Persistent Earl : Signet Regency Romance (9781101578841)

by Eastwood, Gail

  Devenham stopped instantly and tightened both his grip on the basket and his arm against his side to prevent her withdrawal. “You do me a disfavor by trying to escape,” he said. “I have not the use of my other hand to forestall you. I know it is awkward, but I had hoped you would bear with me. It makes me feel more like a whole man again to escort a lady and carry her basket. Is it so much to ask?”

  The momentary hesitation before she replied, “No, I suppose not,” spoke volumes to him, but he was determined to proceed. He laughed to take away the sting. “That is not the most gracious acceptance I have ever heard, but it will serve.”

  They moved carefully down the garden walk, the earl with a pronounced limp and Phoebe with a hesitant step. Devenham thought Phoebe’s hand trembled on his arm. As they reached the shade of the hawthorn tree at the bottom of the garden, he cast his eyes gratefully upon the two stone benches that flanked the path.

  “Would you still bear with me if I sat for a moment? I fear I may have overreached myself.”

  She looked at him as if weighing his words. She doesn’t trust me at all, he realized, not even enough to sit on this bench.

  “Really, my lord, you press me too much,” came her answer, but at least her voice was gentle, almost sympathetic. “If you are truly so weary, however, indeed you must sit. I will go into the house and find you some assistance.”

  “No.” The last thing he wanted was to give her an excuse to leave. He lowered himself onto the bench. “I will be all right if I rest but a moment. I suppose you would not join me?”

  “I shall stand until you are ready.”

  He sighed. Such slow progress. With her, with his injured leg. He knew if he pushed for any more than her simple company at this moment, she would turn on her heel and leave him there.

  ***

  When Devenham had appeared in the garden, Phoebe’s first instinct had been to flee, just as he had challenged her. By denying it, she had cut off her own escape. Why had she not simply admitted her cowardice and fled anyway? He had looked so handsome in his perfectly fitted dark blue coat and tan buckskins. She had felt his magnetic power over her from the moment she saw him framed in the doorway. Being with him here, in the garden that served as her private retreat, somehow felt unbearably intimate.

  He seemed vulnerable and full of pain this morning, and she saw how easily her heart could go out to him. He was attractive and dangerous. When she had seen how heavily he set himself on the bench, she knew that he was truly tired, but she still dared not give in to her own impulses. What a stubborn man! Would he never give up? Male pride, she thought with a pang. So like Stephen or even more like Judith’s boys. Men were such children sometimes!

  The thought of Stephen sent ice through her veins, reinforcing her intended aloofness. She could not afford to relax her guard around this man, for he could break down her barriers too easily. She realized that her resistance itself might be the reason for his interest in her, but if she persevered long enough, she believed he would lose patience and seek amusement elsewhere.

  She could not bring herself to look at him, so she contented herself by gazing about the garden, focusing her thoughts on the precious growing things around her and trying to draw strength from them. She inhaled, savoring the early morning scents that he had noticed. She was genuinely impressed that he had done so, for she assumed that most men would not notice such things. But thoughts like that were dangerous to allow.

  “You are right about the fragrance of the garden in the early morning,” she said to break the awkward silence that had fallen on them. “If you close your eyes to block out your other perceptions, you can sort out the different scents, like finding familiar faces in a crowd.”

  She risked a glance at him to see if he would try it. She discovered she had looked too soon, for her eyes met his intensely blue ones and locked there until she managed to pull her gaze away again. She turned away and closed her own eyes, concentrating on what she could smell. She tried not to be distracted by the tension she could sense in her body; she felt like a harp string vibrating at the mere possibility of being touched.

  “I can smell the earth, the roses, and especially the lavender, where we have brushed against it along the path,” she recited. This was a game she often played with the children as a way to make them more aware of their surroundings. She heard a deep chuckle behind her.

  “It is difficult to identify the faces in the crowd if one doesn’t know the friends they belong to. I smell something so sweet I can almost taste it—what would that be?”

  Why did his words always seem so suggestive? There was nothing in his tone this time to indicate he meant anything other than the simple question he had asked. The suggestiveness had to be all in her own mind, and that realization appalled her.

  “That would be the lilies,” she answered numbly.

  “Ah. ‘Consider the lilies, how they grow.’ The lavender I recognize—it is so popular with ladies. I smell something spicy, also.”

  She moved a few steps down the path and reached into the border, breaking a stem from a blossoming pink. “The pinks are spicy,” she began, returning to her position and holding the flower out to him like a peace offering. “The thyme is spicy, too. Bees love it.”

  Before either of them could say another word, the scrabbling sound of several small feet running down the gravel walk toward them interrupted them.

  “Aunt Phoebe! Aunt Phoebe! Come quick! Mrs. Finchley got loose in the schoolroom. We don’t know what to do!”

  Chapter Eight

  “Dear heaven above, how did Mrs. Finchley get out?” Phoebe asked in surprise as she was quickly surrounded by four distressed children. “Never mind, you can tell me on the way upstairs.”

  She turned to Devenham with an apologetic look. “My lord, I never intended to abandon you here at the bottom of the garden. Will you forgive me if I do so? Shall I send someone to assist you?”

  “Who is Mrs. Finchley?” asked the bewildered earl.

  Phoebe sighed. “She is the children’s pet bird, part of their so-called menagerie. I am more afraid that she will hurt herself as she flies about in the room than I am that she will escape. I am sure you see the need for me to act quickly.”

  He nodded and gestured toward the house with his hand. “Please. I understand completely. And you need not take time to send someone out to me. I can manage quite well.”

  This assurance was enough for Phoebe. With the two older children racing ahead of her, she hastened toward the house with the younger two close on her heels. By the time they had ascended all the stairs to the top of the house and arrived at the schoolroom, Phoebe’s heart was racing, and she was quite out of breath.

  “Let us open the door cautiously,” she warned the children, “and see where Mrs. Finchley has gotten to. We don’t want her to escape from the room, else we may never catch her.”

  Phoebe opened the door a crack and ascertained that Mrs. Finchley was perched quietly on the back of one of the school desk chairs, preening her feathers with an air of satisfaction. Phoebe and the children slipped in through the door one at a time and closed it carefully behind them.

  “I think it best if only one of us approaches her,” Phoebe cautioned. “David, you get her cage and be ready. Dorrie, you see if you can coax Mrs. Finchley onto your finger.”

  It was a reasonable plan and might have worked if Mrs. Finchley had been at all cooperative. The little bird, however, had other ideas. She sat quietly until Dorrie was within an arm’s reach of her, then she flew up and circled around the schoolroom twice before perching on the window ledge. The long table with the other contained members of the menagerie was in the way of reaching her conveniently, although Thomas tried. The other small creatures were becoming a bit restless from all the excitement around them.

  “I never meant to let her out,”
a greatly subdued William explained. “We wanted to clean her cage in case we were going to show her to Lord Devenham today. We promised to bring Fremont down to visit him, and I thought Mrs. Finchley might like to go, too. She never tried to get out before.”

  Mrs. Finchley seemed to be enjoying herself, leading her people on a merry chase. She had finally flown up to the top of the door frame, and Phoebe was in the process of dragging over a chair on which she intended to stand. “I just hope she doesn’t take it into her little brain to fly at the windows,” she said. “David, be ready with her cage in case I get her.”

  Standing on the chair on tiptoes, Phoebe stretched her arm up as high as she could reach and held her breath as she offered her finger hopefully to the errant bird. Mrs. Finchley hopped once and then dispatched herself to the top of the tall bookcases at the far end of the room.

  Phoebe exhaled in disgust. “I may wring your little neck when I catch you if you keep this up,” she muttered just as the door opened a crack and one very blue eye peered through the aperture.

  “Mercy, I beg you! I only came to see if I might help,” Devenham said, laughing.

  Phoebe was quite surprised to see him. He had never ventured into the top reaches of the house, and to do so must have required an excruciating effort on his part. It took her a moment to realize that while he could see very little of the room beyond her, he had a very close view of her own form raised up on the chair just inches from his nose. She got down quickly and moved the chair out of the way.

  “The fugitive is still at large?” the earl asked as he opened the door just enough to admit his broad shoulders turned sideways. He eased himself in, quickly pulling the door shut again behind him. “I had hoped to bring you better reinforcements, but your brother-in-law and sister have not yet emerged from their rooms this morning, and Mrs. Hunnicutt had just sent Goldie out on an errand. I did not dare to ask Maddocks—chasing escaped birds does not seem quite in his line.”

  “I’m not sure how much help they would have been,” Phoebe admitted. “Mrs. Finchley seems not at all inclined to return to her cage.”

  “Where is she?”

  Phoebe thought Devenham looked apprehensive as his gaze swept the room.

  “She is up there, on top of the bookcase.” She pointed, for the tiny finch was not very noticeable in the shadows.

  Devenham looked, and for several moments said and did nothing. He seemed locked into position, staring at the small source of all the uproar. Phoebe was standing so close to him, she sensed his tension, and heard him swallow. Then he seemed to shake himself out of the spell. She might have thought he was afraid, except that the notion was so entirely illogical.

  “What have you already tried to do?” he asked quietly. He nodded as she explained the antics that had preceded his arrival. “You have been leaving the choice up to your opponent, which is never a wise policy in battle. We must plot our strategy like commanders in the field.”

  He motioned to the children, who collected around him delightedly. “I will be the general, and each of you will be my field units. Our objective is to force Mrs. Finchley to go into her cage. The way to achieve that is to make all other options unattractive to her, so she will choose to do exactly what we want.” He paused, casting a wary glance toward the bookcase. Mrs. Finchley had not moved.

  “Thomas, as my second-in-command, I wish you to dispose our troops around this room, spaced in such a way as to cover the most likely positions our opponent would wish to occupy. Do you understand the assignment?”

  Thomas nodded eagerly, his face glowing with the excitement of the game. “Yes, sir! You want us to spread out around the room.”

  “As the commanding officer, and the tallest person here, it falls to me to flush Mrs. Finchley from her present post. I am afraid the most effective way to get her back into her cage is to frighten her away from landing anywhere else. If that is not successful, we will have no choice but to capture her.”

  The earl looked at Phoebe. “Have you a cloth or a towel I might use?” He was making a delightful game out of the operation, yet Phoebe noticed his face looked grim, as if the military maneuver was quite real. His mouth was set in a narrow line.

  She looked about the room quickly, noticing a shawl she had left on one chair the day before. She was surprised that Lizzie had not given it to Mary Anne to return to her wardrobe, but she was grateful at this moment for the oversight. “There is my shawl. Would that serve?”

  “Admirably.”

  She retrieved it and gave it to Devenham.

  Thomas stationed his siblings around the perimeter of the room and asked his aunt to position herself at the opposite end from the bookcase.

  Devenham nodded in approval. “An excellent job, young sir. I see you have taken into account the varying strengths of your units, which in this case has mostly to do with how tall they are.”

  Using his cane, the earl limped resolutely toward the bookcase, dragging a chair with his free hand. When Phoebe realized he intended to climb up on the chair in the same manner as she so recently had done, she protested vigorously.

  “Lord Devenham, you must not be thinking to climb upon that chair with your injury? I can never let you do so. Oh, please. If someone is going to climb up, it will have to be me. You will do yourself damage.”

  “What is this, woman? Insubordination is a punishable offense. Follow your given orders.”

  As far as Phoebe was concerned, the game had stopped. “No, I will not.” She left her post and walked quickly between the desks to join him by the bookcase. She held out her hand. “Please give me the shawl.”

  “Aunt Phoebe! What are you doing?” came the dismayed cries of the children.

  “Trying to save Major Lord Devenham from his own destructive impulses. The shawl, my lord, please.” She would stand her ground no matter what he said.

  “My dear,” said the earl, “you are not tall enough for this assignment.” He moved to stand quite closely in front of her, gazing down at her as if to emphasize his point.

  Phoebe caught her breath and held it, hoping the sudden racing of her heart would stop. Devenham was an impressive man at any distance, but this close he was devastating. She struggled for control over the excited reactions that were rippling through her. “I will use the shawl to extend my reach. I need merely flip the end of it toward her, and she will take flight. Is that not what you intended?”

  He exhaled, as if he, too, had been holding his breath. What was happening between them?

  “All right,” he agreed, “but you will have to accept my assistance.”

  They repositioned the children around the room and set the chair as nearly underneath Mrs. Finchley’s perch as possible. Phoebe was mortified when she realized what a fine view of her ankles and perhaps more the earl would have when she climbed onto the chair. There was nothing for it but to proceed, however. He handed her up like a perfect gentleman and betrayed no hint of any improper thoughts.

  “Everyone ready?” she asked. When they all nodded, she gathered the shawl as much as she could into a ball, and flung it at the little bird huddled on the bookcase, keeping hold of one end. For an awful moment she tottered off-balance on the chair. Then she felt the earl’s strong hands at her waist, righting her.

  Mrs. Finchley flew excitedly around the schoolroom, looking for a new perch. The children raised their arms and shooed her away from each potential landing place as she circled the room repeatedly. In the meantime, Devenham and Phoebe seemed frozen in place, she on the chair and he beside her, his hands still upon her.

  Phoebe felt as if bolts of lightning had been let loose inside her body. She could not breathe and she could not move. She was astonished by the force of her reaction. She was even more astonished that Devenham did not immediately remove his hands. As the frozen moment lingered, she looked down at his hands. S
trong and warm and masculine, they seemed to burn right through the thin fabric of her dress and her chemise, as if they touched her bare flesh. But she realized something else through her shock—his hands were trembling. When her eyes finally went to his face, she discovered that his eyes were closed and that he was apparently even more paralyzed than she was.

  Mrs. Finchley flapped past them on one more circuit and finally landed on the school desk beside her open cage. Devenham opened his eyes. “Is she done, then?” He seemed to suddenly become aware of his hands still on Phoebe’s waist and quickly removed them. “Forgive me, Lady Brodfield,” he said in a scandalized tone. “I just did not want you to fall.”

  She nodded, quite unable to form words although he seemed even more shaken than she was. The entire incident struck her as bizarre, not to mention confusing.

  “Do not move in on the bird too quickly,” the earl cautioned the children. “Let her decide to go into her cage on her own. I suspect she may be tired now.”

  Mrs. Finchley hopped about on the desktop briefly, tilting her head and looking around her out of bright, curious eyes. Then at long last, she hopped up into her cage, quite as if she had planned to do so all along and had done nothing remotely out of the ordinary. Dorrie approached quietly and snapped the door shut as everyone heaved a collective sigh of relief. This was immediately followed by cheers and applause. Devenham offered Phoebe his hand and helped her down from the chair.

  “However did you know what to do?” she asked him admiringly. “I’m certain we would never have recaptured her without your help.”

  “Ah, yes, you would have, in time,” he answered modestly. “But you might have had to leave her closed up in the schoolroom until nightfall.”

  “I was so afraid she would escape into the rest of the house or hurt herself. How can I thank you?”

  He was pale and still appeared quite shaken. As she looked at him, however, she saw the irreverent twinkle come into his blue eyes and the too-familiar wicked grin light up his face.