The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

  “Uh-oh,” Lucinda said. “Another trick for her to try.” She set the plate back on the table and returned to her seat.

  “She has nice manners for such a small child,” Lord Wanstead said. “Quite charming.” He smiled.

  How she loved these rare glimpses of his gentler side. She smiled back, her heart full of something so soft and achy she wanted to hug him. “I try not to crush her spirit by asking for more than she can understand.”

  “You are doing a fine job, Mrs. Graham. Now, tell me why you abandoned the village fête—and me—to the denizens of Blendon.”

  The hint of steel in his voice demanded an answer and struck a small chord of guilt. “I didn’t abandon the fête. I passed all my information to the vicar after church on Sunday. Miss Dawson had so much enthusiasm for the project that I thought it would be better in her care.”

  He frowned. “Or I might be better in her care?”

  Heat rushed to her face and then drained away at the implication that she had a right to his care. “That would be presumptuous of me, my lord.”

  “Not presumptuous, Mrs. Graham. Misguided.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There seems to be a general mistaken impression that I have some interest in Miss Dawson.”

  Lucinda got up and took Sophia’s cup and saucer. The little girl rested her cheek against his massive arm and blinked like a sleepy owl.

  “Sophia, would you like a nap?” Anything to get away from this topic of conversation.

  Sophia snuggled closer, the little traitor.

  “Let her rest,” Lord Wanstead said. “Well, Mrs. Graham, is that your understanding?”

  “My understanding is of no consequence.”

  “It is, if the next message I get is that after tomorrow you will no longer assist Mrs. Hobb with her accounts. Apparently you think she can manage the rest.”

  The heat in her cheeks flamed out of control. “I believe one more session is all that is required.”

  “Thus you satisfy the spirit of our agreement? I think not, Mrs. Graham.” The jolly giant who had played with Sophia had been replaced by the hard-eyed warrior. This was a man who knew what he wanted, rode forth, and took it. The thought sent a shiver down her spine. An oddly pleasurable sensation.

  She resisted it. “I agreed to straighten out your household accounts. I have done so.”

  “Then it seems I got the worst of the bargain.”

  “Why is that?

  He shrugged. “Your work is finished in two or three afternoons, something you must have known. Meanwhile, I am cursed with this fête nonsense for weeks. Hence, I came off worst.” A wicked look glinted from beneath slightly lowered lashes. “Unless you are willing to make up for your obvious perfidy by repeating our game of chess.”

  The manipulating rogue. An answering smile caught her by surprise. She tilted her head. “You asked Mrs. Hobb how much more time I required, did you not?”

  He had the grace to look a little guilty, despite his shrug.

  “You want me to play chess with you? Why?”

  “Because you are a damnably fine player.” Color rushed into his face. “I beg your pardon. I mean you play very well. Also because I enjoy your company.”

  The declaration resonated in her mind and her heart like the crescendo of a sonata. It stirred emotions she thought she’d successfully buried. “It would not be fitting. Ask the squire. Or the Reverend Postlethwaite. I am sure either one of them would be glad to oblige.”

  “We are adults, both previously married. Where is the harm?”

  Clearly he was talking about more than a game of chess. No matter how tempting, she could not let him charm her into doing something so outrageous. And besides, he completely misunderstood her situation. He thought she was a merry widow. Even if she weren’t married, she had nothing to offer such a virile man. “I’m sorry, my lord. I may have given you the wrong impression. I am not looking for male companionship. All I care about is providing a home for my daughter and living here in peace.”

  “If you wanted peace, why draw others into your grand schemes for improving the world?”

  “Is wanting to improve the lot of others so wrong?”

  “There you go again, answering a question with a question. You are hiding something, Mrs. Graham. When I asked Mr. Brown about you, he also avoided my questions. Is there perhaps something between you and my steward?”

  The accusation felt like an arrow to her heart. What kind of woman did he think her? “You are insulting, my lord. I think you should leave.”

  He glanced down at Sophia. “I thought I made a pretty good pillow.”

  “You are as comfortable as a bed full of rocks,” she shot back.

  He laughed. Actually threw back his head, and a laugh rumbled up from his chest.

  The sight and sound robbed her of anger, not to mention destroying the wall she’d been trying to build between them. In its place she found a desire to rest her head on his other shoulder and admit defeat.

  “Mrs. Graham, let us call it pax. You don’t like me making insinuations about you, any more than I appreciate you drawing incorrect conclusions about myself and Miss Dawson. We are childhood friends. Nothing more.”

  Friends whom rumor expected to marry. Everyone in the village, not to mention the county, assumed she was waiting for his return from the war. If so, it seemed she might be doomed to disappointment. Unless her mother managed to outflank her victim.

  “You wanted me to provide my land for this fête,” he continued. “I want you to take my place on the committee and to play chess with me one evening a week. Is that so very much to ask in exchange for my inconvenience?”

  She narrowed her eyes. Was this all about him wanting to crawl back inside his shell?

  The full mobile mouth curved in a smile. “Please, Mrs. Graham.”

  Her insides melted like a candle left too long in the sun. Right there at that word and that smile. The man had the charm of a Lothario when it suited him, and she lacked the power to resist. “Very well, I will continue to serve on the committee and assist Mrs. Hobb with her accounts. Afterward, if time allows, we will play chess.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God that is settled.”

  Sophia stirred and rolled over on her back, her head resting on his thigh.

  A large fingertip touched the end of a golden curl. “Perhaps she should go to bed.” He lifted the child as if she weighed less than a feather. Indeed, in his arms she looked no more than a fragile doll.

  Lucinda reached out to take her.

  He shook his head. “Where does she sleep?”

  “Upstairs, on the first floor.”

  In two strides he carried her out of the room. With the child cradled in one arm, he mounted the bottom step. A breath hissed through his teeth. His step faltered.

  Heart in her throat, she reached out. “Let me take her.”

  “I’ve got her. Don’t worry, I won’t drop her.” Beneath the impatient tone, she heard embarrassment.

  It would injure his pride to say more. More than his pride would be hurt, if he dropped Sophia on the stairs, but Lucinda trusted him not to harm his precious burden. Trust. The word tasted sweet. She gestured for him to go ahead and followed him up the stairs, squeezed around him in the doorway, and drew back the sheet.

  He laid Sophia down as if she was more precious than gold. Lucinda struggled with the images in her mind—the fierce soldier, the gentleman, the tender father, the lover . . . She forced the last thought away, but the flutter beneath her heart refused to subside.

  Bitterness soured her mood. Her body always lied. No matter what she thought she felt, she was incapable of satisfying a man. A fraud.

  While she pulled up the covers and tucked them close around Sophia’s tiny form, he glanced around at the meager furnishings, the lacy curtains at the window, the little wooden doll on the dressing table. “You are a good mother, Mrs. Graham.”

  Lucinda put her finger
s to her lips. “Let us go downstairs before we wake her.” Not that the child would wake. Sophia slept like an angel.

  He followed her down the stairs and then glanced back. “Those stairs creak. I’ll ask Brown to see if they need repairs and ask him to add a balustrade.”

  Lucinda had bemoaned the lack of a handrail every day since coming here. “I can’t afford to pay more for the house, so I would not bother if I were you. As is, I agreed with Mr. Brown.”

  His gaze swept the small parlor and his lips compressed. “I’ll speak to Brown about it in the morning.”

  “Really, my lord, it is not necessary.” She smiled. “Thank you for your help with Sophia. You will make a wonderful father one day.”

  His shoulders stiffened. “I don’t plan to have children. I don’t like them.” A dull flush stained his face. “I don’t mind them when they are like your little girl. It is babies I dislike.” He grimaced. “Squalling infants.”

  She shook her head at him, remembering Geoffrey’s reaction to their younger siblings. “You soon become accustomed, and they grow up far too quickly.”

  He stared down at her with a look of yearning on his face. The warmth emanating from his large body washed up against her like a warm current.

  They were standing far too close.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth, his huge chest rising and falling with each intake of breath. Her heartbeat quickened to match the rhythm. A tremble ran down her spine.

  “Sophia is fortunate,” he said softly.

  “She’s a darling,” she whispered around the constriction in her throat. She wanted to step back, to increase the tingling space between them, but found herself trapped by the intensity of his eyes.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder, and heat scorched her skin through her gown. “I know how hard you work to keep your family together, Mrs. Graham. You should not belittle your efforts.”

  With his lips but inches from hers, sensual, tempting and velvet soft, she tried to laugh but managed only a smile. A dark lock of hair fell forward on his broad forehead. She wanted to brush it back from his face, to smooth his brow, to press her lips to his cheek. Instead, she inhaled a ragged breath. “Sophia is my joy and that makes everything so much easier.”

  “You would sacrifice a great deal for someone you love.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know about sacrifices. I only know I need to take care of Sophia.”

  He leaned closer. His face filled her vision, the rugged chin, the aquiline nose, the emerald glitter in his eyes. His hand left her shoulder, leaving an instant of chill, until it cupped her jaw with blessed warmth.

  She inhaled shallow breaths, seeking air and the courage to refuse. The attraction between them was as undeniable as it was hopeless. She should stop him now, before he learned the disappointing truth.

  His breath, warm, scented with cookies and tea, fanned her lips. The light touch bestowed shimmers of sensual longing, a feeling unlike anything she’d ever known. She could not stop a shiver of pure pleasure. A symbol of her desire.

  He swooped down, slanting his mouth to brush hers, soft, warm, dry, and delicate as a whisper. It felt unbelievably right.

  Time had no meaning as the ocean of physical sensation rocked her gently, swooping her to unknown heights, crashing down around her like surf in what was no more than a second of contact. An excited pulse thrummed deep in her core, pulsing outward.

  Oh, God, what was she doing? She jumped back.

  He tipped his head in question.

  The answer trembled on her parted lips. She resisted the urge to touch them with her tongue. “This is wrong.”

  “You can’t deny the attraction.”

  Her face flamed in shame. He must have sensed her instant arousal to his touch. Yet it meant nothing, a false coin.

  “Let us call it a mistake, my lord.” From beneath lowered lashes, she looked for his temper to show. After all, she had behaved no better than a harlot, only to reject him.

  Clearly puzzled and definitely chilled, he offered a sharp bow. “Indeed, Mrs. Graham. I apologize for once more misreading the situation.”

  The growl in his voice and the hurt deep in his eyes made her feel cruel, heartless, and horribly alone. Life was just so confusing. All she had desired was a quiet life with Sophia until he came along with his intense eyes and tantalizing touches.

  By her own rash actions she had destroyed her peace.

  She stretched out a hand and then let it fall. “Please. No apology is necessary. The misunderstanding is my fault.” Now she was talking again when she should be silent.

  But it was her fault for marrying Denbigh and for not having the courage to see it through. Then again, if she hadn’t run from her marriage, she would never have met Lord Wanstead. Life seemed full of the strangest pitfalls, and somehow she managed to fall into all of them.

  “Let us not argue about who is at fault,” he murmured, his lips wry. “Suffice it to say, I will do my best not to impose on you again.”

  His voice contained the same harsh quality she’d heard the first day he spoke to her. Sadness burned in the back of her throat. She could do nothing to change her circumstances no matter how much she hated the lies.

  “Do we still have our bargain, Mrs. Graham?”

  Unable to follow his train of thought, she blinked.

  “You will return to the committee as the Grange’s representative? I have informed the vicar you will.”

  Impossible man. He had no idea how much it would pain her to see the beautiful Miss Dawson and know she would one day be his countess. Eventually, he would succumb. She’d seen it happen time and again on the marriage mart.

  But she had enjoyed her part in planning the fête. She had felt useful, needed, something she hadn’t experienced for a very long time. “Yes, we have a bargain,” she whispered, staring at the top button of his plain gray waistcoat.

  “Good.” He stuck out his hand.

  His grip was firm and warm as his hand enveloped hers. Then, in a courtly gesture, he brushed the back of her hand with his lips, warm and soft and infinitely gentle.

  Heat traveled up her arm to her face and pulsed through her blood in delightful waves. Her head spun as if she had spent too long on the merry-go-round.

  He raised his gaze to her face, his eyes hard, flat, and impenetrable. As with stained-glass windows, light shone through the greens and browns but gave no hint of what lay beyond. He pressed his other hand over the burning spot on her knuckles and squeezed lightly. Mine, the gesture said.

  Before she could snatch back her hand, he let it fall with the barest hint of a smile. A smile that turned her insides to blancmange.

  “Thank you,” he murmured.

  She managed a stiff nod. “Good day, my lord.” She gestured to the door.

  “Good day to you, Mrs. Graham. I look forward to our chess game on Wednesday.”

  Her mouth dropped open. He opened the door in one swift, smooth movement, stepped outside, and closed it behind him.

  Her body trembling hard, she remained where she was until she heard hoofbeats gallop out of earshot. With her knees weaker than Sophia’s tea, she sank onto the parlor sofa. The excitement buzzing in her veins terrified her. This must stop. Today. Then why did she feel so light, so joyous?

  Remember, her mind warned. Her response was no different than the foolish reactions of a starry-eyed girl in her first Season. To see the same disgust in Wanstead’s eyes that she had seen in her husband’s would be more than she could bear. She hugged her arms around her waist, feeling suddenly cold.

  She had never said a word about going there on Wednesday. How could he make such an assumption? Her body trembled, yearning and wanting.

  One game of chess. Where was the harm, provided she made it clear they could be no more than friends? And he had only agreed to host the fête because she had asked him. She hugged the thought like a warm blanket.

  Once the fête was over, she would end their bargain.
/>   • • •

  “Jevens said I would find you here, Mrs. Graham.”

  Lucinda’s breath hitched in her throat, and she swung around from the library shelf. “Lord Wanstead.” His coat of dark-blue superfine and his starched white linen set off his stern, rugged features to perfection. Her mouth seemed to fill with what felt like two centuries worth of dust. “I didn’t know you were home. Mr. Jevens said you wouldn’t mind if I selected a book from your exceedingly fine library.”

  He glanced around. “My grandfather collected most of it. Did you find something to your taste?”

  She held up the green leather-bound volume. “Macbeth.”

  “Ah, the bard. Of course. You said you liked his plays.”

  He’d remembered. “I hope you do not object?”

  “Please, help yourself whenever you wish. It is a pity for so much reading material to go to waste.”

  “You don’t read?”

  “I do.” He flashed her a wicked smile. “I prefer chess.”

  When she made no answer, he strode to the window and looked out across the sweep of tree-lined drive. “My ancestor built this part of the house in the sixteenth century.”

  A harmless enough topic. “It has been in your family all that time?”

  “Yes. Somehow we managed to survive Henry the Eighth and Cromwell.” He swung back to face her, a smile changing his face from serious soldier to boyish charmer.

  Blast her sudden shortness of breath. “Fortunate indeed.” Lucinda’s own ancestors had been loyal to the Stuarts and had lost everything until the Restoration. How she would love to share her own family’s history, her own pride in her forefathers. She twined her fingers together. “Was there a reason you sought me out, my lord? I have finished my meeting with Mrs. Hobb.”

  He cocked a brow. “I would rather like to ask your opinion on a matter of taste and good sense. You seem to be blessed with plenty of each.”

  “I, my lord?”

  “Yes. Come with me.” He strode for a door at the end opposite from where she had entered. His long legs had carried him halfway down the passage by the time she reached the hallway.

  She trotted to catch up. “Where are we going?”