The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

  “Are you like your mother?”

  “Do you mean good at keeping the peace?” She recalled Denbigh and her too frequent hot words. “No.” Her shoulders tightened at the memory. She searched for a new topic, anything not to talk about her past. “What made you decide to join the army?”

  A slight wince crossed his features. “It’s a long story. What about your husband? Did he like army life? How could he bear to leave you?”

  Back to her again. She tried to ignore the way his gaze searched her face or the curl of dark silky hair on his collar, and concentrated on her answer. “A soldier must go where he is ordered, my lord.”

  “Did he know about the child before he left?”

  “No. She came as a complete surprise.” She smiled. “But a very welcome one.”

  “I can only wonder at your courage, raising a child alone.” His voice deepened to a seductive murmur that zinged through her veins and vibrated deep in her chest. Warmth spread through her limbs, like the tendrils of a fast-growing vine in spring, unfurling in hot little bursts.

  “I do my best.” The tremble in her voice further destroyed her composure.

  “I’m surprised you don’t return to the bosom of your blissful family.”

  Her mouth dried. She swallowed. “Things have changed.”

  “Was it an easy birth?” he asked.

  Startled, she stared at him.

  “Your child. Did you have a difficult time?”

  Good Lord, what else would he ask? How to answer? “While it really isn’t a suitable topic of conversation, I can say that Sophia’s arrival was unexpectedly swift.”

  “You are fortunate indeed.” He leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes, relaxed, less intimidating, perhaps even vulnerable. Shadows and sunlight chased across his face with the sway of the branches above. The lines on his brow and bracketing his mouth eased. What caused the grim visage he presented to the world? The pain of his wound? In repose, he had the look of a man who had endured suffering too great for the human spirit to survive.

  The urge to smooth away his frown, to kiss those unsmiling lips, filled her with longing. He was not for her. Another woman would have the joy of bringing him happiness. If he ever let anyone through that gruff barricade. She traced his strong features with her gaze: his mobile mouth, the noble nose that fit his face perfectly, the intelligent brow. If she had met him before she met Denbigh . . . would life have taken a different course? Would she have seen this man’s solid worth against Denbigh’s glitter of dross?

  Would he have paid her any attention with all the slender, elegant women in London? Honesty won out over dreams. No, he would not unless he also needed to marry a fortune.

  He must have felt her staring, because he opened his eyes. Green fire danced in the gaze clashing with hers. Darkness warred with flickering heat, and fire won out. A faint smile curved his mouth, making him look younger and less careworn. He rolled toward her, propping himself on one elbow, his hard warrior’s body inches from her thigh and hip.

  Conscious of her mouth’s sudden dryness, she licked her lips. Her heartbeat quickened. Warmth trickled through her veins from her head to her toes in slow languid heat. The air around her seemed to crackle. Life tingled through her body, as if she had awakened from a long sleep to find every muscle, every nerve humming.

  Eyelids lowered, his gaze dropped to her lips. He leaned closer.

  Move away, Lucinda.

  His breath grazed her ear. A shiver ran down her spine. The delicious tremor stirred her heart and sent flutters of sweet ache pulsing in her core. A small cry sounded deep in her throat.

  His dark head dipped and his lips grazed hers, warm, velvet soft, enticing.

  The pounding of her heart, the sound of her shallow breathing filled with the scent of lemon and bay, drew her into his orbit. Every inch of her skin seemed to burn with a fire her instincts told her only he could quench. Her breasts tightened with the desire to press against his hard wall of chest. Her hands, at first braced against his shoulders, slipped around his neck, her fingers sliding through the silk of his hair.

  Never had she felt such melting in her bones.

  A warm hand cradled her nape, his mouth moving against hers, his tongue teasing, encouraging. She parted her lips. As his tongue entered her mouth, desire flared out of control. She turned into him and arched against him, gasping for breath, her heart fluttering wildly. She drank of his sweetness. His strength surrounded her like the walls of a castle. The thunder of his heart echoed her own and joined with it, until they seemed to beat as a single organ, one note, one cadence, one song. Softening the kiss, he stroked her cheek and then ran the hand down her throat and across her shoulder blades. Her very soul rejoiced.

  The warm pressure of his hand moving in circles on her back mimicked the gentle strokes of his tongue, drowning her will and her conscious thought. The heel of his hand kneaded her ribs, his thumb grazing the underside of her breast.

  She froze. A bucket of ice water could not have chilled her blood so fast.

  He drew back, his gaze searching her face, at first puzzled and then hardening to bleak.

  For once, words, her only defense, failed her. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the firestorm of desire battling the fear of pain. In the strength of her want, she had all but forgotten her inadequacy. She swallowed and dropped her gaze to the blanket, to the remains of their feast. With swift jerky movements, she stacked the plates and placed the glasses back in the basket. Anything not to have to look at him, not to see the scorn in his eyes, not to plumb the depths of her humiliation.

  • • •

  Hugo pushed himself up to a sitting position and placed his goblet in the basket. He’d set out to win her trust and lost control. How the hell had that happened after all he knew about himself? He tossed the ham in the basket.

  She’d looked so beautiful, her color high, her gaze mysterious, her lush breasts inches from his chest. The knowledge that beneath the full gray skirts lay mouthwatering soft, sweet flesh had driven him over the edge. Now she looked close to tears. Damn it to hell. Since when could he not control his baser urges? On campaigns, he’d gone months without even seeing a woman and hadn’t wanted to tup the first female across his path; now he was acting like a rutting beast. Men were animals, and he was worse, knowing the damage he could do.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said. “I should not have—”

  She cut him off with a wave of one dimpled hand. “It was a mistake. Let us forget all about it.”

  Uncomfortable warmth heated the back of his neck. He felt like a schoolboy dismissed for some prank. She had been a willing participant. At least, in the beginning. He’d got a bit carried away, but she had responded to his kisses with enthusiasm.

  For now, he would spare her blushes. Next time he would take things more slowly. Next time? The thought stirred his blood. There must not be a next time.

  He quelled the urge to smash his fist into the tree.

  He forced himself to his feet and helped her to hers. “What do you think?”

  She glanced around the field and nodded. “Yes, my lord, it will do very well.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sheltered from the blazing sun by a shady tree and seated with the other ladies on the organizing committee, Lucinda watched Lord Wanstead march across the patch of vicarage lawn. No sign of hesitation marred his stride today. She tried her best not to notice the way his blue coat hugged his brawny shoulders or the way his pantaloons stretched over his muscular thighs. After dreading and dreaming of their next meeting by turns, she perched on a chair whose cushion seemed to contain a frightened hedgehog, while her stomach engaged in what felt like somersaults.

  With a beaming smile on his narrow face, the Reverend Postlethwaite surged to his feet. “Welcome, Lord Wanstead. You found time after all.”

  “Good day, Vicar.” Lord Wanstead clasped the other man’s outstretched hand, his jaw set with all the determination of a ma
n ordered to undertake an unpleasant but necessary duty.

  “Let me introduce you to the committee,” Postlethwaite said.

  Lord Wanstead nodded. “I should be delighted. Please, ladies, do not get up.”

  “You know Mrs. Graham, of course.”

  Lord Wanstead took her hand and bowed with crisp military formality. “Indeed. How are you today, Mrs. Graham?” Piercing beneath his dark brows, his forest-green gaze raked her face.

  She controlled the urge to flutter her lashes and grin like an idiot. “Very well, thank you, my lord.”

  The vicar moved around the circle. “This is Mrs. Peddle.” The gaunt innkeeper’s wife ducked her head.

  “And Miss Crotchet.” The plump seamstress bridled like a schoolgirl, her bright-flowered cotton gown at odds with the tributary of wrinkles on her powdered cheeks.

  “I am well acquainted with Mrs. Trip,” Lord Wanstead said with a small bow to the miller’s spouse.

  How kindly he greeted these people who were not quite of his world. Gruff he might be, but not too high in the instep to treat these worthy ladies with respect. A whole new sensation filled Lucinda’s chest, warm and large. Pride?

  “Wonderful.” The vicar rubbed his hands together. “We just need the Dawson ladies to arrive and we will be complete. Please, my lord, take a seat.”

  It didn’t exactly surprise Lucinda when Lord Wanstead took the vacant chair at her side. His glance had returned to her more than once during the introductions in what looked like a plea for help.

  Since the other ladies seated in the semicircle had the glazed look of chickens faced with a fox, she assumed none of them had noticed anything untoward in his behavior.

  “We were just going over where we are with our plans,” the vicar said. “Mrs. Peddle tells us that the brewer will deliver the casks of beer two days ahead.”

  Mrs. Peddle pursed her tight lips and nodded.

  “Mrs. Trip, how are plans for the baked goods?” the vicar asked.

  “Ah,” said that doughty lady. “My William has promised ten bags of flour. And Mr. Bell has ordered sufficient currants and sugar for ten dozen Eccles cakes and ten of pies. Eccles cakes sell for a penny a piece. Pies for a tuppence. He’ll split the profit fifty-fifty.”

  “I say,” the vicar said. “That is generous. That will go a long way to help with the church roof.”

  “Another leaking roof?” Lord Wanstead said.

  The three village ladies stared at him as if an oracle had spoken.

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Crotchet said. “The hangings in the vestry are quite ruined. Lord Wanstead . . . The other Lord Wanstead, I mean your father . . .” She turned bright red, and her voice trailed off.

  “What Miss Crotchet is trying to say,” the vicar interposed kindly, “is that your father and St. Mary’s last incumbent were at odds. The late earl withdrew his support of the project at a crucial moment and so it is in rather worse shape now than it might have been.”

  Lord Wanstead frowned. “I am sorry to hear it.”

  The ladies stared at him expectantly, as if they thought he would offer to pay for it out of his pocket. “That is our purpose for holding the fête,” Lucinda said.

  The vicar nodded. “May I say how much we appreciate your permission to use the water meadow, Lord Wanstead?”

  The earl visibly relaxed. “Mrs. Graham reminded me that my grandfather used to hold a similar event there years ago.”

  Every eye turned toward her. How generous of him to give her credit. The warmth of his gaze resting on her face gave her a funny tingling feeling across her breasts. It sent a flood of warmth to her face. Not again. After the embarrassment of the picnic, how could she respond to a simple glance with such wanton heat? She lifted her chin. “Thank you, my lord.”

  The vicar turned his angelic beam in her direction. “And how are plans for the children’s games coming along, Mrs. Graham?”

  “Very well indeed, Vicar,” she managed to reply with a semblance of calm, despite Lord Wanstead’s steady scrutiny. “I sent word to the man in Maidstone about the merry-go-round, and he agreed on the date.”

  The sound of a woman’s laugh floated out of the whitewashed thatched house. Those with their backs to the mansion swiveled in their chairs as two fashionably attired ladies stepped through the French doors into the garden. The diminutive Miss Dawson in primrose muslin, her fair complexion carefully shaded by a white silk parasol, floated across the lawn accompanied by her mother, who was wearing a green- and red-striped walking gown and a haughty expression.

  Once more the vicar leaped to his feet. This time he rushed across the lawn to greet the newcomers. “Mrs. Dawson, Miss Dawson,” he called out. “Here you are at last.”

  Miss Dawson picked up her pace. “I’m sorry. Are we late?”

  Lord Wanstead came to his feet with what Lucida could only describe as an expression of genuine affection. “Miss Dawson. Well met.”

  Miss Dawson must be the reason he’d attended the meeting today. Lucinda’s heart grew heavy. Her ploy to bring him out of his shell had resulted in the desired effect. Something sharper than a hedgehog quill seemed to work its way between her ribs. Envy? Unlikely. She’d no reason to envy any young woman.

  Miss Dawson, her dark eyes twinkling, cast him a gentle smile. “Wanstead, I must say I did not expect to find you here.”

  Gripping her green parasol with one hand and the reverend’s arm with the other, Mrs. Dawson arrived, puffing and blowing at the final burst of speed.

  Lord Wanstead bowed in her direction. “Mrs. Dawson, good afternoon.”

  “Wanstead,” Mrs. Dawson said with a narrow look, first at Lucinda and then at him. “A bit out of your element, are you not?”

  Lucinda glared at her. At any moment, he’d feel unwelcome and return to his cave.

  “Mother,” Miss Dawson exclaimed. Laughter lit her expressive face and eyes. The beauty of her elfin face deepened the insidious pain around Lucinda’s heart, when the sight of Wanstead’s answering smile, the curve of his lips, and the crinkle around his eyes should have cheered her. How could she be so selfish?

  Postlethwaite looked from Lord Wanstead to Miss Dawson. His animation seemed to dwindle. “Perhaps we can get back to our business? Please, ladies, take a seat.”

  The vicar’s housekeeper arrived with a tea tray and set it on a small wicker table.

  “Mrs. Dawson, I hope you will do us the honor of pouring?” the vicar said as the servant left.

  “Certainly.” Mrs. Dawson bestowed her agreement like a knighthood.

  While she poured, the vicar caught the newcomers up with what had gone before. “In addition to the children’s games, I’m told by Mrs. Peddle that some of the men would like to have feats of strength. We will need prizes.”

  “And a greased pig,” Mrs. Trip said.

  Mrs. Peddle wagged a work-worn finger. “That’s all Lord Wanstead needs on his land. A bunch of drunken louts chasing a greasy pig all over the place.”

  “What about a greasy pole?” Lord Wanstead asked.

  “Too much grease, if you ask me,” Miss Crotchet said and giggled.

  “Then what about a rope pull instead?” Lord Wanstead sent a swift glance Lucinda’s way. “Across the river.”

  “That might cool them louts off a bit if it’s a hot day,” Mrs. Peddle admitted with a grudging upward tilt to her hard mouth.

  “Archery,” Mrs. Trip said.

  “You would think of that,” Miss Crotchet said. “Your son is a whiz with a bow. I’d like to see a baking contest for the ladies.”

  “And a prize for the best preserves,” Mrs. Dawson threw in, no doubt thinking of her own cook’s strengths.

  Now that they had a decently sized location, ideas flew like shuttlecocks around the circle. The vicar wrote them down on a sheet of paper, and Lord Wanstead, while mostly silent, nodded his general approval with a hint of a smile on his straight lips.

  Lips that had kissed her so pleasurably. Lucinda dar
en’t even look at them. Every time she thought about that kiss, her stomach gave a little hop.

  Dash it. She must stop thinking about the picnic. While seeking his help with the fête had been a good idea, it now left her with the task of sorting out Mrs. Hobb’s accounts. Not that the accounts were a problem. Rather, it was the thought of running into him every time she called that had her in a tizzy. Fortunately, he had been absent from home when she had returned on Friday as promised, called out to one of his tenants to discuss business. She’d been grateful for that absence, yet stupidly disappointed. After having lain awake half the night worrying what she would do if he tried to kiss her again and tormented by her body’s protest when she was sure he would not, it had all seemed rather deflating.

  “What about pony rides for the children,” Miss Dawson said, smiling at Lord Wanstead over the rim of her cup and bringing Lucinda’s thoughts back to the here and now.

  Lord Wanstead balanced his cup on his knee. Miraculously, it stayed there. He turned to Lucinda. “Mrs. Graham is organizing the children’s games. What do you think, Mrs. Graham?”

  “I think that would be fine,” she murmured.

  Miss Dawson swiveled in her chair to look at her full on with a tiny frown on her alabaster forehead. “You know, Mrs. Graham, every time we meet, I have the strangest feeling I know you from somewhere else. Did we meet in London, perhaps?”

  Lucinda’s stomach pitched. They had never met, but Miss Dawson might have seen Jonathon in town. Everyone said they looked remarkably alike. Darn it, now Lord Wanstead had his ear cocked for her reply. She shook her head. “If we had, I would recall, I am sure. I spent very little time in London before my marriage.” And no time in polite company, once Denbigh had made his disgust obvious.

  “Nasty horrible place,” Mrs. Peddle muttered. “I went there once. Couldn’t breathe for the smoke. Couldn’t hardly see a hand in front of my face, neither.”

  “I would love to go to London.” Miss Crochet breathed, her smile achingly wistful. “Think of the culture. Why, my cousin often sees the King or a member of the royal family go by in their carriages.”