by Nichole Van
Peter stood, smile strained. “Nothing, Mother. Jane and I were merely talking—”
“Really, Jane? Minerals again?” Her mother advanced into the room, her mouth pulling into a full frown.
“Yes, Mother,” Jane all but sighed. “I am attempting to re-categorize—”
“Bah!” Her mother flapped a hand. “I don’t wish to hear it. It’s no wonder you are nearly five and twenty and unmarried. Just one more example of your wayward tendencies—”
“Mother,” Peter said, taking a step toward Lady Hadley, “Jane’s minerals are hardly a slight on her character. Simply an innocuous hobby. Come.” He placed a hand under her elbow. “Allow me to accompany you on a stroll around the parterre garden.”
Lady Hadley shot Jane another displeased look, but allowed Peter to lead her from the room.
For his part, Peter winked at Jane over their mother’s head as he walked out the doorway.
Bless Peter.
Jane stared after him, concern banding her chest.
Oh, Peter. What is to become of us?
11
In an effort to reign in her own wayward tendencies, Jane tried to avoid Hadley over the next several days. His ungoverned nature called too strongly to her own; better to remove the temptation altogether. Heaven knew what her mother was saying to Montacute about it.
Unfortunately, avoiding Hadley proved difficult. The man was a veritable menace to sensible ladies everywhere.
For example, she happened upon Hadley as he directed the spring sheep shearing near the river. He stood knee deep in the water, dressed only in his kilt and shirt-sleeves, assisting the men in dunking the sheep to wash the wool before shearing. Hadley was oblivious to the way his wet shirt clung to his shoulders, rendering the linen nearly transparent, his wool kilt swirling in the current.
Jane stared far longer than was proper. So perhaps Peter was right—she maybe nurtured a horrifically-improper fantasy or two . . .
As if feeling her eyes on him, Hadley turned and raised a hand in greeting, giving her an impressive view of his linen-soaked chest, muscles bunching, water dripping down his arm.
The sight knocked the air out of her.
Worse, before Jane could manage a response beyond stunned admiration, he had wiped his hands on his kilt and turned back around with that exaggerated swagger.
Dratted man.
Everywhere she went, Hadley had been there first.
He helped Lucas Fletcher mend his south fence, fixed the flue of Widow Iverson’s chimney, and even visited the vicar for tea.
How could the man be so vulgar and free-mannered and yet so annoyingly capable at the same time? The sheer audacity of it infuriated her.
The bloody Scotsman should be monolithic in his defects. Vulgar and incompetent. Coarse and unfit.
His mixing of good and bad qualities—kind but unmannered, skilled but boisterous—addled her thinking and sense of order.
This was particularly evident during a visit to the rambunctious Brady clan. She had come to show them her minerals, as promised. The children cooed over the stones but then immediately moved on to talking about the new earl.
Her minerals were utterly forgotten.
The rest of her visit was filled with nothing but ‘Lord Hadley is such a kind gentleman,’ and ‘Lord Hadley helped birth a lamb,’ and ‘Lord Hadley looks so comely in his kilt with his bare legs showing—’
Fine. So maybe she had made up the last one . . .
Regardless, by the time she bid the Brady family farewell, Jane was fair simmering.
These were her people. Hers! How dare Hadley sway their allegiance like this!
She quietly contemplated methods of revenge as she guided Thunder toward Hadley Park. It was only after imagining a particularly vivid scene which ended with Hadley groveling at her feet, begging forgiveness, that Jane finally asked herself the obvious question—
Why did Lord Hadley annoy her so thoroughly?
Was it simply the spark of attraction that flared between them—the horror that her baser self found Hadley physically appealing?
Or was it more?
Wind filtered through the trees, rustling the leaves. The chimneys of Rosehearth rose before her. A single trail of smoke drifted upward, signaling the presence of the elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Carlton, who cared for the house now. Nanny Smith, the woman who had essentially raised Jane and Peter, had passed on nearly a decade ago. Their nanny had been a woman of deep wisdom; Jane still felt the pang of her loss.
She clucked Thunder onward.
Unbidden, words from Nanny Smith surfaced:
Often, when we take a dislike to someone, it is because we see our own failings in them. We hate these faults in ourselves, and so we abhor them in others.
We detest seeing our own flaws reflected back at us.
Jane ground her teeth but faced the truth of the words—
Her own wild, base self had only ever brought her shame and pain. Her inability to completely control her thoughts and actions made her undesirable on the Marriage Mart.
Become a lady . . . no one will want you otherwise.
Hadley, however, readily embraced his baser self, never bothering to restrain his bawdier impulses.
Of course, Hadley was a man and an earl. As such, he might endure the scorn of some of his peers, but he would never know true despair because of his behavior.
Ah.
And therein lay her disgust.
How unfair that Hadley could gad about, acting a complete scapegrace and everyone loved him.
But if Jane were to do such a thing, even in the most trivial way—like make a face or, heaven forbid, laugh at a monkey playing in its cage—she suffered the consequences for years.
Despite being an English noblewoman, she had significantly less freedom than a lowly Scottish oaf.
Bitterly, Jane acknowledged the emotion for what it was—jealousy.
By the time she turned Thunder down the long lane leading to the front of the house, her blood was at a low simmer.
Shouting reached her from the lawn to her left. Turning in her seat, she saw Lord Hadley brace his hands under a log and lift it, end first.
Wait—
She pulled Thunder to a full stop.
She blinked. And then blinked again to make sure she wasn’t seeing a mirage.
No. She had not been mistaken.
Hadley was balancing a log on end.
His kilt swished as he staggered, bracing the enormous log against his shoulder. It rose into the sky at least twenty feet, teetering precariously.
A group of men stood well-back from him, cheering and laughing—the gardeners and gamekeepers, grooms and stable master, even a footman or two.
Truthfully, the sight should not have surprised her.
Of course, Hadley would balance trees on end and parade them around the estate. It seemed as logical as everything else he did.
Was this what her life had come to then? A man hefting trees was now reckoned a normal, Wednesday-morning activity?
And yet . . .
Hadley struggled to keep control over the log. It circled, threatening to topple, but finally, he wrested it into submission.
And then he took off at a run.
Running . . .
. . . with the log . . .
. . . directly toward her . . .
Jane surged to her feet, a scream in her throat.
The Earl of Hadley sprinted across the lawn, still balancing the enormous log on end, kilt flying.
And headed her direction.
Jane tightened her hand on the reins, preparing to move.
However, Hadley abruptly stopped well before reaching her and hurled the log upward. The continued forward momentum sent the thing flying end over end, tipping it with a crash to the ground. The log landed nearly straight in front of the earl, the top of it pointing toward Jane’s phaeton.
A cheer went up from the gathered men.
Chest heaving from exert
ion, Hadley placed his hands on his hips, neck bowed.
Jane pressed a hand to her own chest.
Heavens!
Why—
What—
Hadley remained stationary for another moment before finally lifting his head.
His gaze found hers immediately.
Their eyes clashed.
A devilish grin split his face.
He touched a forelock in salute before stomping in her direction.
Oh, bother.
She couldn’t very well cluck Thunder into a walk now. It would be tantamount to fleeing the enemy on the battlefield. It didn’t help that his grin grew cockier with each step in her direction.
“My lord,” she said coolly as he drew abreast of her.
“Lady Jane.” He said her name in a deeply sardonic tone.
She looked pointedly toward the log lying on the ground behind him. “Did you give up on dogs and decide to walk trees instead? Will I see you attempting to corral stones next?”
Naturally, he laughed at her acerbic comment, white teeth flashing.
Jane ground her teeth. “At the very least, you have managed to distract the staff from their duties.”
“Och, every man needs tae try his luck at the caber.” He wrapped his left hand around the edge of her carriage.
Jane stared down at it. He wore no gloves (of course) and his hand was hardly that of a gentleman. Rangy knuckles and long fingers, bulging veins and a smattering of hair, a long white scar standing out in his tanned skin.
A hand that knew manual labor and work.
Beautiful—
No.
Jane instantly snuffed out the thought. Her unhelpful wild self would not be allowed a voice here.
Unsettling. Indecent. Coarse.
Those were the correct words.
Unfortunately, her thoughts meant that it took Jane a moment to filter what he had just said.
“Pardon? The what?”
“The caber.” Hadley turned halfway and waved a hand at the enormous log that Master MacTavish and Tam MacDonald were carrying back to the other waiting men.
Jane opened her mouth to speak, shut it, and then lapsed into silence.
She could find nothing to say.
“Tossin’ the caber is a Scottish tradition. I ken yer no’ a man until ye’ve tried it,” he continued.
Jane stared.
There was so much to unpack there. Scottish traditions involved hurling lumber? Throwing logs was a prerequisite to manhood?
Besides his hand was still holding on to her carriage and she found it fascinating—
No. Repulsive. She found his hand repulsive.
She did.
Jane pressed two gloved fingers against her brow ridge before retrieving the equilibrium to continue the conversation. “Do Scots habitually throw large things?”
“Oh, aye.” Hadley’s grin was ridiculous.
“B-but why?” Jane deeply resented that his absurd behavior had reduced her to stuttering.
“Why?” He smiled wider, teeth flashing in his tanned face. “Why tae make the lasses stop and stare, o’ course.”
“What lass would ever find such a thing as that”—she flapped a hand toward the caber, now being hefted by one of the under-gardeners—“attractive?” Even Jane marveled at her baffled tone.
Hadley glanced behind at the men and then turned back to her.
“Well, you stopped, did ye not?”
He clucked Thunder to walk on.
And then had the sheer audacity to wink at her and wave that absurdly unattractive left hand in farewell.
Jane did not surrender to watching him walk off, that bloody kilt of his surely swinging back and forth like a bell.
Unfortunately, the image of it stayed in her mind just the same.
After days of kilt wearing, manual labor, Highland games, and endless deliberate social gaffs, Andrew was unsure if his uncouth behavior was having the effect he intended.
Well . . . that wasn’t quite true.
Lady Hadley had begun to avoid him, as he had suggested she do. When his presence became too much, she simply rose and left the room. His only interaction with Lady Hadley was hearing her voice from a distance admonishing Lady Jane to not forget her parasol or to sit up straighter.
Part of him thought it was perhaps time to give up the charade of his excessive Scottishness. As Kieran had said in the beginning, his relatives likely wouldn’t notice a difference anyway.
But then Lady Jane would heave a long sigh over his behavior. Or let an acerbic comment slip. Or, when she assumed no one was looking, roll her eyes. He took endless delight in trying to crack her elegant reserve.
And so, Andrew couldn’t bring himself to give up the act quite yet. He desperately wanted to see the woman from the stream again—cursing, dripping wet, and spitting fire. The image of an angry, mussed Jane appealed tremendously—a point he chose not to examine too closely.
Andrew simply needed to figure out how to permanently break her formidable composure.
That opportunity came nearly ten days after arriving at Hadley Park.
Andrew tracked down Peter and asked him for his answer. Would he accept Andrew’s offer of employment?
The younger man had hummed and hawed until Andrew suggested Peter accompany the steward, Kieran, and himself around the estate for an afternoon.
Peter had been stoic and quiet for the first hour. But then the steward had mentioned repairing the old mill, and they had all tromped over to take a look at it.
The building was in decent repair, but some of the mill mechanisms were damaged. Peter had spent a solid hour listening as Kieran explained to him how the gears turned the millstone, the mechanism being similar to that of a ship’s anchor hoist. By the end of the afternoon, the younger man had been brimming with ideas and asking endless questions, laughing easily with Kieran and the steward.
Andrew merely stood back and watched. It had proved his suspicions. Peter had a nimble mind and good intentions. He merely needed someone to have confidence in him.
At the end of it, Peter grudgingly agreed to help manage the estate. Andrew wasn’t naive enough to think that Peter would magically come to be a friend, but at least the younger man was no longer fighting him.
Returning to the house in the late afternoon, Andrew and Kieran coaxed Peter into sharing a drink in the billiards room, ostensibly to celebrate Peter’s decision.
Andrew hadn’t set out to get Peter soused. It was hardly his fault the lad couldn’t hold his drink.
But after a single finger of whisky, it was obvious that Peter was an absolute featherweight.
After two fingers, Kieran had convinced Peter to shed his claw-hammer coat and regale them with a song from his Eton days.
After three fingers, Peter had shucked his boots and neckcloth as well and was eager to learn a raucous Scottish drinking song, thanking Kieran over and over for his assistance.
They were two verses into “The Bonnie Lass of Fyvie” when Lady Jane found them. Granted, the door had been left wide open, causing the noise of their merriment to travel. Andrew was quite sure there was nary a corner of Hadley Park that didn’t ring with their laughter.
Andrew was honest enough to admit he was slightly foxed himself.
But nothing like Peter who was three sheets to the wind—roarin’ fou, as a Scot would describe it—sitting on the billiards table and singing, “O, come down the stairs, Pretty Peggy, my dear,” at the top of his voice. Thank goodness, he was a happy drunk.
Lady Jane froze in the doorway—her gaze swinging between Andrew and Kieran in their kilts and shirt sleeves and Peter in his waistcoat and stocking feet—her face firmly set to Prim Jane.
Bemused, Andrew noted her immaculately-cut day dress, white Indian muslin dotted with small green flowers and bordered with spooling filigree. A green silk ribbon wound through her auburn hair, small curls escaping to frame her face. She looked every inch the reserved, aristocratic lady.
“It’s verra accomplished.” Kieran raised his glass, taking a small sip.
Lady Jane’s brows drew down ever so slightly. A sign, Andrew had learned over the past few days, that she was upset. Her eyebrows were the only expression she permitted. And even then, they were hardly thunderously-angry eyebrows.
More vaguely-perturbed.
Lady Jane didn’t do grand displays of emotion when she had an audience. More’s the pity.
He liked Fiery Jane—chest-heaving, gaze raging, tongue lashing. Fiery Jane was a magnificent sight. Though at the moment, with color high in her cheeks and her eyes snapping with suppressed emotion, Prim Jane was staggeringly lovely.
She stoically took them all in, head swinging. And for a moment, Andrew thought she might leave without saying a word.
But he caught her eye and smirked, his expression deliberately gloating and triumphant. I’ve won this round.
Her gaze narrowed.
“It smells like a taproom.” Lady Jane waved a hand in front of her face. “Have you quite finished corrupting my brother, Lord Hadley?”
Before Andrew could say a word, Peter howled at the implied insult.
“I’m decidedly good at corrupting myself, I’ll have you know, Janie dearesht.” He jabbed a finger in her general direction, nearly toppling himself off the billiards table. Andrew lunged and snatched him by the shoulder, pulling him back. “I don’t need a bloody Shcotshman to help me.”
“Aye, lad.” Andrew slapped his back and then grabbed him when the momentum pushed Peter too far forward again. “Dinnae let yer woman-folk slander yer manhood.”
“He’s drunk as a wheelbarrow,” Jane observed, wrinkling her nose.
“It’s no’ ma fault he cannae handle a wee dram or two.” Andrew pressed a hand to his chest, weaving slightly.
Hmmm, perhaps he was more drunk than he thought—more proper fou than merely fou-ish.
Was that why Lady Jane looked particularly fetching in that gown?