The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

  “When will I see you again?”

  “After the fête. When all of the fuss has died down.”

  He gazed at the ceiling as if seeking strength from on high. “A week?”

  She opened her mouth to suggest they not meet at all. He must have guessed her intent, for he touched his finger to her sensitive lips. “Your wish is my command.”

  In that moment, she realized he would never accept anything but yes as an answer. If her final decision was no, she would have no choice but to leave Blendon and never see him again. The prospect left her entirely too empty, her heart ripped in two.

  • • •

  The sun kissed the Dingly Dell with gold. Good God. Hugo hadn’t recalled his childhood name for this spot in years. All across the emerald sward, sweating farm laborers in shirtsleeves heaved on guy ropes, striped awnings on tent poles snapped in the breeze, and pennants fluttered. In two hours the Blendon village fête would be under way.

  The happy, excited faces of the men and women who lived on his estate surrounded him. Lucinda was right. People needed a bit of fun to brighten their hard and ofttimes dreary existence.

  Thinking of Lucinda, he spotted her statuesque figure towering over the grim-faced Mrs. Peddle among a group of ladies at the archery target. In her somber gray gown with its starched white collar, she looked drab, dowdy, nothing like the passionate woman he knew resided beneath the cool reserve. He wanted to see her in jewel tones and silk, showing off that wonderful body, to see roses in her hair as well as her cheeks. He wanted to show her off.

  A slight lowering of her lashes each time his gaze rested on her signaled her awareness of his regard. A secret message of desire and longing. It pleased him enormously.

  After their last meeting, he’d arrived at a conclusion. It was time to bring the full force of the Wanstead charm onto the battlefield. If it had won his father the most sought-after beauty after the Gunning sisters, there was no reason why it would not win him the elusive Mrs. Graham.

  This time her defensive line would not stand against his powers of persuasion. He’d storm her battlements one by one until she raised a white flag. Swinging his walking cane, he strolled to join her and the vicar and the other ladies of the committee.

  “Not there,” Mrs. Trip called out. “Can’t you see that the sun will be right in the contestants’ eyes?”

  The bovine-looking lad moved the target three feet to the right.

  Lucinda shook her head. “It can’t go there. If they miss, the arrows might hit the children on the merry-go-round.”

  “Mrs. Graham is right,” Hugo said.

  All four ladies turned to stare.

  Lucinda shot him one of those what-on-earth-are-you-doing-here looks females seemed to practice from birth, but then she remembered they were in company and sketched a curtsey. Damn, he hated the formality of it all. He’d much rather pull her close and kiss her generous mouth until she melted.

  “Good day, ladies,” he said.

  “Good day, my lord,” they chirped back at him.

  “Why not put the target over there in the corner? Out of the way of everybody,” he said.

  “I thought it should be front and center to draw a much better crowd, my lord,” Mrs. Trip said.

  “Closer to the beer garden is best,” Mrs. Peddle stated. “Good for trade.”

  “I agree with his lordship,” Miss Crotchet said, then turned bright red.

  “So do I.” Lucinda suddenly looked a whole lot less frazzled. “There will be more room for people to gather and watch, and the sun will be behind the contestants.”

  Mrs. Trip pressed her lips together. “Well, if you think so, Mrs. Graham, then that’s what we’ll do.” She raised her voice. “Fred. Pick that up and bring it along. We’re taking it over there.”

  The long-suffering Fred wrestled the tar-dowsed target into his brawny arms and followed in Mrs. Trip’s authoritative wake, wisps of straw scattering on the grass behind his every step.

  “If he is not careful, there will be nothing left of that target,” Lucinda observed.

  Hugo smothered a laugh. “I am sure that will be the last time he has to move it.” He touched her shoulder lightly. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Miss Crotchet stared at them, her eyes popping open. “Oh, please do excuse me. I must see about the tables for the baking. Squire Dawson’s men are sure to set them up in the full sun unless someone is there to put them straight.”

  “Aye,” said Mrs. Peddle, her narrowed eyes fixed on the other side of the glade. “And if I don’t keep an eye out for Peddle, he’ll be giving away free samples to them as is helping.”

  Lucinda’s eyes twinkled. “That would never do.”

  “I will treat all the helpers to one pint of ale, Mrs. Peddle,” Hugo said. “Send the bill to Mr. Brown.”

  Mrs. Peddle’s face lightened. “That’s right gentlemanly of you, my lord. Right gentlemanly, indeed. Excuse me while I go and tell that fool Peddle.”

  “Of course.” Hugo gave her a nod.

  Lucinda watched her stomp off and then turned her adorable face up to Hugo. A frown creased the space between her eyebrows. He found himself wanting to kiss it away.

  “Did you do that on purpose?” she asked.

  “Do what?” he said, avoiding her gaze by knocking the head off a daisy with the tip of his cane.

  “Get rid of them.”

  “Mrs. Graham, what can you mean?”

  “I thought you were going to help set up the rope pull and grease the pig.”

  “Ah. Well, when I told Trent about the plans, he volunteered to lend a hand. I need your opinion on another matter.”

  She glanced around.

  The vicar, assisting Miss Dawson to tether her pony to the fence, caught Lucinda’s eye and waved. Far too familiar, the Reverend Postlethwaite, Hugo decided.

  “I think the vicar needs my help,” Lucinda said.

  “You can help him in a moment.”

  “I really can’t think what else is needed. Everything we planned is in place and ready.”

  “There is something no one thought of.”

  She must have caught something in his voice, because she stopped looking around and stared at him. Yes. Now he had her full attention.

  “What is it?”

  “Come with me and you will see.”

  He wanted to take her hand. No. He wanted to put his arm around her shoulders and stake his claim in front of the world. Instead, he satisfied himself with a brief guiding touch on the small of her back. “This way.”

  He gestured to the marquee set up at right angles to the Peddles’ stand.

  Her frown deepened. “The trestles are all set up for supper.”

  “Yes.” He lifted the flap and bowed. “Step inside and you will see what you missed.”

  The cool smell of canvas and crushed grass filled the cavernous space. Filtered light leaked through the canvas walls. As he’d instructed Brown yesterday, at one end of the tent the grass had been covered in sheets of wood nailed together in front of a raised dais.

  Lucinda strolled to the center of the board floor and stared at the music stands and chairs on the platform. She twirled around, her face alight. “I do not believe it.”

  He tried to look innocent and failed miserably. His mouth insisted on grinning. “What do you not believe?”

  “It is for dancing.”

  “After supper. The squire will have his ball, and the villagers shall have theirs.”

  She flew back to his side. “It will be the highlight of the evening. They will be so happy. Thank you.” She leaned forward.

  She aimed the kiss at his cheek, but he fielded it with his lips and caught her close.

  For a moment, they clung together, her hands on his shoulders, his at her waist, like an old married couple, instantly in tune.

  She pulled away. “Oh, goodness.” She smoothed her gown, touched her hair, and glanced over her shoulder. “We really shouldn’t. Some
one might see.”

  And that was her last bastion. He had a plan for that, too.

  “The musicians will arrive at suppertime.”

  A throat cleared outside the tent.

  Lucinda retreated a step and stared at the wooden boards as if inspecting their joints.

  Trent entered, a knowing smirk on his face.

  Hugo wanted to smash the smirk into smithereens. “Yes.”

  “The squire is looking for you, my lord.”

  The tension leached from his shoulders. He should have known that Trent would watch his back. “Is he, indeed?”

  “Yes, my lord. He was over by the stalls a moment ago, but he is headed this way.”

  “Thank you, Trent.” He turned to Lucinda with a rueful smile. He couldn’t remember smiles coming so easily. “So, Mrs. Graham, I assume this meets with your approval?”

  Her lips were rosy and her cheeks flying flags of color. She looked delicious. Like a woman well kissed. A deep satisfaction settled in the pit of his stomach. Oh, yes. He had a very nice plan for later.

  “I think it is excellent, my lord,” she said.

  The twinkle in Trent’s eyes said he didn’t buy the inspection one little bit. He grinned and ducked out of the tent.

  “Shall we, Mrs. Graham?” Hugo held back the tent flap.

  “Yes, my lord.” She dipped beneath his arm and out into the sunshine.

  Blinded by the glare, Hugo blinked. Ahead of him, Lucinda seemed to turn to stone. Then Hugo saw reason for her consternation. Not only was the squire bearing down on them, but the whole Dawson family was tramping across the grass in their direction.

  “By thunder, Wanstead,” the squire roared. “This is like old times.”

  “Really, Henry,” his wife said. “There is no need to shout. Wanstead isn’t deaf.”

  Behind his parents, Arthur stuck out his tongue, while the diminutive Catherine smiled serenely.

  “And there,” Lucinda said, pointing in the opposite direction, “is Annie with Sophia. I really need to speak to her. Please excuse me, my lord.”

  He couldn’t actually say no, dammit.

  As Hugo made his bows and shook hands with the squire, he was aware of Arthur’s gaze following Lucinda’s stately progress across the field.

  “Who is she?” Arthur asked when Hugo squeezed his hand.

  “Who?” Hugo asked, the back of his neck bristling.

  “The woman you had tucked away in the tent.”

  “We were inspecting the tent,” Hugo said. “That is Mrs. Graham.”

  “She is a treasure. She has done most of the organizing,” Catherine said.

  Arthur glanced over to where Lucinda chatted with her housekeeper. “Have I met her somewhere before?” He frowned and shook his head. “Striking woman, and a snug armful for a man of your size.” He cast a sly look at Hugo.

  Hugo wanted to hit him. But what he really wanted was to drag Lucinda back into the cool dark of the tent and keep her hidden, like a dragon protecting his treasure. He kept his fists firmly at his side, but God help him, his strategy for tonight had to work or he’d find himself demented and baying at the moon.

  “Never mind that.” Mrs. Dawson waved her sunshade to encompass the whole of the field. “Hugo, will it all be ready in time? I have guests from London expecting to spend a few hours here this afternoon before the ball.”

  “Mama,” Catherine said, “it is quite obvious everything is in order. Is it not, Hugo?”

  Dragging his gaze from Lucinda, Hugo glanced down into her vivacious expression. Good for Catherine. Standing up to her mother at last. “Yes. I am quite sure everything will be fine.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lucinda picked up Sophia and perched her on her hip. She placed a hand on her damp forehead. “My word, child, you do feel hot.” She wiped away the beads of perspiration with her handkerchief. It came away grubby. Darn it. It was one of the handkerchiefs she’d intended to keep for best.

  Annie shook her head and smiled. “She’s a mite overexcited, I’m afraid. We thought we’d come and take you home for lunch. You’ve been here for hours, and you hardly touched your breakfast.”

  Lucinda gave her a grateful look. “You are right.” She brushed the damp tendrils from Sophia’s temple.

  Annie rested a hand on her belly. “She can’t understand why I won’t let her ride the horses.” She nodded toward the makeshift paddock created by Trent and Albert.

  “Horse mad,” Lucinda said. “Annie, your father did none of us any favors by putting her up on old Bob.” Sophia would never have access to a horse the way Lucinda had as a child, unless she did a whole lot better with her investments. They were doing outstandingly well, according to the last letter she’d received from her man in the City, but not well enough for expensive luxuries. Or unless she accepted Hugo’s offer. The magic of his touch would be a whole lot easier to resist if she just had herself to consider. Denying Sophia her heart’s desire seemed dreadfully hard-hearted.

  The knowing expression on Mr. Dawson’s face moments ago flashed into her mind. Life for Sophia would become far harder if he recognized Lucinda. But since he had not and he’d seen her several times, both here and in the village, perhaps he never would. A little flower of hope unfurled deep inside her. Perhaps she really had secured a second chance at happiness.

  She set Sophia on her feet and took her hand. “Let us go for lunch. There is nothing more I can do. This afternoon is all yours, little one. Won’t that be grand?”

  • • •

  A long line of folk waited to pay to get into the fête. Lined up with Annie, who had donned her Sunday-best bonnet and had her two little boys rigged out in new skeleton suits, Lucinda stood tall with the pride of accomplishment. Without a doubt, this year’s fête would go down in the annals of Blendon’s history as a resounding success. The money collected today would go a long way to help with the church roof, and there might well be enough to pay for a teacher one or two days a week. The day had also brought a spirit of community to the village, people caring for their neighbors, including Hugo.

  “Bless me,” Annie said, handing three pennies to the smiling verger. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people all at one time.”

  The field seethed with gaily dressed country folk and a smattering of townspeople from nearby Maidstone. The cries of the strolling hawkers competed with those at the booths for attention. Was it really only a few months ago that she had been afraid to step out of her townhouse, reduced to an ungainly freak by her husband’s sneers?

  They strolled between the rows of booths lined up down the center of the field.

  “The vicar’s flyers certainly seem to have done the trick,” Lucinda said, grasping Sophia’s tiny hand more firmly. She did not want to lose the little girl in the crowd. She glanced down at Annie’s twin boys. They had drawn closer to their mother’s skirts, their eyes huge in their three-year-old faces. Good little lads. It would be a shame if their family had to go north to get work.

  Sophia, the naughty little minx, tugged on her hand. “Horsy,” she said.

  “Don’t you want to try the lucky dip?” Lucinda asked, pointing to the bran tub where a little girl with beribboned brown ringlets dove elbow deep in wood shavings fishing for her surprise. Behind her, a line of excited children waited their turn. They were good prizes, too, supplied by Miss Dawson.

  The open-mouthed twins pulled Annie in the direction of a juggler.

  “Horsy,” Sophia said, her bottom lip pushing out.

  “In a minute, sweetheart. Watch how the man catches the pretty balls. Isn’t he clever?”

  While Sophia regarded the juggler with a distinctly unimpressed expression, Lucinda scanned the crowds. No one she recognized at the paddock or at the ale tent. Then she saw him. Hugo. Large and solid and a full head above those around him. How handsome he looked, and cheerful, entirely different from the sullen man who’d arrived a few short weeks ago with shadows in his eyes and an unsmiling m
outh. Had she put that warmth in his gaze? It hardly seemed possible, and yet something deep inside her knew it was true.

  The crowd divided, leaving a clear path between them. She willed him to turn, to look across the space and see her. But it was Miss Dawson who held his attention. She laughed up at something he must have said, and he bent his head to hear her words. Then the break in the crowd closed, leaving Lucinda with a desperate urge to march across the trampled grass, hook her arm in his, and declare him out of bounds. Like lightning, a thought flashed in her mind. She didn’t have the right.

  She was a runaway wife. She must stay in the shadows, at best a mistress. A burning sensation crept up behind her eyes. Not tears. Not when she had every reason to feel thankful. She would not allow self-pity. Not now. Not ever. She sniffed. She rummaged in her reticule, found her handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes before grasping Sophia’s hand and turning away.

  “Mummy angry?” Sophia asked.

  Lucinda loosened her grip. “I’m sorry, darling. Of course I’m not angry. Come, let us join Annie and the twins.” She ushered the little girl to the front of the crowd around the juggler.

  Staring, but barely seeing more than a blur of colored balls, Lucinda bit her lip. What on earth was wrong with her? She had wanted him to rejoin his world, to take an interest in his estate and his neighbors, instead of playing chess alone. She should be happy, not feeling as if she had lost half a crown and found a penny. A nobleman had duties to fulfill, important responsibilities, and one of those included marrying and siring an heir to continue his name. The knowledge had been instilled in her from birth. She must not become an impediment to his duty.

  “Mummy,” Sophia said, jumping up and down as the crowd clapped their approval and the juggler passed his hat for pennies. “Horsy. Now, please.”

  Here Lucinda was mooning over something she could not have like a spoiled child, when she had a cherished daughter who wanted her attention.

  “Are you coming, Annie?” Lucinda asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Annie said. “I can’t wait to see what these lads make of sitting on a horse.” If anything, the tousle-haired twins drew closer to their mother. “Cowards,” Annie said with a grin.