrayal she could not endure. “Yes. Blissfully happy.” She gathered up the remaining bread rolls and put them in the basket.
“I envy you, then.”
She swung around to face him full on, suspecting sarcasm. “You?”
“It seems ridiculous, doesn’t it?” He sighed.
“Were you not happy as a child?”
“I wasn’t unhappy, I suppose.” He frowned, the bottle of wine paused above the basket. “There were some good times. I think my father and I were a little too much alike.” He jammed the bottle into the hamper.
“Oh. That’s just like . . .” She almost said Jonathon’s name, “my brother,” she finished. “But Mother kept the peace.”
The Lady Flees Her Lord Page 12