A Country Flirtation

by Valerie King

  When some of the older children recognized Constance, a general shouting ensued and a free-for-all running commenced. Constance handed the reins to Ramsdell and made a quick descent. She was soon knee-deep in children, who all babbled quickly, informing her of the arrival of baby Tom.

  She listened politely to each who would speak, then addressed the eldest. “And how does your mother fair, Alice?”

  “She’s a bit of a fever, but otherwise well enough. She said ye would be callin’ today.”

  “I have brought a few things—gifts from my sisters. Will you see if your mother is well enough to receive me?” Alice disappeared into the house but not before she handed the toddler to her. Constance held up the year-old child and watched him kick his legs and laugh down at her. She drew him close to her side, and he snuggled his head against her shoulder.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Ramsdell thought he had never seen a prettier sight than Constance Pamberley cradling the child gently against her shoulder as she then addressed the other children in turn from smallest to biggest, and asked specifically after their favorite pastimes. Did John enjoy the book she sent over? Could Emily still beat them all at spillikens? Where was David? Working at the Twyford farm?

  There were no rough edges about Constance, he concluded. She was a polished jewel, a diamond of the first water in every respect, a gem that took in the sunshine and reflected the rays in a thousand exquisite directions at once. He had never seen a lady so in harmony with her family, her home, her land, and her neighbors. He wanted such a woman at Aston Hall, but for the life of him he couldn’t picture any of his present female acquaintances picking up the village children and cuddling them so sweetly.

  She took the excited brood around to the wicker basket and made presents of Jack’s carved whistles in honor, she said, of baby Tom’s birth. The air was soon filled with a variety of tones as each child happily blew into the small wood devices. Old Nobs took exception to the noise, however, and stepped forward a pace or two. But Ramsdell quickly tugged on the reins and spoke a firm, “Whoa, old fellow.”

  Old Nobs, hearing the master’s voice, obeyed at once and settled down to a mere flickering of his ears in protest to the whistles.

  A moment more, and Alice came back, bidding Constance to come inside. Constance glanced up at Ramsdell and said, “I’ll be only a few minutes.”

  “I am in no hurry,” he stated with a faint smile.

  He glanced around and noted that the publican across the street bowed to him before disappearing hurriedly inside his establishment. Within a minute he returned bearing a tankard of ale.

  Ramsdell knew the good man was bringing him a bit of refreshment and because of the heat, even though the equipage was resting in the shade of a thick-leaved chestnut tree, he had never been more grateful for the sight of ale in his life.

  “Wi’ me compliments,” the man said grandly, “and in honor of yer recovery, if it pleases ye, o’ course.” He held the tankard toward Ramsdell.

  “My good man,” he said seriously, extending his hands toward the heavy ceramic cup, “you’ve no idea how grateful I am, and I thank you.”

  He took the tankard and drank deeply, aware of the fine brew of which the publican was clearly quite proud. “I vow I’ve not had better in all the south of England,” he said.

  Mr. Rose beamed, his chest swelled, and even his balding pate showed a rosy hue of pride as he stood on the cobbles and watched Ramsdell find the bottom of the tankard. While he enjoyed the brew, he related several histories of the village and offered a description of the various notable inhabitants of their neighborhood.

  He then spoke of Constance. “Is she not, m’lord, the very best of women? I’ve never ‘eard a cross word pass her lips, and though we call her The Gentleman, ‘tis not without a great deal of affection and pride, for she does the work of a man, seeing to Lady Brook the way she does. She could ‘ave wed a dozen times too, even though she is two inches taller than most of the men ‘ereabouts. But Mrs. Spencer, the vicar’s wife, says ‘er ‘eart weren’t engaged sufficient-like to take on the mantle of Cupid, as it were. And one of the gent’men were a lord, the Earl of Upton, I think it were.”

  Ramsdell was stunned. Had he heard correctly?

  “The Earl of Upton, you say?”

  “Aye. ‘Twere the subject of a great many debates, I can tell you. But hush now. ‘Ere is the lady herself.”

  Ramsdell turned and watched beautiful Constance emerging from the house with yet another child in her arms. His mind went numb, and everything he knew about the universe seemed to shift and dim a little.

  The Earl of Upton had offered for Constance Pamberley and she had refused him? He knew Upton, and though he had no great opinion of the man who had married an ambitious daughter of Viscount Woodburn’s, he couldn’t credit that Constance had refused a match that would have given her every advantage, for herself and for her family.

  He watched her cross to the carriage, carrying a child who appeared to be about four years old, a girl with long, blond ringlets, a stubborn chin, and the merriest eyes Ramsdell had ever seen. “I’m Mary,” she stated, her gaze leveled at Ramsdell.

  “How do you do, Miss Mary?”

  “Fine, thank ye. Miss Pamberley said I could ride to the top o’ the street and back. ‘Tis my turn, ye know.”

  Constance queried above the girl’s head, “Do you mind very much? It has become something of a tradition when I come to the village in my gig.”

  “Not at all,” he said, handing the tankard back to Mr. Rose. After again proclaiming the publican’s brew the finest he had ever had, he shifted the reins back to Constance, who had settled Mary between them.

  Mary glanced at Ramsdell with wide blue eyes. “Aw you really a lord?” she asked.

  “Indeed, I am.”

  “Wot ‘appened to yer arm?”

  “I was in an accident and broke it.”

  “Did it ‘urt wery much?”

  “I don’t remember. I bumped my head at the same time and didn’t wake up for ten days.”

  Mary looked up at him, her brow furrowed deeply, considering what he had just told her. Finally, she made her judgment. “Wot a whisker!” she exclaimed at last, breaking into a smile.

  Ramsdell chuckled and politely asked Mary if she had ever broken her arm. As Constance slapped the reins, Mary replied that she had not, but then launched into a cataloging of every bruise or cut she had suffered in her brief but apparently adventure-riddled existence.

  After a time, when Mary was safely returned to her family and all the bread and honey, and pickles and whistles had been distributed among the needy, Constance turned the wheels of her gig toward Lady Brook and silently passed the reins to Ramsdell.

  “You trust me, then,” he said.

  “Well,” she drawled. “We shall see, shan’t we?”

  He growled faintly, which set her to chuckling. She watched as he deftly threaded the left ribbon over his forefinger and the right over his ring finger. She watched him guide the horse at a brisk trot along every bend in the road as though he were using both hands.

  “Mrs. Spencer was right,” she said when he maneuvered the horse expertly around a tight curve in the road. “You are a nonpareil.”

  He smiled with pleasure at her compliment, surprised at how delighted he was that she thought well of at least this accomplishment.

  She added, “But then, you are used to managing four, even six horses at once, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I daresay I am.”

  “Have you ever driven a mail coach?”

  “Several times.”

  “Indeed,” she said enthusiastically. “Was it thrilling for you? I had heard that members of the Four-in-Hand Club were often given to paying the coachman for the opportunity to handle the ribbons, but I’ve never met one before who had done so.”

  “I will confess, it is one of the most exhilarating experiences in the world,” he returned. He then began slowing down as a he
avily laden cart appeared at the top of the road, seemingly inclined to use up most of the lane.

  “Oh, dear,” Constance murmured, catching sight of the cart.

  “Never fear,” Ramsdell stated. “I’ve been hunting the squirrel since I was breeched and I’ve never locked wheels yet.”

  “Grazed a few, have you?” she asked, chuckling as she stiffened with the approach of the cart.

  Ramsdell gave the reins a slap, and Constance let out a squeak.

  “Henhearted?” he asked.

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Abominably so.” She seemed convinced a collision was imminent and closed her eyes.

  Ramsdell let out a crack of laughter, slapped the reins again, and the next moment breezed past the cart with inches to spare. “You may open your eyes now,” he said. “The danger is past.”

  He watched her eyes pop open, and in obvious disbelief she turned around, apparently to ascertain there had even been a cart on the road.

  “And you did that with one hand?” she said. She turned back to him, “Ramsdell, I’m amazed. Only, tell me how you fell to mischief around Lady Brook Bend, for I am convinced you could have navigated that particular turn with your eyes closed.”

  “Thank you for the compliment,” he responded. “As it happens, a deer darted in front of my horses and frightened them. They bolted to the right, and the next thing I knew we were barreling across your lawn. But that is all I recall. Why didn’t my curricle suffer injury?”

  Constance explained his heroics, turning the horses at the very last moment, but he responded by shaking his head. “I have no recollection of having done that. I remember standing up, even shouting a curse to the air, but nothing after that. What a spectacle I must have made!”

  “Yes, you certainly did, but a welcome one. The horses were wild-eyed with fright as they bore down on us. Both Dr. Kent and I thought we would perish with you. You saved us all.”

  He glanced down at her as he guided Old Nobs up the tree-lined drive toward the front of the brick mansion. He recalled his conversation with the publican and decided to broach the subject that had been teasing his mind since leaving the village. “I had it in the strictest confidence that the Earl of Upton offered for you.”

  Constance chuckled. “I take it Mr. Rose gave you more than just a tankard of ale.”

  He maneuvered the gig past the front of the house and set Old Nobs heading toward the stables. “He told me a great many things but none more surprising than your refusal of Upton’s hand in marriage.”

  “Why were you surprised that I refused him?” she asked, tilting her head so that she could see his face beyond the wide brim of her bonnet.

  “Your circumstances—your family’s circumstances—naturally. Or did Upton offer for you during your Season when you had less need of contracting a good, nay, brilliant, marriage?”

  She shook her head in response to his last query.

  “Why, then, did you refuse him?” he asked.

  She was silent as the carriage house loomed near. “Do you know Upton well?” she queried.

  “Tolerably so,” he responded.

  “Then need I say more?”

  He knew from the subdued tone of her voice that he had offended her. He drew the gig to a stop as Stively emerged from the stables, trotting forward to take care of Old Nobs, who was fidgeting in his harness, ready to be released from his duties.

  Constance quickly descended the gig. Ramsdell stood up, placed his right hand on the side of the carriage, and leapt easily to the ground. He caught up with her just as she reached the gate leading into the kitchen gardens.

  “Constance, are we to quarrel now? Pray, forgive me if I have given offense. I hadn’t meant to. To be a countess would have afforded you every manner of opportunity and connection.”

  She whirled back to him, her color much heightened. She dipped her chin, then lifted a blazing countenance to him. “I want an excellent husband for myself and for each of my sisters. Given my—our circumstances—the gentlemen we consider must be in possession of at least an easy competence. But if you think a mere fortune would persuade me to accept any offer that came my way, or to allow my sisters to accept a hand in marriage when that hand was tainted with . . . with a propensity to flirt with every manner of creature so long as she wore a skirt, then you have greatly mistaken my character. Or did you perhaps believe that I couldn’t have known he kept an opera dancer in Mayfair and a Drury Lane actress in Bloomsbury?”

  “I don’t know what I thought,” he responded, taken aback, “except that as Countess of Upton you would have been able to bring out each of your sisters in the height of style—”

  “Having set for them the worst possible example? What foolishness that would have been.” She wrung her hands. “Have you taken the sum of my character in this manner because I wished Charles, with his lack of fortune, out of the way of falling in love with one of my sisters? Is that what caused you to think all that mattered to me was the size of a gentleman’s income?”

  “No,” he stated firmly. “You misunderstand me completely. You sacrifice in so many ways for your family that I naturally presumed you would have sacrificed by accepting the hand of a man you could not esteem because of what he could provide for your sisters.”

  Some of her feathers began to settle down. “Had he been in possession of one quality I could have admired, believe me, I would have gladly made such a sacrifice as you suggest.” She pressed a hand to her forehead, and her shoulders slumped slightly. “I shall tell you the truth, though I am loath to confess it. Upton offered for my hand only after I had refused a carte blanche from him, not once, but thrice. Believe me, his offer of marriage was not a compliment to me.”

  She laughed a trifle hysterically. “In defense of my refusal, I shall add only that had I wed such a man, and been forced to endure his defects of character, I know one day I should have murdered him. I have not the smallest doubt of it.”

  Ramsdell was sorry he had brought forward such an obviously painful subject and slipped his hand beneath her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “I beg your pardon most humbly, Constance Pamberley. I had no idea.” Then, because it seemed the proper thing to do, the tender, humble thing to do, he placed a kiss on her lips.

  He meant to comfort her, but the moment his lips touched hers, he felt as though a bolt of lightning struck him, traveling through his entire body in an instant.

  He drew back and looked at her. How wide her eyes were. How sweetly parted her rosy lips.

  She blinked up at him slowly and leaned toward him as though off balance. He caught her about the waist with his right arm and pulled her against him. He untied the ribbons of her bonnet and pushed the wide brim away from her forehead. He kissed her properly as she slung her right arm about his neck, placing a hard, demanding kiss full on the lips. When she parted her lips, he searched the depths of her mouth with his tongue and felt his heart melt into a euphoric liquid fire.

  He felt lost in a place so wondrous that he could no longer put two thoughts together. All he felt of the moment was her tall, perfect body pressed full-length against his, the swell of her breasts softly against his chest, and the strength of her arm wrapped about his neck. Soft musical sounds caught in her throat as he explored the moist depths of her mouth. The kiss became a summer’s adventure, lush, full, rich. He wanted to go on kissing her forever. Forever and ever.

  Eventually, however, the sounds of the stable yard and the orchard and the gardens all broke through the still bounty of the passion he felt for Constance. Chickens clucked, horses called to one another, meadowlarks and robins chattered away, bees buzzed close to her yellow gown. He drew back and stared into hungry eyes. “Why do you always end up in my arms?” he asked on a hoarse whisper.

  “I don’t know,” she breathed. “It is too ridiculous, isn’t it? I behaved this way only once in my life, when I was a chit of fifteen. And how old are you to be kissing a wholly unsuitable female of whom your family could
only disapprove?”

  “I am seven and thirty, but I feel as though I’m eighteen if a day,” he whispered. “Constance, I will try very hard not to kiss you again while I am staying under your roof if you will try very hard not to find yourself alone with me.”

  She let him kiss her again. She hadn’t meant to, but his words were so sweet and so full of desperation that she raised her face to him and he obliged her.

  She no longer considered where his kisses would end. She knew the answer—in the hopelessness of her attachment to him. Yet kissing him as she was seemed to satisfy her need to be connected to him, even if the gesture was both transitory and woefully incomplete.

  As to his wish she stay away from him, she was not certain that was what she would do.

  ***

  Chapter Nine

  When Constance left Ramsdell to prepare the day’s entries for her ledger books, she had great difficulty concentrating on the task at hand. She enjoyed being with him so very much, more than she ought, but she could not escape a faint uneasiness that had seeped into her mind.

  She knew he had meant only what would have been best for herself and her sisters by questioning her judgment in having refused Upton. Her strong reaction to his criticism had not been directed toward him, but toward the memories that the conversation had evoked. Upton’s offer had been a deep insult to her. She had been angry when she refused him. She was angry when Ramsdell hinted she should have accepted him.

  Then he had been deeply apologetic and had meant to express his heartfelt regret at having recommended Upton by kissing her. She leaned her elbow on her desk, her mind falling backward. She could taste him still. Mr. Rose’s ale had been a pleasantly bitter flavor on her lips.

  How thoroughly he had kissed her. How easily she had let him. How much she had wanted the kiss to go on forever.

  Yet, he was far, far above her touch and always would be. She allowed herself to dream for a moment, that he was her equal and love had blossomed fully between them. She tried to imagine being swept into the usual course of events—a sweet courtship, a brief engagement, a wedding breakfast and formal nuptials shared with their immediate families, perhaps in the blue drawing room. She would leave with him on a honeymoon and return—where? Not to Lady Brook, but to his home.