"I can assure you, I do not change my mind once it is made up."
"Never? You never have regrets?" Another step closer, the skepticism clear in his eyes. "Do you know what you want now?"
"I shan't interfere too much in your work. You are, after all, supposedly the expert in viticulture. I am merely a hopeful amateur."
Again he rubbed his beard. "Why you have no man? No 'usband?"
"I'm a widow."
"Your 'usband 'e dead this means?"
"Quite thoroughly." She'd made sure of it.
"But," his gaze swept her with altogether too much heat for an October morning, "not all men dead."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You can get other man, no? You are not quite old hag."
Flora began to feel this conversation slipping even deeper into the bizarre. "May I ask why you—"
"Massimo must know where he stands. You say you 'ave no 'usband. You 'ave no lover either?"
"Pardon me, but I—"
"If I work for you, I work for you. 'Tis good." He sighed woefully and kicked a pebble by his foot. "Massimo make do somehow with the arrangement, even if it is not usual." He paused, holding up one long finger. "But if there is a man in your bed, then Massimo suddenly, one day, find that he work for two masters. For two 'eads, eh?" He grinned slowly. "If you understand."
"I'm not sure that I do." Every so often there was something in his gaze that she felt as if she knew— had seen before. He was always careful to hide it again if he saw her staring too hard and too curiously, but Flora could not shake the sensation of familiarity Now she saw a glimmer of hot frustration that once again claimed some old acquaintance.
"A woman with a man in 'er bed is...'ow you say...distracted by the ...cornamusa coperta. And the man might try to give Massimo orders too. But Massimo works only for one master."
"Cornamusa Coperta?"
"The hornpipe of the blanket. Yes?"
Flora had the dreadful feeling that she'd taken on more than she could handle with this strange, forward fellow, but if he proved difficult she would send him on his way. She was no fading lily, afraid to put a man in his place if necessary. And the truth was, he amused her. She'd always possessed a rather wicked and bawdy sense of humor, a delight in pushing the boundaries. There was something about him that she liked, even though she knew she probably shouldn't.
"I suppose I must make allowances for the fact that you are Italian and you may have a different outlook on life, as well as manners, language and etiquette that will not be the same as my own, but my status as a woman living alone is hardly significant in this matter. I don't care to discuss the intimacies of my private life with a hired hand. You are in England now. We do not talk of such matters."
"Why? In England, the womens do not like man in their bed? They don't like the good sport? The 'appy games?"
She studied his face and saw the light of sly wit dancing in his gaze. In that moment, her heart seemed to fall a few inches, losing its beat. Then it lifted again, bumping back to life with fervor.
There was one thing she recognized when she saw it: a soul enjoying mischief. And yes, she always enjoyed a good game.
Blinking her lashes, she said coyly, "By sport you mean cricket, sir? I hope."
His eyes narrowed quickly. "Is that what you call it, signora?"
"Yes. And occasionally women do play cricket, so if you don't behave yourself here and watch what you say, you might find your balls suffering the crack of a firmly swung willow bat." She smiled sweetly. "I suggest you take care to learn the nuances of the native tongue a little better."
"Massimo's tongue very good. Il Migliore." A slow smile curved his lips, and parted them to show a gleam of strong white teeth. Just the barest tease, before he feigned solemnity again, chin up and hand to chest. "Tis why he is esperto with the grapes."
She folded her arms. "Can you help with this vineyard or not? I assume you didn't come all this way simply to question me, with great impertinence, about my widowhood and any men in my life."
He considered for a moment, head on one side, fingers tapping slowly against his chest. A rhythm that struck her as sultry, sensual. She glanced back over her shoulder toward the main house, one hand lifted to the tingling skin on the back of her neck.
Finally he said, "Massimo generous. He will give you a trial, eh?"
"You will give me a trial?" Oh, he was truly pushing his luck.
"This is so." He bowed very grandly. "Now, we eat? I 'ave traveled a great journey to be here."
"But wait...we have not discussed your fee."
"No fee until the trial is complete and then Massimo decide. Depends 'ow much trouble you give me."
Trouble? Oh, he had no idea. "I do not know what you have heard about me, sir, or think you know of me, but I have no patience for cheek and sauce."
"Cheek and sauce. What is this thing? Another 'eavy, dry, tasteless, English pie, like the steak and the kidneys?" He spat the last word, his face a picture of disgust.
In danger of laughing out loud, she gestured for him to follow her. "I suspect you know very well what I mean by cheek and sauce." He certainly had plenty of it. "And I should also warn you that my steward is itching to use his blunderbuss, so remember your place."
Her pulse danced with a strange, silly sort of glee. Definitely not a suitable rhythm for a woman of her maturity.
She could make good use of this man and put him to work. At last, real help.
* * * *
An early repast of bread, cheese, pork pie and apple tart had been laid out on a table in the yard, along with a jug of cider. Apparently he wasn't deemed safe enough yet— or clean enough— to be let into the house.
"You can have the quarters above the stables, since I have no groom at present," she said. "That will be adequate, I hope? Perhaps you are used to grander accommodations?"
"Not at all, my mistress. I can share with the horses. I am not too proud for they are noble beasts. But you have no groom?" How was she managing the place alone? She looked a little tired, he thought, noting dark shadows under her eyes.
"We only have two plow horses, at present, and I can tend sufficiently to their needs myself. With help from Grey."
"Grey?" he muttered gruffly.
"My steward."
"Hmph." Yes, he'd heard about Grey already.
"His wife Martha manages the kitchen," she added, "and she's an excellent cook, so don't go offending her by talking of the blanket hornpipe and your irresistibility to the ladies. I take my food seriously and without her I'd be lost. The Greys are my only servants here."
Stuffing his mouth with some very good bread, he could only nod.
"I do everything else myself, which means that for the sake of convenience only the necessary rooms in the main house are put to use."
No wonder she looked tired. "And you have no other labor outside, to help with the farm?"
"Just Grey, although he has seen better days."
"We need more men to work. Able bodies." Discreet men who won't talk about you to the neighbors and aren't simply measuring time until you leave, he thought crossly. Now he knew where his mother had got her information, or some of it.
"I'll hire more help in the spring. I cannot afford to keep strong men fed through winter. What coin I have must last us through to the next harvest if I am to pay my rent here."
He studied her slyly, thoroughly. There was little left of that romantic, impractical seventeen-year-old girl now, of course, but she still had spit and fire in her eyes. If anything the sparks were hotter and more determined. Now they had direction and were not simply scattered over everything in her view. The girlish softness in her face had gone, but working in the sun had given her cheeks more color and gilded the rich autumnal tones in her hair. He felt the urge to reach up and touch it. Would he get away with such boldness? As the Duke of Malgrave he would never have considered it. But—
"For now perhaps Massimo is all the Lady Flora needs," he sai
d. Reaching for her hand, he turned it over to study her palm. "To save her soft, pretty fingers and keep her worries at bay."
She slipped her hand away and clasped the other around it. "I too am being generous today, Massimo. I'm excusing you a great deal because you have much to learn about our ways and I understand that you are a stranger in this country. But I suggest you pay heed to me from now on and remember to mind your place when—"
"What shall I call you?"
She paused, passing the tip of her tongue across her full, soft lower lip. Leaving it moist and glistening and pink. Christ. For twenty years he'd wanted to kiss that mouth.
He took a huge bite of apple tart, choking on it in his haste.
"You may call me, my lady or mistress," she replied.
He swallowed hard, eyes watering. "But you signed your letter Flora."
"Yes, that is how I usually sign my correspondence."
"Everybody knows who you are then, by this name?" There could only be one Flora, of course, he thought wryly.
"Hartnell never felt like my name and I have not officially been a Chelmsworth for... too many years." She stopped, a brighter hint of sun-ripened peach color washing over her face. "Why am I explaining it to you?" she muttered, swiping her headscarf against the table to dispense with some pastry and breadcrumbs that had tumbled there. "I sign my letters Flora and that is all there is to it."
"I use only one name too, Flora. It is...comfortable, eh?"
She corrected, "My lady." Mellow burnished light touched her hair where it lay upon her shoulder and seemed to set light to it, little flames tickling to life through the loose locks. He had seen her remove that headscarf as he approached the courtyard. She disdained wigs, jewels, powder or ribbons and left her mane untamed. He was glad of it. Glad of it with a strange intensity. Even as he kept eating he felt hungrier, his senses heightened by her closeness. "You should chew your food thoroughly," she remarked, sounding bemused. "You'll choke and get your stomach in knots, eating at that speed."
But he was ravenous and her apple pie was not all he wanted to eat.
Flora Chelmsworth was, he thought, quite something to look at. Her portrait was only a faint version and now that she stood before him again, the living, breathing, full color version, he remembered every sensation she'd once caused him. All the things he'd deliberately tried to forget, tried to dismiss.
She could have married again. Most women, widowed young and without children, would have quickly found another husband for protection. Ah, but did she still wait for love?
"Love does exist and it can be very strong, I promise you. It can do remarkable things."
The folly of youth. She certainly could not have been in love with Sir Benjamin Hartnell. Where were her fine principles on that occasion?
Speaking of fine principles, Flora Chelmsworth still had a pert and very lovely pair of breasts. He wondered how she might react if "Massimo", with his conveniently awkward command of the English language and etiquette, mentioned this.
"What's so amusing?" she demanded, watching him chuckle as she poured cider into a pewter tankard.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Flora." It rolled off his tongue, sensuous as a forbidden word. "I like it better than my lady." Taking the tankard from her hand, he added firmly, "I shall call you this, it is decided." Just as she once decided to call him Fred.
"You certainly shall not."
Ah, apparently, when the shoe was on the other foot, it was a different matter. "Why?" he protested. "You write it so in a letter when you ask for me to come 'ere."
"That is different."
When he looked up she was frowning. He mimicked her expression, one hand to his chest, fingers spread. "You write it to me so and I am lured here— by Florrra. So sweet and gentle in her plea, Florrra needs me and begs for me to look over her specimens. But now I am here and you say, oh no, Massimo must be held at the length of arms. We are not friends and you will smack me with the cricket bat in the ballocks, if I forget it."
"You're trying my patience already. Don't make me regret giving you this trial... Italian!"
He laughed then. Couldn't help himself. Hadn't had so much pleasure in...ever. And it could not last for long, of course. "Massimo must beehive himself."
"Behave!"
He shrugged. "It is so if you say it, Flora."
"My lady!"
"Yes. My lady. My... mistress."
From the sultry glimmer under her lashes and those flushed cheeks, she did not know whether the emphasis was deliberate.
"You do not eat breakfast, my mistress?"
"No," she replied grandly. "I haven't the time."
He looked away quickly, concentrating on his own feast, and after a moment she walked back to the water pump. A short, sturdy, square-shaped dog with a stout paw at each corner came scuttling out of the barn at that moment, heading straight for her, until it noticed Maxim. At once it swerved course, growling, ears pricked. He prepared to defend himself in a fencing pose, his only weapon half a loaf of bread.
"Halt!" she called out crisply. The dog stopped, panting, its wet tongue slithering out from one side of its broad jaw, squashed nose raised to sniff at the air. "Good boy, Captain Fartleberries. This is Massimo, an Italian. He is harmless, but I know you will ensure that he stays that way."
Maxim gave her a look and she laughed. The dog approached until it was two feet from where he now sat again and then it slowly lowered its belly to lay watching him, while nonchalantly licking a large paw.
"Good dog," he muttered, tearing off a piece of pork pie and tossing it to the ground. "Massimo friend."
But the dog made no move toward the morsel until it's mistress gave her approval, and even then it kept an eye on Maxim while sitting up and chewing noisily on the pie crust.
"Captain Fartleberries looks after me, as you see," she called out. "He is my trusted guard dog. We look after each other. He is all the companion I require."
So this was the only male in her life now. Unless, of course, she lied. Wouldn't be the first time a woman fibbed, would it? Really, why would she tell him— a stranger, a foreigner, a hired man? He could have asked Plumm to make enquiries in the matter, but he didn't want his solicitor to get that knowing, smug look in his eye again.
Maxim wanted to know what she was doing there on his property. Why she had lured him back and whether it was deliberate. More than that. Now that he'd seen her again he wanted to know all about her, everything he'd never taken the time to learn before. To fill that empty page in the ledger of his thoughts and memories. He would find it all out for himself.
As soon as he had seen her again he had known the same immediate reaction as he suffered the very first time they collided during a game of "Blind Man's Bluff".
He wanted her.
He wanted this woman more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. All of her.
And he wanted to give her all of him in return.
It couldn't be explained. It simply was. Just as it had been the first time around. The difference now was that he knew what to do about it. He'd wasted enough time.
He watched as Flora swept her hair back with both hands and a bead of water, gleaming like a diamond in that autumn morning sunlight, trickled slowly down the curve of her neck. A lady shamelessly barefoot, her skirt hem just high enough to show an inch of slender ankle. Aha! There was her impractical vein— still in evidence. She was always a woman of impulse, unbound by rules. He smiled.
No wonder his mother and the gossips who fed from her web had been so appalled by this woman's residence at Darnley. They did not like rebellion, even if it came from one of their own. They felt threatened by it. Women, he mused darkly, could be thrice as deadly to each other as men on the battlefield.
But what was this? If his eyes did not deceive him her toenails were painted! Bright pink as the petals of sweet peas. But then she turned, the sun's rays moved, and he saw that it was just a faint red hue from the grape pressing. A trick o
f the light. She saw him steadily watching her and tripped against the bucket, splashing water on her skirt and the ground.
He heard a soft curse fall from her lips as she nursed her blushing toes.
Vengeance, he thought smugly. Not that it was anything like the pain she'd caused him. Still caused him.
Lady Flora barefoot, bare-headed and quite delightfully discombobulated by his arrival was a satisfying picture to behold, and an exceedingly tempting one.
If he'd known what was waiting for him here, he would have returned much sooner.
Chapter Fourteen
He got to work immediately, inspecting the vines. His verdict was a stern, "The grape will not grow sweet here. The earth and the climate is not sufficient."
"But the monks made wine here on this land two hundred years ago."
He shrugged. "Very bad wine, I think. Perhaps they did not know the difference then. Your Englishmens," he shot her a sideways look, "will drink anything."
"I am told it had medicinal properties," she replied, prim.
"For some poor souls the hastening of death is a blessing. I suppose the wine was popular in times of plague and the death that is black. To get the job done quicker— here, drink our wine and no longer will you suffer."
She groaned in frustration. "Can we not add something to the earth and improve the grapes?"
He looked askance. "And call upon the sun to make it shine more, eh? Command the rain to stop and start only when we want it? To forbid the shriveling frost? To chase the winter back with nothing more than a stern frown? The earth cannot be commanded like your dog." Then he pointed at the leaves changing color. "Soon the earth will harden and all will lie dormant then for the winter. I can prune the wood of the vines for you. I can do whatever is possible to encourage the good and fruitful bud break in spring, but I cannot promise success. Even I, Massimo the Magnificent cannot do that. Not with these vines. Whoever sold you this place has cheated you."
"They didn't sell it," she replied sharply, glaring at him. "The owner refused to sell. This is a lease arrangement."
The Peculiar Pink Toes of Lady Flora Page 16