This, naturally, caused Christian to speculate as they walked, “I imagine it is a well-trod path to your front door, Miss Covington.”
“We do tend to favor the front escape, my lord,” she responded. “The door at the rear of the house leads only into the Aunt Ester’s herb garden.”
Christian chuckled at her misunderstanding. “No, Miss Covington, I referred to all the young bucks of Sudberry beating a path to your door, to come courting you.”
“Me?” Isabelle jabbed a finger into her chest, her expression incredulous. “Why ever would they do that?”
Now it was the earl’s turn to suffer disbelief. “You are incredibly lovely, Miss Covington.”
“But I haven’t anything to recommend me, neither family nor fortune,” she informed him, “and, too, there is the little matter of those brothers of mine, my lord. You might not believe this, but it is true that they are not regarded with much favor outside our own little cottage.”
“Is that so?”
“Definitely, my lord. Sometimes I don’t even look upon them with any great amount of fondness.”
This brought out a sharp bark of laughter at her absolute candor. By now they had reached the end of the narrow path, Isabelle having stopped occasionally to pluck a bloom or leaf, which she carefully pressed into her journal. Almost absently—later, Christian would acknowledge that he had done so, but argue that it was all in keeping with his role as seducer—the earl snatched a single and perfectly red leaf from the branch of a maple tree that was beyond her reach.
“Oh, thank you, my lord,” she cooed when he’d handed it to her. That, too, was pressed between the pages and she made a little note with her pencil next to it.
At the creek now, the sun warming nicely their backs, Christian watched her breathe deeply of this fresh autumn air, her cheeks infused with color—from his attentions or her diversions, he could not say. She turned and lifted her face to the sun, now facing him, closing her eyes and hugging her precious journal to her breast, absorbing all this nature which seemed to she love so well.
So he kissed her. How could he not? She presented such an elfin, ethereal picture before him, and those lips of hers, truth be known, tempted a man beyond any great circumstance of reason. He closed the small space between them and took her upper arms in his hands to bring her against him. Her eyes opened, puzzled at this, until he began to lower his head toward her. A delight sped through him then; her reaction to his very clear intent, written in her eyes, was not one of unease or fear or anxiety, but of hopeful expectation. She wanted him to kiss her.
His lips touched hers, softly at first, in gentle exploration. But her mouth was warm and moist, and he hadn’t will to resist an urging for greater intimacy. Aware that her hands had lifted to hold his waist, he kissed her with larger intent, the slow initial caress becoming hungrier as he covered her lips fully. And though it was quite apparent that the lovely Miss Covington had never in her life been kissed before this moment, her response inflamed him. Awkward and untutored, she thrilled him nonetheless with her boldness, lifting her head, squeezing his sides, opening her mouth to his searching tongue, returning the gesture with equal fervor. The kiss might have lasted forever as the maiden in his arms seemed disinclined to end it for any reason. Christian, however, pulled back, staring down into her now bright and smiling eyes. She was smiling, by all that was holy! Miss Isabelle Covington hadn’t a clue how to go about in this world. She was supposed to rail at him for taking such liberties. She should smack him perhaps or threaten to end their short relationship based on behavior such as this.
She would never stop astounding him with her sincerity, he guessed, when he heard her say, “I’ve never been kissed before, my lord. Never at all. Oh, I like it very much. I like the way your lips feel on mine.”
Evidently it was her intent, by making statements like this, to whittle down his already nebulous restraint to nonexistence. Putting what little self-control he actually did possess into play, he separated himself from her, taking up only her hand to lead her fully toward the creek. They sat side by side upon the large flat rocks which served nicely as chairs and Christian watched her fingers attend to her journal, wondering what it might feel like to have those lean and perfect hands set upon his bare body.
Shaking himself to remove these dangerous imaginings from his mind, he realized that for the first time in his privileged life, he was actually having qualms about his motives and intent. He was actually considering another’s feelings in regard to his own designs. He knew immediately why he’d never done so before and now did; he didn’t like what state he might leave her in if he should be successful in his endeavors to seduce the lovely Miss Covington. In fact, he disliked immensely the thought of what she might become, how she might change, if she were to be hurt by him.
Chapter Four
Christian then tried to avoid her for days, but to no avail. Oh, he sought her out not at all, believing distance from such a charming beauty was the only way to strengthen his heretofore deplorable self-control.
But she certainly didn’t make this easy on him. She arrived at Makesly’s lodge the next day and promptly informed his manservant, Gunther, that the earl should be readied to go fishing, happily displaying for Gunther’s approval the rods and small nets she’d brought along. And how was he to resist so tempting an excursion? They spent the day along the bank of a large pond on Makesly’s own property and he found himself telling her of his childhood and his tyrannical father and his absentee mother. To this, she showed great sympathy, though he’d not spoken of such to promote this. He then engaged her by relating exploits of his as a child, things he did after a while just to incur his father’s wrath, only because he knew that he could.
“You were an insufferable child,” she laughed, tossing her line with some expertise into the well-stocked pond.
“I craved attention,” he told her with a shrug. “And any attention was better than no attention at all.”
“You poor boy,” this, with greater sympathy. “Have you never known love and acceptance?”
He didn’t answer, partly because this was much more than he wanted to—or ever had—shared with anyone and his comfort level was decreasing rapidly. He changed the subject then with alacrity, encouraging a debate on the works of Milton. In this arena, she was also well armed, reading being another great passion of hers.
And then she made him kiss her again. Truly, it had not been his intent. He had promised himself that he would not, after all, pursue Isabelle. She was too innocent and truly deserved better than a fortnight’s attendance for his selfish reasons. But she had obviously been thinking of little else and as they prepared to head home, she simply wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head upon his chest. And he was lost, undone by such emotion as she was never afraid to show, and so he had to kiss her.
The day which followed he tried yet again to avoid a meeting with her but to no avail. He’d gone into Sudberry so that she might not find him at home, but she found him instead at McGavern’s Stables, leaning against the corral fence, watching some young horses being trained.
“There you are, my lord,” she greeted him happily, as if she had no other emotion when near him—for which he was secretly thrilled, though it made this present objective all the more difficult. He’d learned that Gunther had given up his whereabouts with little provocation and so she stood before him, armed with that enchanting smile and a filled-to-the-brim picnic basket and again, any resolve he have hoped to maintain was lost to so fetching a picture. Soon they were enjoying this feast creekside and even those dastardly siblings could not dampen his mood, though not for want of effort.
Now only yesterday, Christian having again reminded himself to be steadfast, to reach for a greater firmness in regard to avoiding Isabelle, he found himself again in her company. However, he could not here lay blame at either her door or his, neither of them being the driving force behind their meeting. As it had again been his ambition to
avoid her, he had taken his mount out early in the day, riding high into the taller hills behind Makesly’s cottage, thinking that he might actually get on with a bit of hunting. How could he have ever known this was exactly where the Throckmortons’ charges were spending the morning, gathering up early fall’s bounty of blueberries?
He might have laughed at this circumstance, if it did not so much resemble the gods working against him. He actually glanced heavenward, wondering if he had indeed lived so dissipated a life as of yet that even as he tried to reform and save the lovely Isabelle from his nefarious intentions, he must still be punished.
Of course, it was the clamor which Isabelle and—to a greater degree—her young brothers and sisters made that alerted him of their presence. He came upon them near a flat spot about the middle of the hills, watching as Isabelle and her two brothers stood at the base of a huge and gracious willow, arms extended toward the yellowing leaves, calling for the girls, obviously hidden within and wailing with such dedication that surely no other creature remained within earshot. All about the trunk of the tree, that strange three-legged dog hopped and barked while Donald, the second boy, slumped against the semi-smooth bark, gorging himself on their hoard of berries, his fingers stained blue.
Christian pulled up sharply at such a ruckus and was then standing beside Isabelle, having deduced that she now tried to coax the girls from their perches high above. The girls were not unwilling, only too frightened, obviously having climbed higher than intended or deemed wise.
“Are you in need of assistance, Miss Covington?” He asked from beside her.
Isabelle, having been rather single-minded in her efforts of persuasion, had not been aware of his arrival. She turned at the sound of his voice, and despite the level of noise and urgency of the situation, showed him that grand and tempting smile, so very happy to see him. Seeming then to completely forget her sisters for the moment, she faced him fully. “My lord, what a wonderful surprise! Had you come looking for us?” She asked, waiting serenely for his reply as if Katie, the youngest, had not just let out an ear-piercing shriek due to the advent of a spider on the same branch as she.
But Christian was growing accustomed to this and was able to reply, without cringing at that noise, “I am only lucky to have happened upon you, Miss Covington. Perchance timely, as well. Might I be of assistance?”
Recalling then that her sisters were perched rather precariously, Isabelle allowed, “Oh, perhaps. Katie and Molly have climbed too high and will not come down, despite my assurance that if they managed to ascend without incident, their descent should happen as smoothly.”
“A sensible judgment, I should say,” Christian agreed. “Though perhaps their youth precludes sensibility.”
“I should say!” Isabelle granted heartily.
Christian removed his riding jacket, handing it over to Isabelle’s care, and began his own climb onto the thick limbs while the dog continued his yapping and dancing, and Donald and Timothy now engaged in a blueberry war, slinging the small fruits at each other, around and about the tree, and Isabelle inquired conversationally of his day thus far. From nearly fifteen feet above, he threw down his response, which amounted to not much more than a tale of his morning meal and his aim to hunt about a bit today. Naturally, as she was Isabelle, she kept up a steady stream of conversation, but Christian now had to concentrate on the task at hand. He was nearly within reach of Molly, who had blessedly quit her caterwauling to study his progress—if only he could have such silent attention from Katie as well!
He coaxed the little girl onto his back, instructing her to keep her hands tight about his neck, not latched to his hair as was her original intent, and descended without incident, carefully handing her over to Isabelle’s tending. He turned then to climb again and bring down the other child but saw then that she was instead already standing next to him.
“I followed you,” she said and smiled a gapped-tooth grin, which had the earl shaking his head in disbelief, but in another moment he was laughing along with the siblings and then was beamed in the cheek with a blueberry for his efforts. This incurred further laughter until he grabbed up a handful of the fruit and chased the suspected culprits, returning the favor in greater measure. All attempts to stay away from the lovely Isabelle went to pot, as they say, and the earl spent the entire morning and most of the afternoon with the Covington brood.
So now today was Sunday, and Christian had returned moments ago from the vicar’s mass in the crowded church at the edge of the valley. He sat unmoving in one of Makesly’s fine leather chairs, recalling with unabashed pleasure the sideways glances Isabelle had thrown him from her family’s pew across the aisle. She should never play cards, he guessed, her face being the open book that it was. With her smiling so besottedly at him, for all to see should they not be minding the vicar’s rather tedious sermon, it was easy to ignore Timothy, who continually made faces at him, and Donald, who insisted on repeatedly sticking his tongue out at him.
This could not continue, however; he could neither seduce her as was his original goal, nor continue to give her hopeful imaginings further kindling by spending time with her. He must leave Sudberry, he decided, only debating if he should forgo the dinner invitation he’d accepted from the over-enthusiastic Aunt Ester or make his departure immediately, sending off his regrets for this evening.
In the end, he chose the latter, directing Gunther to deliver his quickly written note, intimating that some London business was drawing him away, that he’d enjoyed tremendously their hospitality and generosity, and making no personal mention of Isabelle, hopefully dashing any romantic notions she might have had regarding him.
AWAITING GUNTHER’S return that they might depart immediately, Christian waited at Makesly’s cottage, wondering if he were making a large misstep here. But he decided not; Isabelle was by far too decent and innocent a person to have dealings with the likes of him. And apparently, even he wasn’t so dishonorable a rake as to taint that pure heart of hers by pursuing a further dalliance.
The sound of the gate in the yard being opened alerted him of Gunther’s return and he opened the door to let his man know that he was ready to be on their way; there was no sense in prolonging his leave-taking.
But he found Isabelle instead standing before him. She was dressed as sunshine in a pale yellow frock, her white bonnet hanging, as it often did, uselessly upon her back. She had not cried, he thought, but it seemed as if she wanted to. She held his goodbye missive in her hand.
They spoke at the same time.
“Where is Gunther?
“How can you leave now?”
Forgetting for the moment that it was improper, he swung the door wide and invited her in.
“Thank you,” she intoned briefly. “Aunt Ester coaxed Gunther into partaking of her blueberry pie before your departure. She will likely send along some for you as well,” she said, and waited then for his response to her query.
Christian studied her comely features, knowing no other in all of London would be combined of this mix of beauty and intoxicating guilelessness and that sharp mind.
He would be firm here, he decided, to save her from future expectations.
“I haven’t any choice but to return to London now, Miss Covington. Business doesn’t wait for this small retreat of mine to end.”
“But when will you return?”
Here, he guessed, it was going to proceed in a downhill fashion. “I likely will not return. If my own hunting lodge hadn’t been destroyed by fire last spring, like as not, I would have gone there now. My life is in London, you understand.”
“But the ash leaf said we were to...that is, you were to be my mate.”
“Pardon me?” He hoped his astonishment was not so readable, as she seemed to put great stock in what the ash tree and its offspring had to say.
With her bewitching blue eyes trained on him, she said earnestly, “The border folk believe that if you find a strand of leaves from the ash tree having an even
number of leaves about the group, you will spy your mate that day.” She shared this ridiculous folklore with nary a hint of embarrassment. “Never in all my life have I come upon an even number... until the day I met you.”
He had a vague recollection of that day and her consulting her precious journal, where all her samplings were kept, and counting to eight.
“Isabelle,” he said softly, laying his hand against her smooth cheek. “Tis only lore, and nothing else.”
She covered his large hand with her much smaller one and said to him, “But I love you.”
This, he had certainly not expected. His planned departure was decided upon in a genuine effort to stave off exactly these kinds of girlish notions.
Quite tenderly, he laid his lips on her forehead and then her nose and each of her eyes. “You honor me greatly with such sentiments as this, Isabelle. But let us be realistic and imagine only that you think yourself in love with me because of such lore as you attached to our meeting.”
“Oh, no, my lord,” she disagreed, shaking her head against his palm. “Tis not like that at all. While I may have been quite prepared to fall in love with you because of the legend of the mountain ash, it happened of its own accord because of the beautiful person that you are.”
Now he knew she was imagining things. Him! A beautiful person? He’d never been accounted as being such. And she was by far too pure to know of his dark and roguish side. It was unfortunate then, that she would learn of it now.
“You think me young and foolish,” she guessed sadly, her eyes glistening with the hint of tears. “You think because I am a provincial with a strange family and annoying siblings and living in this backward little hamlet that I wouldn’t know love or that I wouldn’t know a wicked character if I met him.”
Love Comes Softly (A Regency Rogue Novella Book 1) Page 3