Angel's Guardian

by Scottie Barrett

  Angeline was tempted to ask how she was supposed to forget that when she was constantly being reminded of it. She settled on a disdainful lift of her shoulders.

  “A young woman does not shrug to express herself.” Constance narrowed her eyes as she considered Angeline’s appearance. “We will have to devise a coiffure that will hold that heavy hair of yours. Or we might consider cutting it into a modern crown of curls.”

  It had taken Angeline forever to get it to this length, and she wasn’t about to cut it. Worried for her locks, Angeline tried tact. “I’ve always admired your hair could I not wear it in a similar fashion. I believe Tabby could accomplish it.”

  Clearly flattered, Constance patted her smooth chignon. “We will see if the maid can manage it.”

  Constance opened a fashion magazine. “Mrs. Withers has very vulgar taste. The colors she chose were all wrong for your complexion. Not to mention the gauche ruffles and other frippery.” She shuddered delicately for emphasis. “Your wardrobe is so lacking, that your guardian has even taken an interest.”

  “Major Draxford?” Angeline asked in disbelief.

  “Have you another guardian, Miss Kent?” Constance asked. She pointed out some of the dresses that Draxford had approved of. “He made a specific request that he is never to see you again in those drab half-mourning gowns.” Angeline smoothed her hand over a fashion plate of a white gown with a dark blue velvet Spencer jacket. She had to admit that the dresses were so lovely that she could almost forgive Draxford’s overbearing attitude.

  “I suppose I should thank him.”

  “You will do no such thing. This wardrobe is not meant as a gift. It is merely to make you more presentable,” Constance said. “Have Tabby provide me with your measurements and I will put the modiste to work.”

  With an efficiency of manner, Constance set the magazine aside and pushed a piece of foolscap in front of Angeline. “One of the responsibilities of a wife is to plan a menu. Of course, a good hostess devises a menu to suit the occasion.” Constance had made lists of entrees, side dishes, and desserts. Mutton was the primary ingredient in many of the main dishes. Angeline knew from her time at Stanbury’s manor that it was a favorite of his.

  “Let us start with something simple, a four course meal. The entree should determine which savory and sweet dishes will follow.”

  As Constance continued to prattle on about flavors working together in harmony, Angeline dipped the quill into the inkwell and proceeded to list all of Draxford’s favorites. Not a mutton dish among them.

  Constance yanked the foolscap out from under her pen causing a long streak of ink to trail down the page. Her thin nostrils flared as she read over Angeline’s menu.

  “If you continue to ignore my instructions then I will have no choice but to report your behavior to the major. As if he doesn’t have enough to deal with. Poor man, thrust into a paternal position with such an ungrateful girl.”

  Angeline’s chair scraped loudly along the bare floor. “’Tis curious how often you mention Draxford but not a word about the person who I’m truly being trained to please.” She pulled out the map of Stanbury’s estate placed it in the center of the desk and tipped the inkwell over before leaving the room.

  ***

  Ensconced in the garden, Angeline winced as she recalled her actions in the nursery. Destroying the map had been childish, but the thought of marrying Hugh Stanbury made her desperate. She heard the hoofbeats behind her and tucked herself in the corner of the bench hoping that the shadow cast by the large willow tree would ensure her invisibility. She peeked through the branches and watched Draxford enter the house. Relieved, she bent her head to her journal again and was instantly absorbed.

  A short time later, the scent of tobacco broke her concentration. Her heart raced as she watched him approach. The sheer size of the man never failed to awe. Massively built, he had the ultimate warrior’s body.

  He took a seat beside her and leaned forward, resting his arms on his spread thighs, the cheroot dangling from his fingers. She glanced at his hard, handsome profile and wondered, despite hiding from him minutes ago, whether this inevitable meeting had been her true motive for playing the truant.

  He turned his head and looked at her, his pale gray eyes intense. “You will treat Miss Stanbury with civility.”

  “Certainly, when she stops imitating a wicked stepmother.”

  “You are still the same willful brat.”

  “While you, sir, have become a stiff-necked bully.” There was just the slightest flicker of his eyelids to suggest her taunt had pricked him. “I would be more cooperative if I wasn’t meant for Stanbury. I do not wish to marry him.”

  “And why is that?” Draxford took a leisurely drag from his cheroot, but there was nothing relaxed about him.

  “He drinks too much and he is not…a pleasant drunk.” She had intended to reveal Stanbury’s pawing, but though Draxford had become an enigma to her, she suspected he had the instinct to protect what was his and for now she belonged to him. She had no wish to watch hostilities flare up between neighbors. “Besides, he is nearly ten years my senior.”

  That arrow found its home, he actually flinched. Clearly, she’d managed to injure his vanity.

  “Stanbury and I are of the same age,” he said gruffly.

  “Then surely you of all people must see he is too old for me.” She knew it was a spiteful jab, but she could not seem to help herself she wanted to hurt him in some way as he’d hurt her. He’d made it clear he wanted her to learn a few tricks to impress Stanbury and then he wanted rid of her.

  “Men of my age marry women of yours every day.”

  “That may be true. But you cannot fault me for wanting a husband closer to my own age.”

  “I believe you have someone in mind.” He held out his hand for her journal.

  It was an imperious gesture as if he had the right to know all her private thoughts. Deciding it was not worth getting into an argument that she would surely lose, she set the piece of charcoal aside and handed the book to him.

  She’d been drawing a portrait of Benjamin at a three quarter angle. When it had come to depicting his scars she’d cheated and put that side of his face in shadows.

  “Last I heard he was in love with Olivia Mayhew.”

  “Yes, but Miss Mayhew has spurned his proposal. His war wounds--” She bit her lip. That probably wasn’t her news to share.

  “His scars do not trouble you?”

  “I will not pretend that I was not startled at first. But he is so personable that one quickly forgets the physical flaws.”

  “You have talent,” he said which gave her a shiver of pleasure. She was relieved to find him leafing backward through the book toward the frontispiece. He stopped at the portrait she’d done of him after the boxing match. She had captured him in all his masculine glory, but she had not shied away from showing the aftermath of the fight. The split eyebrow, the sweat soaked hair scraped back from his face, the raw knuckles were all present. With the lavish attention she’d given every aspect of his person, it would be completely obvious to anyone that she was obsessed with her subject.

  Not so obvious to the very subject himself. He merely took the opportunity to scold her again. “You should not have been there.”

  “Truth be told, I had not expected such a violent spectacle. It seemed less a sporting event and more a settling of a feud…at least on your part. I sensed you would not have been unhappy had the fight ended in the ultimate conclusion—the death of your opponent.’

  “Very astute.”

  She had not expected him to so readily confirm the lethal aim of the boxing match. “Why?”

  “Delayed justice.” He shut the book making it clear that this line of inquiry was at an end. Just as he made a motion to hand it back he paused and scrutinized t
he leather bound volume. Her heart jumped into her throat as she watched him run a thumb along the last pages of the journal, obviously realizing that a block of blank pages had been skipped. He certainly was not a man to miss details. She instantly questioned her earlier assumption. Of course he knew she was infatuated with him, and trying to mask it by calling him hateful names only made it plainer.

  As he flipped to the back of the book, she tried to snatch it out of his hands. His quick reaction put it out of her reach. “Bloody hell…,” he growled.

  She leapt from the bench hoping to make a mad dash to the house.

  “Sit down,” he roared.

  Trembling, she returned to the bench. She watched the muscle in his jaw jump as he turned the pages. “Who is the man?” She kept silent. A string of curses exited his mouth as he turned to the final page. How had she dared sketch that particular scene? It was so extreme, she felt wicked just looking at it. Harold, the footman, had enlisted two of his workmates to help debauch the widow.

  The expression on his face was thunderous. “I want names.”

  She shuddered. He sounded like the man who’d boxed so brutally, like someone who would bypass the use of pistol or sword and go straight to tearing the men apart with his bare hands.

  Aghast, she suddenly realized what he was thinking. It was a reasonable assumption, the woman’s hair obscured her features. Besides how many sheltered females were privy to such scenes. “That is not me,” she cried. “She’s a neighbor of Mrs. Withers. They would meet in the stables. When I returned from a ride they’d be there. They practically invited an audience.”

  Her explanation was met with a skeptical lift of one black eyebrow.

  “A bit late to act the outraged guardian. ‘Twas you who abandoned me to a stranger.”

  “Forgive me, but I did not have the luxury of staying home from the war to coddle you.”

  She suppressed the urge to ask him why he hadn’t collected her once he’d returned to England.

  He ran his finger down the cryptic notes she’d written on the reverse side of the drawing depicting the widow on her knees with her mouth stretched wide to accommodate the girth of the footman’s shaft. “What are these notes?”

  “I wrote down the instructions he’d barked out at the widow. He was very demanding.”

  The color drained from his face. He loosened his neckcloth.

  “I knew an opportunity like that would not occur again.”

  His brows pulled together. The poor man looked utterly confounded.

  “To hear such detailed directions on how to please a man…while remaining a virgin,” she clarified. She looked down at her charcoal smudged hands clasped demurely in her lap, but the devil in her soon asserted itself. “I often imagined myself kneeling--”

  “Christ,” he said in a strangled voice.

  He ran his finger under his collar as if he was having trouble breathing.

  He paged through the risqué drawings again as he tapped the ashes off his cheroot with his other hand. He stopped on the final page where the woman was enjoying the attention of three men.

  The muscle in his jaw was jumping.

  “There is only one man whom I would want to do all those things to me.”

  Though, now clear of ashes, he tapped his cheroot over and over again. “And who would that be?”

  Did she really dare?

  Balancing the open journal on his thigh, he turned his hard gaze on her. “Minx, you are testing my limits.”

  Her cheeks were flaming. “Surely you must have guessed.”

  Her admission seemed to vibrate through his big frame.

  “According to Mrs. Withers I am fashioned for sin; that my mother was a whore and I shall be as well.” Unable to hold his intense gaze, she looked down at her hands.

  “I want you to forget everything that woman ever told you.”

  “She was cruel, but I do not think she was entirely wrong about me. I wonder, is it usual for someone with a sensual nature to have a singular passion for only one man?”

  She felt his body stiffen beside her. “Angel, sweeting, no more,” he pleaded. He ripped the offending pages at the stitching before handing her back the journal. “Your husband will have the privilege of instructing you in such matters.” He held the glowing tip of his cheroot to the paper then stood up and dropped the flaming pages into a stone urn. He waited until they were nothing but cinders before walking away.

  ***

  Nicholas headed across the lawn, hoping to shake off an impossibly hard erection before entering the house. The chit was trying to seduce him, and a practiced Cyprian couldn’t do a better job of it. Nicholas thought of those lips, the sweetly bowed upper lip, the plush lower lip, wrapped around his cock and he wanted to drop to his knees and howl. She was being playful, pawing at him like a harmless kitten without realizing the consequences of her flirtations. She was awakening a sleeping demon inside him that he’d only suspected existed. He’d had talented mistresses in the past but none had ever stirred this extreme desire. He wanted to master her, to possess her in every sinful way possible. His heart had nearly broken from his chest as he’d waited for her to name the man she wished to perform such carnal acts with. Selfish bastard that he was, it would have destroyed him had she named someone other than himself.

  He should be grateful that she’d set her sights on Benjamin, it signaled that the fight had gone out of her, that she’d reconciled herself to getting married. Of the brothers, Benjamin was undoubtedly the better man. And having a spirited handful like that to manage might allow him to move beyond dwelling on his disfigurement.

  Unfortunately, Benjamin was completely dependent on his brother for financial support. Of course, the solution was simple, Nicholas could bestow a generous dowry on Angeline. That along with her inheritance would see them comfortably situated. It might even help alleviate the guilt that continued to pull at his conscience for passing her off to someone so wholly unsuitable as Mrs. Withers.

  A sudden thought occurred to him. It was not coincidence that she happened on that bastard fucking the neighbor. He stomped back across the lawn, trying and failing to keep his temper under control.

  The stubborn chit was heading in the right direction, but at a reluctant pace. Her eyes widened as he bore down on her. When he stood before her, she at least had the good sense to blush.

  “The footman wanted you.”

  Her eyes blinked even wider.

  “Don’t play the innocent with me. The man was bloody preening for you.”

  She dropped her gaze. “He did approach me,” she finally admitted. “’Twas obvious he was not used to hearing ‘no’. He was a bit of a beast about it. Kit came out from behind the hedge he’d been trimming, brandishing his pruners and promising he’d lop off the man’s favorite appendage.” She caught her bottom lip with her teeth, clearly to keep from smiling.

  Nicholas didn’t find the situation humorous. In fact, he was in the mood to destroy something. Christ, a kindly servant had stood between Angeline and certain ruin or something far worse.

  “Selfish to say, but ‘twas lucky for me that Mrs. Withers misused Kit as a jack-of-all-trades. His gardening talents were often wasted on hauling water, mucking the stables. But, he covered so much territory in his work and he always seemed to be about when I most needed him.”

  Nicholas dragged an unsteady hand through his hair. ”Go back to the house and behave yourself,” he ordered and instantly regretted his gruff tone when he saw tears start in her eyes. He congratulated himself on being a prize bastard as he watched her walk away her thin shoulders hunched, her body shaking with sobs.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Angeline stopped in front of the closed dining room door, smoothed her skirt and thrust her chin out ready for battle. Constance glanced up from her plate
and eyed Angeline’s riding habit with a peevish expression, but Angeline was determined not to spend the day locked away in the nursery. If she had to endure one more lesson about how to serve tea she would scream.

  Draxford set his paper aside and watched her approach, his gray eyes unreadable. A feeling of shyness swept over her. It had been days since she’d confessed her infatuation with him, and she still found it impossible to hold his gaze.

  “Good morning,” Angeline said and plucked a plate from the sideboard. She never had much of an appetite in the morning. She took a piece of toast and a spoonful of eggs. Tabby who had just deposited a basket of scones on the board tsked, tsked at her nearly empty plate and managed to toss a rasher of bacon atop the eggs before Angeline took a seat.

  Tabby handed her a cup of tea.

  “I’d rather have coffee.”

  “There’s none made.”

  “But, why not? The major prefers it.” She glanced over her shoulder at the sideboard. “And I don’t see his favorite, black pudding.”

  “You are too presumptuous,” Constance said, glaring at her across the table.

  “Actually, she has a good memory,” Draxford said. “A soldier gets used to rations, and eats whatever is put in front of him. One forgets there are choices.”

  Angeline felt a little thrill of vindication. “I’m certain there are some coffee beans in the larder. I will speak with the cook.”

  “Tomorrow will be soon enough,” he said

  Angeline concentrated on spreading marmalade on her toast, as she gathered courage to speak again. “May I accompany you today, Major? I haven’t visited the farms in ages.”

  “I am not making social calls.”

  “I could be helpful. I could make introductions.”

  “I do believe they’ll know the master of the estate when they see him,” Constance said.

  Angeline spooned some sugar into her tea and concentrated on the cup as she stirred. “I hear there’s a new vicar.”