The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

  “Mrs. Graham!” Lucinda swung around at the sound of her name.

  A hot-looking lad puffed up beside her, his red hair sticking out in corkscrews from beneath his cap. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Annie raised a brow.

  “Oh, dear. What is wrong, Tom Drabet?” Lucinda asked. “I thought you were helping Mr. Peddle.”

  “You’re wanted over at the butts,” he said. “Come on. It’s real bad.”

  Lucinda stared at him, her stomach sinking in a most unpleasant way. She did not want to go over there with Miss Dawson and her London friends. “The vicar is in charge of the archery contest.”

  “’Twere the vicar who sent me to find you. Please, Mrs. Graham, it’s important. You must come.” He dodged around a woman in a coal-scuttle bonnet and was off before Lucinda could question him further.

  “Mercy,” Annie said, staring after the boy with an open mouth. “What could possibly have gone wrong? Perhaps one of the ladies has fainted. You know how the vicar relies on your help with the sick.”

  Sophia tugged on her skirt.

  “Yes, darling,” Lucinda said. “In a moment.”

  “If it’s the vicar asking, you best go,” Annie urged.

  What excuse could she give for refusing? I don’t want the Dawsons’ friends to see me? That would certainly raise some unwanted questions. And having seen them all at church, she knew she had never met any of them in her previous life.

  “Go on,” Annie said. “Stop your dithering, lass. Someone could bleed to death afore you gets there.”

  “In that case, they need a doctor, not me,” Lucinda muttered. She handed Annie some coins. “Let Sophia ride all she wants. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t you worry,” Annie said. “Sophia’ll be fine with me and the boys.”

  Lucinda gazed at her daughter’s eager face. The child might be fine, but that wasn’t the point. Lucinda had promised to spend the afternoon with her, and here she was running off to do someone else’s bidding. She sighed and crouched beside her daughter, holding her impatient gaze with her own. “Mummy has to leave for a while. Will you stay with Annie?”

  The bright blue eyes staring back at her glistened with the beginning of tears. Lucinda winced. “Annie will take you for a pony ride,” she bribed.

  Sophia glanced up at the housekeeper, who nodded. The tears dried up with a blink, and Sophia put her tiny hand in Annie’s work-roughened one.

  “Little wretch,” Lucinda said with a laugh that caught in her throat.

  She picked up her skirts and hurried after the Drabet boy, determined to deal with the crisis as quickly as possible and get back to her child.

  On arrival at the end furthest from the target, she discovered two groups of people—the villagers and Miss Dawson’s youthful guests. Both clusters eyed each other with wary glances, but not a drop of blood was in sight. She frowned. The contest should have started more than half an hour before.

  Reverend Postlethwaite rushed up to meet her. “There you are.”

  “How can I help?”

  “We are a lady short,” the vicar blurted out.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Mrs. Trip waddled up to join them. “We ’ad it all set. An open contest. Then him, there”—she glared at the young Mr. Dawson—“says it should be them from London against the village, but we need an equal number of ladies and gents on each side. And our side is one lady short.” She put her hands on her hips. “And there ain’t no way out of it now our men lost their bout.” She glared at the chastened-looking men’s team. “We ladies ’ave got to win.”

  “Oh, dear,” Lucinda said, at a loss as to why they had called her. “I do not know anyone—”

  The vicar looked a little shocked. “Now, Mrs. Graham, surely you won’t let the Blendon team down. I know you can use a bow. You told me so yourself.”

  Another occasion when her unruly tongue had leaped ahead of her thoughts. “Oh, I couldn’t,” she said. “I am out of practice, and I was never any good.” It didn’t feel quite right lying to the vicar. In fact, it felt awful. A blush crept all the way to the top of her head.

  Mrs. Trip folded her arms across a generous bosom restrained within the confines of a sprigged cotton frock. “There ain’t no one else in the village. We’re done for.”

  “Mrs. Graham, please,” the vicar said with an encouraging smile. “It is not about winning. It is about entering into the spirit of the day.”

  Lucinda stared at him. He wasn’t going to let her off the hook. With a strangely warm but heart-rending pang, she realized that just as she had been trying to draw Hugo out of his shell, the vicar had tried to draw her into the community. If she failed them now, they might never fully accept her. God knew, she wanted to belong somewhere. Dare she stop fretting and looking over her shoulder and believe Denbigh was out of her life for good?

  At a glimpse of Hugo headed her way with steady strides, her heart leaped in welcome. She fixed her gaze on the vicar’s face.

  “Mrs. Graham?” the vicar said, his smile broadening. “You will do it for Blendon, won’t you?”

  The rest of the villagers stared at her hopefully.

  How could she simply ignore the people who had been so kind to her and Sophia? And anyway, with expert Mrs. Trip on their team, it wouldn’t matter if she lost the first round and had to sit out. She would attract far less attention than she was getting at this very moment. “Very well. I will do my best.”

  Mrs. Trip beamed. “I knew you wouldn’t let us down, Mrs. Graham.”

  “Now we’ll show them,” the Drabet boy crowed.

  A warm glow told Lucinda she had made the right choice.

  “Bravo,” Hugo said, arriving just in time to hear her agreement. The gleam of quiet approval in his eyes turned the glow to a blaze. It infused her from head to toe. Her heart picked up speed in response to his closeness. Sure that every eye must be turned in their direction, she lowered her gaze to his shining black Hessians. “Thank you, my lord.”

  He stiffened and half turned away. Her ploy had worked, but it left her feeling bereft and the glow faded to a memory.

  From beneath the brim of her bonnet, she watched him march back to rejoin Miss Dawson and her party with an ache in her chest. Setting up a mistress into his house might well ruin him socially, as well as her, isolating him from his peers. She would not allow it.

  “Listen, everyone,” vicar called out. “Same rules as for the men, but the mark will be closer.”

  “Don’t look so worried, Mrs. Graham,” Mrs. Trip said. “I been practicing at the butts with my boy. You and I can beat them delicate little things.” She nodded at the other team.

  “I certainly hope so, Almira Trip,” Miss Crotchet muttered.

  The ladies drew cards for opponents to the claps of the crowd gathered behind them. Lucinda kept her face fixed toward the target, facing away from burning curiosity and unable to shake the nonsensical feeling she had left the house in nothing but her shift. A too-tight shift.

  Mrs. Trip and the youngest of Miss Dawson’s friends went first. Miss Abbott had come prepared. She wore a forest green archery gown with a jaunty hat à la Robin Hood. Miss Crotchet drew Miss Dawson, who looked demure and modest in a simple white muslin trimmed with rosebuds.

  Lucinda’s opponent was clearly a diamond of the first water and no doubt this Season’s Incomparable judging from the way Mr. Dawson hung on her lips. A golden-haired beauty, she wore the latest Parisian wrapping dress of cambric tied beneath her bust by a blue figured ribbon. Her Wellington hat added inimitable style to a stunning ensemble.

  In the face of such elegance, Lucinda felt dowdy in her best gray cotton gown. Envy stirred in her breast. She quelled it. No matter what she wore, she would never have either woman’s style or elegant figure, but given the heat in Hugo’s glance when it rested on her face, for once she didn’t mind.

  The first contestants stepped up, and to Mrs. Trip’s evident chag
rin, Miss Abbott won handily.

  “Miss Abbott moves up the ladder,” the vicar announced and scribbled her name on the chalkboard.

  Next up were Miss Dawson and Miss Crotchet for the village. The seamstress looked exceedingly pale and fumbled with her bow as she moved to the line. “Oh, I should never have let you talk me into this, Almira Trip.”

  Mrs. Trip, obviously smarting from her loss, placed her hands on her hips. “You heard the Reverend, Liddy. It ain’t about winning, it’s about doin’ the village proud.”

  “Come on, old girl,” Mr. Dawson called to his sister.

  Despite her stiff posture, Miss Dawson made three creditable shots just off center. Although she grimaced and shook her head at her brother, she clearly was happy with her effort.

  Such a nice girl, Lucinda thought. The kind of woman Hugo really ought to marry. A painful realization, but nonetheless true.

  Miss Crotchet’s first arrow dropped at her feet. She looked mortified. “I told you I could never do it.” The vicar picked up the wayward flight and murmured some calming advice to the trembling Miss Crotchet.

  “We need this win,” Mrs. Trip muttered in Lucinda’s ear.

  Much to her credit, the nervous spinster lady, with much encouragement from the vicar, landed her final two arrows at the edge of the target.

  “Miss Dawson moves up the ladder,” the vicar announced.

  The beauty was next, and she handed her parasol of blue shot silk to the attentive Mr. Dawson.

  “If you can help Miss Crotchet, Reverend,” Mr. Dawson said with a lift of his fair brow, accompanying Lucinda’s opponent to the mark, “I can surely lend my aid to Miss Belle.”

  Miss Belle indeed, thought Lucinda dryly as the gorgeous young lady giggled shamelessly. As he pressed his cheek to hers to help her take aim, her shoulders shook with laughter.

  The naughty minx. Lucinda narrowed her eyes. Someone should take the young gentleman aside and remind him of his duty before a harmless flirtation got out of hand.

  “All set,” Arthur said.

  Miss Belle let fly. The arrow missed the center of the target by only a few inches. Lucinda raised a brow. Clearly the young lady had talent in more than one direction.

  “I say, bravo,” Arthur called out. A ripple of applause ran through the watching crowd.

  Miss Belle’s next two shots landed farther from the center of the target than her first, but close enough to present a challenge. She cast Lucinda a tiny glance of triumph. A challenge that fired Lucinda’s blood, no matter how she tried to ignore it.

  “Mrs. Graham,” Mrs. Trip said grimly. “Take my bow. It’s a beauty. Normally I wouldn’t lend it out. But we needs all the help we can get.”

  Horribly aware of every eye focused on her, Lucinda took the bow and stepped up to the line. Studiously avoiding anyone’s gaze, she lined up with the target. She tested the string of the bow. It gave sweetly but cut into her cotton glove.

  Miss Dawson must have noted her predicament because she rushed forward. “Take my leather glove.”

  Lucinda only had to glance at it to know it was far too small. “Thank you, but I am sure I shall manage perfectly well.”

  Miss Abbott stepped forward with a friendly smile. “We are closer in size. Use mine. I would not have it said that I took unfair advantage.”

  Such generosity, but Lucinda expected nothing less from Miss Dawson’s friend. The glove felt tight, but she could clench her fist. It would work.

  “Can I be of assistance?” Hugo murmured in her ear. He raised his voice. “It’s only fair that you should have the same help as your opponent and not from Mr. Dawson.” The possessive light in his eye indicated he’d murder the first man who offered.

  Whatever could he be thinking? Didn’t he realize how people gossiped? Or was he trying to force her hand? Whatever he had in mind, he was making her pulse beat too fast. Her breathing shortened to shallow gasps, and her knees felt more like pond water than bone and sinew. How on earth could she concentrate with him standing so close?

  “Stand with one shoulder forward,” Hugo said. “Take your time.” He, too, leaned close to check her aim. The scent of his cologne filled her nose and reminded her of sensual pleasure in his arms. Sparks seemed to jump between them, like the air before a thunderstorm, setting off a chain of reaction down her spine. If he touched her, she’d burst into flames.

  The rogue’s eyes twinkled as if he knew very well what was happening to her body. Fortunately, he stepped back before her knees gave way. “Good luck.” The gentle words steadied her as if his arms had gone around her in support.

  She took a deep breath, checked her aim, adjusted for the breeze cooling one cheek, and fired.

  To her surprise, instead of a creditable showing, the arrow hit dead center. The intervening years hadn’t dulled her skill as much as she’d expected. If she fired wide now, they might guess she was doing it on purpose, and after all, there was at least one more round in which to lose.

  She carefully fired the next two arrows close to the first.

  Hugo caught her eye as a burst of applause broke out. He shook his head, pride shining in his eyes, and suddenly she stood taller. Being large sometimes had unexpected advantages.

  “Well done,” Mrs. Trip said on her return.

  “Oh, my dear, you were brilliant, simply brilliant,” cooed Miss Crotchet. “I had no idea you were so good.”

  “Beginner’s luck,” Lucinda said, trying to hide her pride. After all, she could still fall flat on her face when she competed in the next round.

  The vicar decided that as the only remaining member of the village team, Lucinda would compete against the winner of the contest between Miss Abbott and Miss Dawson.

  Miss Abbott easily beat Miss Dawson, who accepted her brother’s teasing with equanimity and a wave of her hand.

  The final round was between Lucinda and Miss Abbott, who went first. The proficient young lady clustered her arrows neatly around the center of the target.

  All Lucinda had to do was be slightly worse and disappear into the crowd while everyone congratulated her opponent.

  “Blendon’s honor rests with you,” Mrs. Trip declared grimly. “We lost the men. We can’t lose this one as well.” For once, the village martinet sounded close to tears.

  Us against them. The need for the underdog to have his day. To feel respected. She had learned how it felt to be stripped of self-worth under Denbigh’s harsh tutelage. But this was just a game.

  From beneath her lashes, she shot a glance at the only person who knew her husband, Mr. Dawson. Fortunately, engaged in stealing a rose from Miss Belle’s hat, the besotted dandy was completely unaware of Lucinda.

  She glanced at the villagers’ anxious faces. She could not lose deliberately and let them down. Win or lose, as long as she did her best, she would satisfy her honor.

  Firmly, she stepped up to the mark and nocked and fired her arrows in quick, smooth succession.

  A groan went up from the Blendon contingent as the flights splayed out of the target.

  “My word,” the vicar shouted, running forward. “They are all dead center.”

  “Bloody hell,” Mrs. Trip said, “where did you learn to shoot like that?”

  “My brother,” Lucinda said, unable to contain the elation in her voice.

  A rousing cheer went up from the villagers. Reverend Postlethwaite handed her the engraved silver spoon as both teams gathered around her, the young ladies mingling with the villagers, everyone shaking her hand in congratulations until she thought her fingers would break.

  The vicar clapped his hands together. “Time for the greasy pig contest,” he shouted.

  The crowd drifted away. The greased pig was always a favorite, particularly since the winner got to keep the pig.

  “You never cease to amaze me,” Hugo said, lingering at her side. “I have never seen a woman shoot as well, nor many men.”

  “A fluke,” she said. “Beginner’s luck.” She waved a d
ismissive hand to forestall his questions.

  He tipped his head to one side. “Why do I once more have the impression you are hiding something?”

  “We are all hiding something, my lord.” She let her gaze fall to his thigh.

  He shifted uneasily. “Yes. Well. That was something I wanted to talk to you about, but for the moment I believe I am the lucky judge of the pig contest.” He turned and marched off.

  Lucinda let go a sigh. She had come through unscathed, and clearly Mr. Dawson had no inkling of her identity. Now if she could only make up her blasted mind what to do about Hugo.

  • • •

  By dint of keeping a wary eye out and with a little bit of luck, Lucinda managed to dodge Hugo and the squire’s guests for the rest of the afternoon. Finally, even the stalwart Sophia began to flag.

  “Me ride horsy,” she said when Lucinda tried to interest her in bobbing for apples.

  Lucida bent and smiled into her rosy face. She wiped the beads of sweat from the child’s upper lip. “How about some lemonade?”

  “Lemonade,” Sophia said with a nod. “Then horsy.”

  Lucinda chucked her under the chin. “You certainly are one determined little lady. I think you take after me. Just be careful it doesn’t lead you into trouble.” She grasped the small, hot hand. “Let us find some shade and have a nice cool drink. Then we will go to the paddock.”

  They wove their way through the throngs around the booths and bought mugs of lemonade from a lad with a tray hanging around his neck. By the time they had finished the refreshing brew, they had reached the line of horses against the fence.

  “She wants to ride again,” Lucinda said to a weary-looking Albert.

  “Come along then, missy,” he said. “Up you go.” He put her on the little pony.

  He turned to look over his shoulder at Lucinda. “Why don’t you go and watch the rope pull.” He winked. “Master’s on one of the teams. He do strip to advantage.”

  Instant heat flooded her face, and more perspiration dripped down her back. “Albert,” she said in what she hoped were shocked tones and not those of an excited schoolgirl.