One of the stablemen hovering in the doorway, avidly taking in the dispute, looked round at Darius’s approach. He left the door and hastened to attend to the visitor.
Darius dismounted, gave over his horse, and was about to ask for news when a familiar female voice pierced the snarling and snapping of the males: “No, it must be cleansed with warm water! Give me that cloth, Jenkins. No, Fewkes, do not interrupt. Wait. I need to think.”
Darius went to the stable door.
Her back to him, Lady Charlotte stood two stalls away, murmuring to the horse whose shoulder she was gently washing.
Relief surged through him, as powerful as a blow. His knees buckled. He set his hand on the doorframe and pretended to lean there casually. Not that anyone heeded him.
The two men inside were too busy arguing, chests out, chins jutting. Their attire told Darius their positions. The older and larger fellow with the red hair and vinous red nose must be the coachman. The smaller, wiry man must be the head groom.
“Listen to him and that mare’ll be the worse for it, your ladyship,” said the coachman. “With a wound like that, the natural spirits is oozing out and taking down the heat. You wash it, and you takes the heat down more again. It’s the black ointment what you want, to fire her spirits.”
“An ointment on a scrape like that?” the groom said scornfully. “She’ll take a fever for sure. It wants a poultice first, lest you want to kill the creetur.”
“I worked for his lordship boy and man, and never kilt no horse—”
“They died all by themselves, did they?”
“Your ladyship—”
“Her ladyship knows a poultice is the proper—”
“You’ll bring that mare down and no coming back!” the coachman roared. He took a step closer to the groom and swelled his chest. His face grew redder still. It was a threatening display, but the groom wouldn’t back down.
“Why not bleed her as well, then?” the coachman demanded. “Why not draw off what little spirits is left in her? This is what comes of some people not knowing their place. I been looking after the horses here, boy and man, since you was a girl, your ladyship. This mare belongs to the coach house to be tended to.”
“If her ladyship liked your way of tending cattle, she wouldn’t’ve brought her to me, now, would she?”
“Enough!” Lady Charlotte snapped. “What is wrong with you? Belinda had a fright, and she is hurt—and now you are shouting and upsetting her. You ought to know better, the pair of you.”
Darius straightened away from the doorframe. “Ahem,” he said.
The two masculine heads swiveled toward him. Lady Charlotte turned sharply round and stood, sopping rag in hand, staring at Darius as though he’d sprung up direct from Beelzebub’s hot parlor.
In the process, she dribbled water—or whatever solution she was using—over the front of her dress. Though now fully buttoned, the dress looked more thoroughly disreputable, having acquired a good deal of dirt and several grease stains since last he’d seen it.
Darius walked farther inside, inhaling the familiar aromas of horseflesh mingled with manure and hay. The stalls were airy, well designed, and neatly organized. His stable was a much smaller affair, not a fraction so grand as this, with its screens of Ionic columns dividing the stalls. Small as his was, though, he’d want a good while to bring it to this pitch of cleanliness and order.
He took in his surroundings with a glance. Most of his attention, though, was upon the lady. She did not seem to be broken. Nor had she oozed away any spirits, by the sounds of it.
“Mr. Carsington,” she said.
“I heard you had an accident,” he said. “I saw your dogcart at the side of the road, and the broken wheel. I was…concerned.”
Panicked was more like it. He never panicked. Ever. About anything. Even when his father summoned him to the Inquisition Chamber.
A state of panic was a state of total irrationality.
What the devil was the matter with him?
“The wheel stuck in a rut and the cart tipped,” she said tightly. “It was no great matter, but Belinda took fright and jumped, and the shaft caught her in the shoulder.”
“But you are unharmed,” he said. “And Lady Lithby?”
“Oh, we are well,” she said impatiently. “She and I have taken worse tumbles. Colonel Morrell came along and helped us.”
Darius did not snarl at the mention of the colonel. Animals snarled at enemies and rivals. He was not an animal but a rational being who had no logical reason to view Morrell as either enemy or rival.
Yet while Darius stood listening calmly, he was unhappily aware of a primitive, possessive part of him pacing restlessly in a shadowy corner of his being.
“He freed Belinda from the harness and pushed the cart out of the way,” Lady Charlotte went on. “But Belinda has a nasty gouge—”
“And if you please, sir,” the coachman broke in, “the mare belongs in my care, only her ladyship being in a taking—”
“What, you’ll say my lady’s out of her senses, will you?” the groom said, chin jutting out as he took a step toward the coachman. “She’s got better sense than you.”
“Jenkins, I will not have an altercation,” Lady Charlotte said firmly.
The groom backed away, but he wouldn’t be quelled. “Black ointment, in a case like this,” he grumbled. He looked at Darius. “I ask you, sir—”
“Since you do ask, I should recommend that you first apply a poultice,” Darius said briskly. “Fine bran mixed with boiling water and linseed paste.”
Jenkins threw a triumphant look at the coachman. The latter’s flush darkened to maroon. “Your ladyship, meaning no disrespect to the gentleman, but we always uses the black ointment,” he said.
“We shall use the poultice the gentleman recommends,” said Lady Charlotte, returning her attention to the mare. “You may not be aware, Fewkes, that this is the famous Mr. Carsington who wrote the treatise on pigs. We all know how Lord Lithby feels about that pamphlet. Whatever Mr. Carsington says regarding livestock must be considered holy writ.”
Fewkes muttered something. He bestowed one murderous glower upon Jenkins, then stalked out.
“Maybe the gentleman will be so good as to explain to her ladyship how it’s safe enough to let me tend the mare,” Jenkins said, “now as matters is settled and old Quack-’em and Burn-’em won’t be putting his fat, warty hams on her?” His affectionate glance at his mistress stripped any hint of disrespect from the speech.
Darius deduced that Jenkins, too, had known Lady Charlotte since she was a girl.
She thrust the rag into the groom’s hand. “In future, kindly carry on your disputes outside of the stables in a place where others cannot hear you instead of upsetting the horses and setting a bad example for the other staff.”
Jenkins apologized, and she walked out, spine stiff.
Darius followed her. “A troublesome coachman, I gather,” he said.
She turned into a graveled path. “I don’t know what’s got into Fewkes,” she said.
“Drink, I should say, judging by the condition of his skin as well as his behavior,” Darius said.
“He never used to drink,” she said. “Or not so much as to seem so…dangerous. I have never known him to be so belligerent as he was today. But then, I never have to deal with him directly. If my father had been here—but he wasn’t—and I am merely the young lady of the family, qualified only to judge fashion and fripperies.”
“That is no excuse for bullying,” Darius said.
“I was not firm enough,” she said, “because I did not know what to do. One ought to defer to Fewkes, as the superior in rank, but one could not, because he was…”
“Wrong,” Darius said. “And filthy drunk in the bargain. My father would never tolerate that sort of behavior. Fewkes would find himself tossed out on his arse before he could say ‘black ointment.’”
“You’re right. I had better tell Papa.” She paused
briefly before adding, “I must thank you for intervening.”
“Ah, well, I was glad to learn my word is holy writ for somebody,” Darius said.
She gave him a sharp glance.
He wished the words back, but it was too late. “Your stablemen don’t take you seriously,” he said. “My father doesn’t take me seriously. Or my work, rather. Mere scribblings, in his view.” He recalled the way his father had waved his hand, dismissing years of laborious investigation and careful experiments, disregarding the care taken to render the fruits of these labors into simple, lucid prose, so that any farmer who could read could benefit, not only men like Lord Lithby.
Though Darius had borne it stoically at the time, the recollection made his face burn.
He knew she saw his color change, betraying him.
His fault. He’d let himself become agitated. This was what happened when one’s feelings were allowed to overcome one’s reason.
During the ensuing long silence, he told himself it was illogical to feel embarrassed, since neither her opinion nor his father’s signified, in the great scheme of things.
Then she said, “Perhaps your father makes no great matter of it because it is no more than he expects of you.”
Darius gave a short laugh. “He expects nothing. He’s certain I can do nothing right.”
“No, he expects great things of you,” she said.
He regarded her perfect profile. He saw no doubt there at all. “What a sentimental imagination you have,” he said.
“I am not in your family,” she said. “I view it from outside. I am well acquainted with Lord Hargate. I am an objective observer, as you cannot be.”
The something again clicked in his mind, and he realized what it was. He’d found a clue. He put it away for later study. “And what do you observe?” he said.
“He holds his sons to higher standards than most noblemen do,” she said. “If he appears dissatisfied with your accomplishments, it is because he believes you are capable of greater things. He is exacting, yes, and some people find him terrifying. But everything is so clear, is it not? If you have erred or displeased or disappointed him, he says so, plainly.”
“Plainly and at length,” Darius said. “If he hears about the state of my road and your accident—” He broke off with a short laugh. “Why do I say ‘if’? He’s bound to hear of it. If no one else tells him, my grandmother will. She hears everything—and I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“That’s very likely,” she said. “But you must not mind what they say. The accident was not your fault but mine. The road is bad, yes, but it is not as though I’ve never driven on rutted roads before. This is the country, after all. The trouble is, I let my attention wander.”
Being so fair-complected, she colored easily. He was not surprised to see her blush this time, but he was surprised to see the rosy tint swiftly drain away, leaving her ghostly white. Her lips compressed in a tight line.
“You’re upset about the horse,” he said.
“Yes, yes!” Her eyes glistened, and she blinked rapidly, refusing to weep. She clenched her fists. “I cannot believe I was so stupid and careless. I failed her, poor thing. They trust us because we teach them to do so. We make them our responsibility. Belinda trusted me to look out for her, and I betrayed her trust. I was not paying proper attention—and now she is h-hurt. And Fewkes might have hurt her worse.”
“A small hurt,” Darius said, surprised at this out-pouring of emotion. “And your groom would not have let Fewkes hurt her. Jenkins would risk his position to protect the animal, I have no doubt. You must not fret about what might have happened. You know what ifs are pointless.”
“What ifs,” she repeated. “Yes, yes. Futile.” She swatted at her eyes and essayed a smile. “Never mind. I feel like a fool, and I hate that.” She looked about her. “Where am I going? The house is the other way.”
“I wondered about that but said nothing, on the chance you were leading me astray,” he said.
“Astray?” Her voice climbed in pitch.
“A man can always hope,” he said.
Her color came back, a delicious pink. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“Never mind.”
She turned abruptly—too abruptly, because she stumbled, her heel catching on the hem of her dress. Trying to pull her foot free, she tore the hem. Her boot snagged on the torn cloth, and she tripped, pitching sideways toward the gravel.
He moved to catch her, but her flailing arms got in the way and, trying to avoid getting knocked in the eye, he trod on her skirt, ripping it more. She shrieked and jerked away, throwing him off-balance, but he managed to grab her as they both went down. He hit the gravel, and she landed on top of him simultaneously, her weight thrusting him harder against the small, sharp rocks.
For once, thanks to Goodbody’s patient obstinacy, Darius was wearing a hat. Though it tipped over one eye, it stayed on, sparing him a bruise to his head and perhaps a concussion.
Not that he had time to care about bruises or concussions or the gravel digging into his backside.
They’d scarcely hit the ground before she was struggling frantically to get up. She’d fallen cross-ways on him, and when she tried to get off, he heard a ripping sound.
“Get up,” she snapped. “You’re on my dress.”
“I can’t get up until you get off,” he snapped back.
“Move your leg, you idiot!”
Impatient, she yanked at the dress at the same instant he shifted his weight. The dress came free abruptly, throwing her off-balance. She toppled backward, legs waving comically. Her dress slid back, revealing not only dirty boots but a good deal of stockinged leg.
He had no time to admire the view—or even to laugh at it, though she reminded him of an overturned turtle—because he was too busy trying to protect himself from those flailing limbs. He grabbed her fist before it could hit his face.
“Let go!” She kicked and squirmed. “Don’t touch me!”
He clamped his free hand over her mouth. “Stop shrieking, you idiot!” he said. That was all he needed: to be caught with her in a compromising position. “Someone will hear.”
She wasn’t listening. She was too busy wriggling this way and that, blindly kicking and hitting.
Fed up, Darius let go and tried to push her off.
She flinched at his touch and hastily struggled up onto all fours. She ended up straddling him—and that sent her into another flurry. In her clumsy haste to crawl off him, her knee landed on his groin.
He doubled up, gasping one short, very old English and most ungentlemanly word.
Through the miasma of pain he heard, “Oh, sorry. Sorry.” He felt more movement as she shifted her weight. Then the knee, carrying all her weight, landed on his thigh.
He said the word again, with more feeling.
“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry.”
He really had to kill her.
He untangled himself from the skirts and frenzied limbs and staggered to his feet. He didn’t wait for her to stand. He hauled her upright, grasped her upper arms, and shook her. “Calm down, curse you!” he snapped.
She stilled. She flashed him one of her murderous looks. She opened her mouth to say something.
He let go of her arms, clasped her face between his hands, and clamped his mouth on hers to silence her.
She froze.
He froze.
Then, Oh, hell, he thought.
And he kissed her.
Chapter 6
Don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t touch me.
Don’t touch him don’t touch him don’t touch him.
In the instant they fell together onto the path, an image flashed in Charlotte’s mind, a picture from another life. She, so young, so happy for a time, tumbling with Geordie Blaine onto the grass, laughing.
And in the next instant, Get up get up get up, was all she could think—as far as she could think.
After that, it was all chaos and panic and trying to get away because she couldn’t trust herself with this man.
The world had lit up when Mr. Carsington strode into the stable like a golden god, so tall and beautiful and so utterly sure of himself. Even the uneasy horse quieted at the sound of his voice.
Charlotte hadn’t quieted. Her heart had leapt at the sight of him, lightening with relief because she knew he’d know what to do. He’d settle everything and save the horse.
Her heart had pounded, too, and not with relief but with something less innocent, because he was beautiful, and she wasn’t a good girl.
He was bold and improper and he made her want to laugh.
And now he was too close. He smelled like a man, and the scent was maddening. He felt like a man, and she ached for a man’s body against hers.
Hold me. Touch me.
Don’t don’t don’t.
Don’t kiss me don’t kiss me don’t kiss me.
She beat her fists on his sides, then his back, but it was a sham, a joke. His big, capable hands were warm on her face. It had been too long since a man had held her so, her face cupped in his hands.
Turn your head away.
How could she?
He kissed her, and she tasted summer and freedom and the youth she’d lost. One tantalizing taste of him, and a place inside her opened, a great emptiness she hadn’t realized was there.
She clenched her hands, trying not to touch him, but his mouth gentled on hers, and she tasted a sigh, or felt it. Her inner tumult began to quiet, and she felt a quieting in him, too, as he seemed to hesitate, to slow and pause. It was as though he’d felt something, too, something surprising.
It was his hesitation, perhaps, that made her heart give way. She felt it unfurling, even as her fingers uncurled and she rested her hands on his chest.
Only for a moment.
Only to feel it a little longer, the sweet wash of pleasure, the warmth of wanting and being wanted. She wanted to pretend for a moment that all was right again, and this was the forever she’d dreamed of long ago: to be held so, in strong arms, where she was cared for and safe. To be kissed as though she were the only girl in the world.
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