By Love Undone

by Suzanne Enoch

  She stood, her cheeks flushing. “He is not of my station, and no doubt he would be quite insulted to hear you say such a thing.” Maddie took a slow, deep breath to calm herself down. “And being in the country,” she continued in a more moderate tone, “is called rusticating only when you wish to be somewhere else. Which I do not.”

  “Well, Miss Willits,” he returned, the fine lines around his eyes deepening as he smiled, “I must say I’m very pleased to have you here.” He gestured at the dresser. “Now, get the cards, if you don’t mind. I need to regain some of my losses.”

  A reluctant grin touched Maddie’s lips. “Yes, you owe me four million pounds, don’t you?”

  He scowled. “Only temporarily, girl.”

  Warefield had said they were to meet first thing in the morning. Therefore, when Maddie crept down to the stable just after dawn, she decided it would be his own fault for missing her. He should have been more specific about the time. She would be well on her way to Harthgrove before Lord Warefield even dreamed of rising.

  Most of the household staff was still to bed as she made her way out the rear entrance through the kitchen. The spring morning air had a bite to it, and she shivered despite her warm gray riding habit. Cold or not, though, Maddie smiled in amusement as she headed down the path to the stable. Hopefully the marquis would be forced to spend the day with Sam Cardinal or Walter after all, while she could sample the new berry pastries at the bakery and chat the morning away with Squire John Ramsey and his sister.

  She strolled around to the front of the stable—and stopped in confusion. Her mare, Blossom, stood saddled and waiting for her, Walter holding the reins. “Walter, what—”

  “Good morning, Miss Willits.”

  She jumped and spun around. The marquis was mounted upon the huge bay hunter he’d brought with him from Warefield. Maddie refused to admire the beast, and instead kept her annoyed attention focused on Langley’s unwelcome guest. He sat easily, looking down at her with a slight smile on his blasted handsome face. The early morning sun lightened the jade of his eyes to emerald. The marquis leaned forward with a creak of leather, taking several moments to peruse quite thoroughly her attire. No doubt he thought it cheap—though even her completely unflatterable self couldn’t help but notice the twinkle in his gaze and the responding flutter along her nerves.

  Feeling distinctly outmaneuvered, she smiled and curtsied. “Good morning, my lord.”

  “I’d begun to wonder whether you’d forgotten our appointment.” He wheeled the bay about as it pranced impatiently. “We did say first thing in the morning, did we not?”

  “Yes, we did, my lord,” she conceded airily, yanking the mare’s reins from Walter’s startled hands and stalking over so the groom could hand her up into the saddle. “I daresay I shall be the envy of the entire countryside today, being in your lordship’s company.”

  “I daresay that’s far too generous, but thank you for the compliment.”

  “You are quite welcome, my lord.” She nudged Blossom into a trot. “Shall we begin, my lord?”

  For just a moment he glanced at her dubiously, but before he could comment, she was off and moving toward the nearest of the tenant farms. Since he’d demanded her company, he would simply have to accept her “my lords” as well.

  A light breeze set the new elm leaves dancing in the treetops. Clouds tumbled slowly toward the rising sun, and she wondered whether they were in for another bout of rain. She certainly hoped not, for that would prolong the marquis’s stay at Langley.

  “You sit well, Miss Willits.” The bay cantered up beside her, and again Warefield’s eyes ran over her appraisingly.

  Maddie flushed. He didn’t need to sound so surprised, or to take so long gawking at her again. Once was quite enough to put her out of sorts. “You are far too kind, my lord,” she returned, wanting to roll her eyes at his stuffiness. “I daresay I ride adequately for Somerset, but my goodness, I’ve never seen such a splendid mount as yours.”

  Predictably, his expression warmed at the faux praise. “Old Aristotle’s a fine beast, indeed. I won him in a wager with my younger brother last year. If I don’t take him everywhere with me, Rafe’s been known to drop in at Warefield and attempt to make off with him.”

  “Only imagine, stealing a horse for amusement.” Maddie chuckled and snapped the end of her reins against her thigh, harder than she intended. She flinched at the sting and blamed Warefield for that as well. “And to think that if common folk did such a thing, they could be hanged for it!”

  He swung around to look at her, surprise and anger in his eyes. Perhaps he wasn’t as obtuse as she’d thought—this time he’d actually noticed the insult. Before he could comment, though, a fortunate disaster caught her attention. She sat up straighter and pointed ahead of them.

  “Oh, look, it’s Miss Marguerite! Headed straight for Mrs. Whitmore’s cabbage patch again, no doubt. We’d better head her off, or Langley will find itself in the middle of a tenant war.”

  The marquis regarded the pig trotting across the field in front of them. “She nearly sent my coach into a hedge yesterday. Several angry persons flailing farm implements were also involved.”

  Maddie grinned as she set Blossom into a canter behind the fleeing sow. “Yesterday? Miss Marguerite’s being quite industrious. It’s usually a week or more between escapes.”

  The marquis and Aristotle kept pace beside her. “Ah. This Miss Marguerite is a hardened criminal, then, I assume?”

  “Most definitely.” Abruptly, she remembered that she detested Warefield. “Though I daresay, my lord, that compared to the fascinating amusements of London, a marauding pig must be rather stale.”

  He laughed in response, an unexpectedly warm, infectious sound. “Not at all, Miss Willits. I don’t spend all my time in London, you know. And we do have pigs at Warefield.”

  “Not like this one, my lord.”

  Granting him a smug glance, she took off across the field in pursuit. As she’d predicted, Miss Marguerite had angled along the stream bank, making straight for the Whitmores’ small tenant farm. In a moment Warefield and Aristotle had flashed by her. He was a splendid rider, rust-colored coattails flying out behind him as he leaned low over the bay’s back. However numerous his other faults, she had to admit that he looked magnificent. Maddie held Blossom back, curious to see how his lordship would handle this little adventure.

  The marquis swept along the bank, swiftly closing the distance between himself and the pig. Miss Marguerite dodged sideways, and in response the marquis sent Aristotle forward in a sprint of speed, obviously trying to trap the pig between the horse and the stream. The maneuver would have been a sterling one, if not for the notorious mud at the edge of the water.

  “Your lordship, be careful of….” Maddie trailed off, grinning delightedly. This should be interesting.

  Aristotle reached the edge of the water. Feeling the ground give beneath his hooves, the bay balked and scrambled sideways to regain his footing. The marquis, his attention on the swerving pig in front of him, never saw it coming. With a startled yelp he went over the hunter’s head, and, reins and hat flying, landed with a resounding splash in the stream.

  “Damnation!”

  The marquis swarmed to his feet, water cascading off his fine rust riding coat and filling his beautiful Hessian boots. Even with the spring melt, the water rose only as high as his hips, which she supposed was fortunate since he’d gone in head first. As he swept his wet blond hair out of his eyes, he issued several very colorful curses under his breath, which the morning breeze carried to Maddie’s ears. They were quite imaginative, and he actually rose a notch or two in her estimation.

  She took a deep breath, trying to stifle the laughter welling in her throat. “Oh, no, my lord! Are you un-hurt?” she asked belatedly, coaxing Blossom closer to the stream.

  He spun around to glare at her. “Yes. Quite.”

  “How dreadful! I cannot imagine…Is the water very cold?”

>   “Yes.” Slowly he turned in a circle, then glowered up at her again. “Frightfully. Where is my hat?”

  “I believe I saw it…floating downstream, my lord.” A chuckle erupted from her chest, and she quickly covered it with a cough. “Do you wish me to fetch assistance, my lord?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  He eyed her blank face suspiciously, then shook water from his honey-colored hair and waded toward the bank. In the slippery mud he lost his footing and nearly went down again, and Maddie swiftly turned away, biting her lip to keep from laughing aloud.

  “I shall fetch Aristotle for you, my lord,” she said, and wheeled Blossom toward the stand of tall grass where the bay stood looking embarrassed by the whole affair.

  As soon as Miss Willits turned away to fetch his blasted horse, Quin scrambled ungracefully through the slick mud and made his way back up onto the stream bank. Water and mud squished coldly in his boots, and he sloshed over to a clear, sunny spot of field and sat down to pull them off.

  The deuced pig was out of sight, but Miss Willits seemed to know where the beast was going. He’d be damned if he’d let Miss Marguerite escape after this. In fact, he fully intended to dine on ham for luncheon. He dumped the first boot out and put it aside while he yanked off the second. Maddie approached with the horses behind him, cutting off any further cursing. “My thanks, Miss—”

  “Oh, my goodness!”

  At her shocked exclamation he froze. Miss Willits had clearly viewed his tumble into the stream with no anxiety and a great deal of amusement, and he couldn’t believe that the removal of his boots would overset her. He turned his head.

  Beside Maddie, with nearly identical expressions of astonishment on their pale faces, two young women, a brunette and a blonde, sat upon a pair of chestnut mares. Maddie’s intelligent gray eyes gazed at him steadily for a moment, something very much like amused triumph, and very little like shocked dismay, in her gaze.

  Quin had already begun to regard Miss Willits with some suspicion. Now, as her lips trembled with the effort of not breaking into out-and-out laughter, he was nearly ready to think her capable of actual sabotage.

  Abruptly she blinked and straightened. “Oh, pray forgive my momentary upset, my lord. I had no idea you were en déshabille. May I introduce the Misses Lydia and Sally Fowler? Lydia, Sally, the Marquis of Warefield.”

  Quin shook more water out of his hair and swiftly climbed to his feet. “Ladies,” he intoned, feeling completely ridiculous standing there in his stockings and with a sodden boot hanging from one hand, and even more distracted by the discovery that his uncle’s companion spoke French. “Charmed.”

  “My…lord,” the brunette returned, blushing bright red and thrusting one hand in his direction. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

  Stifling a grimace, Quin dropped his boot into the grass and stepped forward to grip her fingers.

  “Lord Warefield, are you injured?” the blond asked, giggling nervously.

  “Only my pride.”

  “Surely not, my lord,” Maddie said warmly. “Not when the venture was as noble as this one, and not when your foe was so infamously and fiendishly clever.”

  There it was again: that definite sarcasm even her lovely innocent expression couldn’t quite disguise. He’d been intrigued enough by her apparent dislike of him to suggest they spend the morning together. Obviously he’d underestimated the degree of her antipathy—no doubt because of the lust her mere appearance sparked in him. Even the very cold water had only managed to subdue his physical reaction to her.

  “The venture was noble in thought, perhaps.” He met her gaze squarely. “But I’m afraid that the poor cabbage patch may be done for by now.”

  Miss Willits’s lips twitched, and she suddenly seemed to feel the need to examine the skyline over her shoulder. The sunlight accented the red highlights in her hair, and the gray riding habit, demure though it was, in no way disguised the curving lines of her body. Quin didn’t realize how long he’d been staring at her until he heard the Misses Fowler whispering together.

  “Lord Warefield,” the older one said, “our home is just over the hill, if you’d care to dry your clothes.”

  “A splendid idea, Lydia,” Miss Willits seconded.

  An alarm bell immediately began ringing in Quin’s skull. He was no fool, and it was rapidly becoming apparent that whatever Maddie favored had little to do with his own well-being. “My thanks, ladies, but Miss Willits and I have a great deal to do this morning. The sun is shining, and I daresay I’ll dry soon enough.”

  Maddie looked disappointed, which convinced Quin that he’d made the correct decision. “Are you certain, my lord?” she pursued. “The Fowlers’ cook makes a wonderful apple tart.”

  “Oh, yes!” Sally seconded, and actually reached down to put a hand on his arm. “Mama says Mrs. Plummer is the finest cook in Somerset. She’s from Yorkshire, you know. It’s because of Papa’s sour stomach. He can’t abide seasonings or spices of any kind, for they leave him with a terrible case of gas.” She giggled.

  Maddie made a sound in her throat, but when he glanced in her direction she had found a clump of grass to occupy her attention. “Are you well, Miss Willits?” he asked solicitously.

  She started and glanced at him. “Quite, my lord. I was only thinking I should go see to Miss Marguerite before she completely decimates the cabbage crop.”

  She intended to abandon him to the Fowler sisters, then. “Yes, you’re right,” he said, hurriedly bending down to collect his boots and hobbling toward Aristotle. “We must be off.”

  “Are you certain you will not come to Renden Hall with us, my lord?” Lydia asked hopefully.

  “My apologies, but I cannot.” He pulled on one boot, his stockings squishing unpleasantly.

  “Then you must call on us for tea tomorrow,” Sally insisted.

  Quin looked at her for a moment. Obviously she had no idea that only the head of the household was supposed to tender such an invitation, especially to a social superior. But he did not wish to appear as rude as she was. “Of course I shall,” he answered, inwardly wincing. He glanced at Maddie and found sudden inspiration. “Would it be too forward of me to ask Miss Willits along as my guide? She does seem fond of Mrs. Plummer’s tarts.”

  “What a grand idea!” Sally agreed. “Oh, Lydia, perhaps we could ask Squire John and his sister, and then we might play whist.”

  Quin watched Miss Willits from the corner of his eye. At the mention of this squire’s name, her annoyed expression cleared.

  “We shall see you tomorrow, then.” Maddie clucked at her mare. “Come, Blossom, let’s find Miss Marguerite.”

  Wondering if Uncle Malcolm was aware of Maddie’s apparent fondness for the local squire, Quin quickly stomped into his other boot and grabbed Aristotle’s dangling reins. “Ladies,” he said absently, reaching up to touch the brim of his hat, only to remember that by now it must be on its way to Bristol Strait and the Atlantic Ocean. Drat it all, he’d been fond of that hat. “Until tomorrow.”

  “Until tomorrow, my lord.”

  “Yes, tomorrow, Lord Warefield.”

  A moment later he caught up to Miss Willits, who’d abandoned him without a backward glance. “What have I to look forward to with the Fowlers?”

  “I could not say, my lord,” she answered. The prickly annoyed female had returned, as though she hadn’t found the previous encounter even the least bit amusing. “I don’t believe they have ever entertained a member of the nobility, my lord.”

  Something in her tone, in her insistence on continually referring to him as “my lord,” began to make him wonder whether her dislike was personal, or something more. “Have you ever entertained a member of the nobility?”

  She glanced at him. “I have no household and no standing, my lord.”

  Neither had she answered the question. “Would they feel more comfortable if Uncle Malcolm accompanied us as well?”

  “Mr. Bancroft cannot walk, my lord. No
r can he yet tolerate sitting upright for any length of time.” Again she looked briefly in his direction, her expression unreadable but her eyes snapping. “I’m certain, though, that the Fowlers appreciate your concern over their comfort. And Mr. Bancroft as well, of course.”

  This time the cut wasn’t even veiled. Although no one besides his brother had ever insulted him so bluntly before, he was far more curious than offended. “My, my, Miss Willits,” he said mildly, “has your tongue ever caused anyone bodily harm?”

  The muscles of her fine jaw clenched. “Not that I’m aware of, my lord. My most sincere apologies if I have in any way offended you.”

  “No apology necessary.” A small farmhouse and a pig rooting through a cabbage patch came into view ahead of them. “I wish to ask, though, if I have in any way offended you.”

  She kicked out of the stirrup and with easy grace hopped to the ground. “Oh, my lord, do not tease,” she said, with obviously exaggerated alarm.

  For a brief moment Quin had the impression that if she’d been a man, they would have been selecting dueling pistols. “Do not think me a fool,” he returned, dismounting and heading after Miss Marguerite before she could increase her cabbage carnage.

  “Begging your lordship’s pardon,” Maddie said, moving swiftly to the far side of the cabbage patch to turn the determined pig back in his direction, “but why should you care what I think of you?”

  “Why should I not?”

  Maddie hesitated, an arrested expression on her face.

  Just then the sow charged by him, squealing, and Quin nearly went down on his backside. “Dash it!”

  Turning, he sprinted after the beast, abruptly angry at it—not for getting him tossed into the stream and nearly trampling him, but for interrupting the first genuine conversation he’d managed with Miss Willits.

  Dirt and bits of grass and cabbage clung to Quin’s damp breeches as he ran, but the blasted pig was not going to elude him again. He dodged after the animal, swearing under his breath. When Maddie called out behind him, she was quite a bit farther away than he’d realized.