The Defiant Miss Foster & A Highly Respectable Widow

by Melinda McRae

  He was standing beside the wagon, his hand curled about the ladle he dipped into the barrel of fresh, cool water. Katherine could not tear her eyes away from him. The form-fitting breeches, riding low over his narrow hips, only emphasized the hard, muscled plane of his abdomen. As he turned, she nearly gasped at the sight of the dark, curling hairs that trailed down his belly, disappearing into the waistband of his breeches. It was an all-too-clear reminder of what lay lower, and Katherine was stunned to have such thoughts enter her mind. She quickly raised her eyes, but the sight of his upper torso did little to settle her equilibrium. She watched in fascination as he poured water over his upper body and arms, her eyes following each rivulet as it traced its path down his bronzed skin.

  As if sensing her gaze, Knowlton turned slowly. His gray eyes met hers and a lazy smile creased his face. Katherine’s

  269

  cheeks flamed, but she did not turn away quickly enough to miss the ostentatious wink he directed at her. She wanted to take to her heels and not stop until she was safely back at the cottage, with every door and window bolted against him. But she knew that would be no protection against the traitorous thoughts that danced through her mind.

  “How nice of you to offer your help with the harvest, Mrs. Mayfield.”

  Knowlton’s words caused Katherine to freeze, afraid of what her eyes would reveal if she faced him. Yet she would look foolish beyond belief if she tried to converse with him with her back turned.

  Turning toward him, she took care to keep her eyes averted. “I think I will find it an interesting experience.”

  Katherine realized her mistake instantly. There was no relief in keeping her gaze lowered, for it directed her glance to that thatch of dark, curling hair that swept up across his abdomen from the edge of his breeches. Katherine hastily raised her eyes to meet Knowlton’s knowing gaze.

  “Poor Mrs. Mayfield,” he teased. “She cannot decide what is worse—a half-naked man’s chest or his face.” Deliberately he began to towel the droplets of water off his chest with his crumpled shirt.

  Katherine’s cheeks flamed. “If you had any decency, you would not be parading around in such a state of undress,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “If I had any decency, Mrs. Mayfield, you would not even think twice about the situation.” He grinned wickedly. “Why, if Mr. Ashe removed his shirt, I doubt you would have any reaction at all.”

  She had a strong urge to slap that silly smirk off his face. He did this on purpose, she knew, but his aim puzzled her. If anything was guaranteed to cause her to draw away in alarm, it was his outrageous behavior. He took such pains to deny his rakish reputation, yet now he rashly dispelled his protestations with his actions. What was he trying to accomplish—beyond leaving her inarticulate with irritation?

  He pulled his damp shirt over his head, covering himself, but for Katherine the damage had been done. The image of that muscled chest, the dark hairs swirling into patterned whorls, was emblazoned on her mind.

  Knowlton casually took her elbow and led her to the other side of the cart.

  “I am hungry,” he said. “And it is your job to feed me.” He thrust a plate into her hands.

  Katherine fumed silently, filling the plate to overflowing with every bit of food she could. Watching him from the corner of her eye as he leaned casually against the wagon side, his arms folded over that now-hidden chest, she again rued the day she had decided not to quit the neighborhood. She busied herself with the food, studiously avoiding the earl until she shoved the heaping plate into his grasp.

  “Oh, good,” he said, eyeing the pile of food with feigned enthusiasm. “I am starved. And thirsty. Some ale, if you please, Mrs. Mayfield?”

  Her hands itched to dump the foaming mug over the top of his aristocratic head. But she somehow knew that if she did, it would be his victory and not hers. She contented herself with ignoring him for the remainder of the work break.

  Knowlton grinned inwardly every time he caught a glimpse of her bustling about the food wagon. He knew she avoided him intentionally, and reckoned that a triumph. Mrs. Mayfield must be closer to surrender than he had thought, if the sight of his half-naked body could inflame her so. There had been time to catch a glimpse of the look in her eyes before she turned from him. He recognized admiration—and desire—when he saw it. He could not have planned things better if he tried. He was almost tempted to remain with the harvesters for the duration, if it would quicken the outcome of the campaign.

  But fruits too often displayed might pale with familiarity. Far better that she have time to think on and remember what she had seen today during the next week. It would make the last day of the harvest all the sweeter. He was becoming a master at controlling his anticipation, and if it had half the effect on Mrs. Mayfield that it had on him, she would be a quivering blob of jelly by next week. The thought cheered him as he picked up the sickle. His muscles were already beginning to stiffen, and if he did not get back to the field, he doubted he would be able to continue for much longer.

  * * *

  Robbie could barely keep his eyes open when Katherine finally dragged him home. The men were still cutting when she left the field, but there was no point in Robbie exhausting himself the first day. Katherine stood over him while he scrubbed his arms and face, then tucked him into bed. She was certain he was asleep before she reached his door.

  She smiled at his enjoyment of the day. He had been so eager to help. Harvest was a fascinating process; she had been glad to participate herself. If working at the harvest meant she and Robbie could eat with the workers and avoid the expense of a week’s meals, all the better.

  Today, trading gossip with the other women, Katherine for the first time felt a part of the community. At first she had been surprised to learn the vicar’s wife and daughters always attended harvest, but they explained it had long been a tradition in the parish. The earl’s household prepared the food, and the parish ladies served. It made harvest go faster, and by freeing up the laborer’s wives to help in the field, it put a few extra pennies in the farmers’ coffers. And since the earl held the living, it was only thoughtful on their part to help him with the harvest.

  They had also told her more about the Harvest Home, the premier celebration in the neighborhood each year. Knowlton intended it for the tenantry and villagers, but Mrs. Ashe said the gentry came from miles around as well. It was the only festivity at Warrenton that the mothers felt comfortable sending their daughters to, she confided. Not that she wished to speak ill of the earl, for he was a good man. But there had been more than one party at the house with women that no God-fearing member of the parish would wish to associate with. Mrs. Ashe did give the earl credit for keeping his hands off the local lasses. He had done nothing to earn the enmity of the neighborhood.

  Unbidden, the image of Knowlton, with rivulets of water rolling down his torso, rose again in Katherine’s mind. She shook her head as if to rid her brain of the mental picture. He was even more audaciously attractive than Robert, she realized with a start, shocked that such a comparison came to her. Knowlton knew the power of his attraction, and

  used it with a skill she was forced to admire. Those expressive gray eyes, which could change in an instant from cool cynicism to smoky warmth, haunted her thoughts.

  Her pure, physical reaction to Knowlton shook her more than she cared to admit. It stirred up emotions and passions that she had struggled to subdue during the six long years of her widowhood, for passion was a luxury she could not afford. At best, it was a transient emotion, and at worst, it could bring disaster. But today the earl had shown her just how close to the surface those feelings lay, and how easily they could spring back to life.

  It was foolish in the extreme, for there was no respectable outcome to any passing fancy he might entertain of her. She had no illusions whatsoever about her status in his eyes—dalliance perhaps, but nothing more. She knew his reputation as a womanizer, and he had done nothing to dispel that notion fr
om the day they met. On the contrary, he had done everything to confirm it. If she had not been a fool, she would have packed up their belongings and hustled herself and Robbie into the next county within hours of that first meeting.

  Yet she had not, and it became apparent to her that she was being drawn deeper and deeper into his web, losing her will to resist his blatant charm. She was lonely; she did want for companionship, and the earl would only be too eager to provide it. She simply could not let him disturb her so. She would have to keep her own emotions firmly in check during her dealings with him. From now on, she would be immune to his wiles and tricks. Buoyed by her new confidence, she picked up the lamp and made her way up the stairs to bed. As long as she remained steadfast in her resistance, she was safe.

  So why did that thought depress her?

  Chapter Seven

  The Mellow Autumn came, and with it came

  The promised party, to enjoy its sweets.

  —Byron, Don Juan

  The day of Warrenton’s Harvest Home dawned clear and sunny. Knowlton hummed a bawdy ditty as he wrapped the intricate starched length of cravat around his neck, weaving it into an impeccable knot a la Warrenton. It was deucedly foolish to dress so formally for an outdoor party, but the tenantry expected their lord to look like, well, a lord. He could only be grateful they did not expect him to appear in white satin knee breeches with a chapeau bras under his arm. Ah, well, by the early evening he would have discarded most of this tomfoolery. He stuck a fine ruby stickpin in his neckcloth, fastened two fobs to his chain, and looked to Rigsby for assistance in donning his skin-hugging coat.

  Taking the back stairs, Knowlton quickly made his way to the kitchen. That room was full of bustling servants, with Cook up to her elbows in flour as she prepared the last- minute dainties for the feast. Knowlton grabbed a piece of sugared apple out from under her nose, earning himself a scowl, which he returned with a laugh. He exited the house and circled around to the front, noting with approval that the long tables were already set out on the south lawn. His staff bustled about, laying out the tablecloths and setting up the serving dishes. Across the drive, the livestock pens awaited their customers. Satisfied that all was going according to custom, Knowlton strolled back into the house through the terrace doors.

  The large drawing-room table was piled high with wrapped packages, cups of silver, and beribboned medallions. He smiled. It gave him great pleasure to hand out the various prizes and awards. The trinkets were not much, but they were treasured and valued by their winners. He knew many a farmhouse that still displayed prizes won during his grandfather’s day. It cost him little, yet cemented his tenants’ loyalty.

  He circled the room, glancing in dismay at the mantel clock. The guests would not be arriving for at least an hour, and there was no way of knowing when she would arrive. He had no particular plans for dealing with Mrs. Mayfield today, preferring to wait and see what opportunities developed. But he was quite certain that he would have made significant progress in his pursuit by the end of the evening. He had let the anticipation build for long enough. It was time to reap the fruits of his sacrifice.

  “Now, Robbie, promise you will not eat too many sweets.” Katherine could see the tables groaning under the weight of the food upon them. The earl’s party promised to be as lavish a display as rumor held. “And be careful of your clothes. I do not think those breeches will stand for another patching.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Robbie replied absently, his mind on the delights ahead. Sam had said there would be more food than he could imagine, and games and races. He wished there had been some pony races, for then he could ride Atlas. But Knowlton said there were too few lads in the district with ponies and they would have to race on foot instead.

  Edging away from his mama’s watchful eye, Robbie desperately hoped he would win some contest, for then he could receive his prize from Lord Knowlton. Sam had said the earl always gave out the prizes. And after the prizes they could eat their fill and watch the grown-ups as they danced and sang. Sam said it could get pretty entertaining later in the evening, when most of the men were in their cups. The party would grow loud and boisterous and no one would care what the younger boys did. Robbie did not think his mama would allow him to stay that long, but he hoped he could stay out of her way long enough to have fun.

  Katherine looked about her with growing interest. Across the drive, makeshift pens filled with farm animals covered one section of the lawn. She saw Robbie and Sam reaching over one barrier to pet the enclosed sheep.

  She deliberately tried to avoid spotting the earl, averting her gaze whenever she saw a man who looked to be dressed remotely as she thought Knowlton might be. Yet when she had not seen him after a half-hour, she grew anxious. He was here today, was he not? Perhaps he only made his appearance in the evening, after the dining. In which case all her silly posturing to avoid him had been most foolish and—

  “Good day, Mrs. Mayfield.” Knowlton was suddenly in front of her, sweeping an elegant bow.

  Katherine started. Had she conjured up the man out of thin air?

  He gently clasped her elbow. “Shall we stroll about the grounds? I believe you have not seen the gardens yet?”

  “I do not think—”

  “ ’Tis a pity. I appreciate a beautiful woman who can think.”

  “I see it is to be a day of flummery from you, sir,” she said, but made no move to free herself. She could firmly control the situation. “Can you afford to ignore the rest of your guests in such a cavalier manner?”

  “They have already seen the gardens,” he said with a wicked grin. “ ’Twould be only a dull procession for them.”

  “While I shall be filled with transports of delight?”

  “Undoubtedly,” he replied. “My gardeners do their work well.”

  They crossed the gravel drive, following the flagged path that led around the house to the rear terrace and the gardens spread below.

  “I have yet to thank you for allowing Robbie to help with the harvest. He enjoyed himself immensely.” She offered him a grateful smile.

  It was such a rare reward that he nearly caught his breath. How he would like to have that dazzling smile bestowed upon himself more often. In reward for other achievements. He patted her hand. “Harvest was my favorite time of year when I was his age,” he said.

  “And now?”

  He looked at her quizzingly.

  “Do you still enjoy harvest above all?”

  A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes, “No,” he said slowly, his voice low and seductive. “There are other pursuits I find more enjoyable now.”

  Katherine quickly averted her gaze. Fool, she chided herself. She had walked straight into that one.

  Knowlton smiled and took her hand in his, leading her down the terrace steps as if nothing had been said. Knowing he needed to quickly redeem himself ere she fled, he calmly pointed out the organization of the garden as if he were unaware of the attractiveness of the woman at his side.

  “I should like you to see it in high summer, when the blooms are at their fullest,” he said as they strolled back toward the house. “Or in spring, when the first color appears. I shall have the gardeners send you some bulbs for the cottage.”

  “That is kind of you, my lord,” Katherine replied with a wary look.

  He laughed aloud. “Kindness is rarely the virtue ascribed to me. There are those who would say that even the simple gift of some flowers to a delectable widow is only a sign of my baser intentions.”

  “Is it?” Katherine stopped and calmly surveyed him. It was what she herself believed. Would he have the honesty to admit it?

  “You wound me with your suspicions.” Knowlton placed a hand over his heart. “Here I have behaved with the utmost circumspection for at least ten minutes, yet you still doubt my intentions? Have I given you any cause to question my actions?”

  Katherine had to admit he had not. Overtly. But she knew he was watching her, wanting her, seducing her wit
h his eyes and his wickedly innocent—and not-so-innocent— words. Yet to accuse him on such grounds would make her look a fool.

  “I thought not.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm again and led her back toward the front lawns. “I think, for that slur, Mrs. Mayfield, that you owe me a boon.”

  “What did you have in mind, my lord?”

  He eyed her with amusement. She knew perfectly well what he had in mind, the saucy witch. It was all part of this game that they played, the verbal sparring, the penetrating glances, the averted gaze when he had crossed the line. He thrust, she parried in as excellent a display of swordsmanship as he had seen in a long time. But he would slip past her guard eventually and his lance would hit home.

  “A simple dance, my lady. An unexceptionable request.”

  Nothing he did was unexceptionable, thought Katherine suspiciously. Still, it was only a dance. There could be little danger in that.

  “I will grant you a dance, my lord. But nothing more.”

  “Knowlton,” he responded. “Certainly, Mrs. Mayfield, after an acquaintance of our duration, you can find it within yourself to call me by my name, at least. No one would find it the least bit forward.”

  She frowned. He was doing it again, teasing her and skirting around the edge of a blatant flirtation.

  “Very well, Knowlton."

  He flashed her a grin of triumph before they were once again enveloped by the gathering on the front lawn. He deftly instigated a polite conversation with the vicar, drew Katherine into it, then drifted off as if that brief interlude in the garden had never happened.