One Enchanted Summer

by Jane Erickson

  Impudent.

  Scowling at her back, he again marveled that he had managed four days without sending her packing. She had bordered on insolent on more than this occasion. It was as if she was constantly on the verge of mocking him. He accepted that kind of friendly ribbing only from very few friends and his sisters.

  Unimpressed with her culinary expertise after that first breakfast of a single egg and a few overly ripe strawberries, he had ridden to the village to inquire about a replacement. It had taken him only one look around the few shops for him to realize that there was likely no one who could do better. He’d never wonder again why his mother never complained about the cook’s wages or her constant demands for more kitchen staff.

  The maid stirred the oatmeal with a few quick flicks of her wrist and then disappeared back into her bedroom. Clanks and the shuffling of papers were audible as she searched for the whetstone, but she eventually reappeared, whetstone in hand. She held the rock over the basin and poured the last of the pitcher’s water over it.

  The rhythmic slide of the blade against the stone was oddly soothing, and Dominic was reminded of the million little tasks that Watters accomplished when out of sight. Another reason why Dominic never complained about Watters’ salary.

  “That should do it,” she said with satisfaction and walked around to his back, the newly sharpened blade in hand. “Oh, the soap! And I’ll have to strop the razor now too.”

  Eventually she was settled, and Dominic leaned back in the chair, his chin pointed to the ceiling obligingly. The edge of the blade scraped the side of his jawline, just at the curve where even Watters had missed spots on occasion.

  She leaned in to inspect her work and their eyes met for a second before she flushed and continued scraping, the cool fingers holding his chin tensing for a moment. He was surprised that her eyes were blue, a forget-me-not blue. He had assumed they would be a common and very forgettable brown like her hair, but they were startlingly vivid next to her chocolate eyelashes.

  He took a cleansing breath, banishing any thoughts of his maid and her long eyelashes from his mind. He could just imagine it was Watters shaving him as usual. Though Watters didn’t have slender fingers or smelled like flowers. What kind of flower was that? He frowned as he took another short breath, attempting to place the scent, but it eluded him. Then he was furious at himself for sniffing the maid.

  Other men sniffed maids. Other men chased maids and fondled maids and perhaps even impregnated maids, but Dominic didn’t. He knew they were there to work, like carriage horses and sheepdogs. A wise man gained their loyalty so they would serve the family well, but he didn’t befriend them. Horses and dogs and even servants eventually lost their usefulness and had to be put down. Well, not the servants. They were given a generous sum and a cottage in the village for outliving their most productive years.

  It was that vicar’s fault that he was thinking of sniffing the maid at all.

  He wouldn’t have given her a second glance if the man hadn’t insinuated that Dominic was a lecher unable to control his baser urges towards a maid. As if he ever had cause to stoop that low. Well, once when he was in university, but those days were long ago and there were many events that could cause a man to shudder when reminiscing about his younger days. Poor hygienic habits or insulting a well-meaning teacher, drinking to the point that he humiliated himself in front of three boys who would later all hold greater titles than his own. A man grew older, thanked his stars that the maid hadn’t given him the pox, and resolved never to repeat such behavior again.

  And this maid wasn’t even near as buxom as the one who he tupped so long ago. In fact, he could hardly tell that she had a bosom at all, though the oversized apron might be hiding her miniscule assets. Her face was perfectly acceptable, the heart shape containing a pointed chin along with a well-defined jawline with cheeks that were slightly rounded, making her look younger than she likely was. Her nose was slim and straight, her mouth a trifle wide but her lips pink and plump. Her dark eyebrows barely curved but didn’t meet in the middle or were scraggly or patchy. And she did have those fine eyes, shaped like almonds and so strikingly blue.

  Frowning at the way he was categorizing his maid’s better features and was considering perusing her attributes below her gown’s neckline, he realized that there had been a pause in her progress, and he glanced over guiltily only to see her frowning thoughtfully at her fingers while she rubbed soap lather between them. When she saw he was staring, she blushed slightly.

  “What kind of soap is this? I’ve never seen one lather so well.”

  An odd question, though he was relieved to actually know the answer since it was Watters who purchased toiletries.

  “It’s walnut oil military shaving soap, but I don’t recall the name of the company who produces it.”

  “Walnut oil?” She was still testing the texture of the soap between her fingers ponderously, but then remembered her task at hand. As she dragged the razor carefully over the curve of his chin, she asked, “Were you in the army or navy, sir?”

  “No,” he replied shortly and wasn’t sure why he was embarrassed to admit such a thing. He was the eldest child and only son, a man who inherited an estate and a title along with its responsibilities when he was twenty years old. There had been no expectation or even consideration of him ever donning a uniform but now the use of military shaving soap seemed a privilege he hadn’t earned, though the maid seemed to think nothing of it.

  And that irked him even more.

  The very notion that the maid thought nothing of him at all.

  Here he was, analyzing her every feature and about to embark on an inappropriate fantasy that should be quickly forgotten while she was considering his soap? She had his classically handsome face in her hands, and she wasn’t shaking like a leaf. She wasn’t overcome with nervousness or giddiness or outright lust? Women adored him, pined for him, sent fervent prayers to various saints asking him to glance their way yet this maid, who was only passably pretty, had her soft pink lips six inches from his and was only analyzing the ingredients of a shaving cream with the studious nature of a chemist or apothecary?

  Dominic could only come to the conclusion that she was very good at masking her true feelings and was barely controlling her madly beating heart.

  “Mustaches are very common now. I’ve heard that even beards are becoming popular.” When she spoke, her breath brushed against his throat and it took Dominic a moment to understand her words and even longer to decipher their meaning.

  “I don’t follow your conversation,” he responded shortly, irritated at himself again.

  “That might make this a little less onerous for you if you grew a mustache. Or you could dispense with shaving all together if you just grew a beard,” Mia explained, her eyes still trained upon the smooth, even strokes of the blade.

  “My beard has an unfortunate red tinge, so I shall not be following that fashion,” Dominic admitted stiffly.

  “Well, a clean face probably makes you look younger too.”

  Immediately rattled and sitting a bit straighter in the chair, Dominic demanded, “How old do you think I am?”

  “I don’t know, sir…thirty-five?” she responded, blinking those wide-blue eyes innocently.

  Dominic drew back his head in shock but didn’t reveal his actual age. Clenching his jaw, he resolved to eschew every sweet and perhaps visit a chemist to purchase a lotion or tonic to restore his youthful looks. Her expression hadn’t changed, but those summer sky eyes twinkled mischievously.

  “I can finish the rest myself, thank you.”

  “Only one more stroke, sir. But with the razor now sharpened, there should be no difficulties at all for you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, well, I can handle it myself after today. I’m certain I can sharpen it myself.”

  She laughed, not the tinkling, coquettish laugh he was accustomed to hearing in ballrooms and parlors, but more of a scoff. She finished the last stroke and brushed her f
ingertip along his jawline, testing for any stray hairs but she must have been satisfied with the results because she smiled slightly, the mere quirk of the corner of her mouth making his own pulse quicken despite his irritation at her thinking him so elderly as thirty-five.

  “I wouldn’t recommend it, sir. I learned at my father’s knee how to sharpen blades of all sorts. Razors are the easiest to ruin. One false sweep across the whetstone and you’ll be sporting the finest red beard in the county until you can purchase a new blade.”

  She handed him a towel to dry his face before sweeping all his shaving tools into the basin and carried them outside to be washed in the creek.

  Dominic sat there perturbed and ran his own fingers over his now smooth cheek. He didn’t care for the mocking tone from an underling, but he had enjoyed hearing another voice again. The only company he had for the past few days was Mia, though their relationship was hardly companionable since they rarely spoke. He gave orders, and she nodded and continued on with her duties. Their brief conversation over his shaving cream was the longest they had engaged in and the first that she had initiated, though it made him realize how much he missed discussing events or even daily activities with someone. When in London or at home, his days were mostly filled with pleasant, if usually dull, conversations on gossip or politics or plays or books. He couldn’t imagine what lower classes usually spoke of. He had always imagined they just whispered about their employers, but most of the cottage’s surrounding neighbors seemed to be farmers. Maybe they only complained of the weather and potato bugs once they laid down their plows and shovels.

  Lost in thought, Dominic sat up a bit straighter when Mia returned, basin in hand, and hurried through his open bedroom door to replace his shaving tools carefully on top of his trunk. Her hurried movements made him feel slothful, and he reluctantly rose from his chair, undecided on what his day’s activities should be. It was without question that he would take a ride, for his own health and for Monaco’s, but he had no idea in which direction since he felt he had exhausted most of the possibilities already. Perhaps he’d sketch a pastoral scene for his sisters as proof of his summer’s sojourn. He was a passably fair artist if he took the time, though he had never had much interest in furthering his talent.

  Mia returned to the stove, set the basin down, gave the porridge another stir, and dashed into her own room. He could hear the cases being opened and closed, the creak of the bed as she sat down, a million tiny noises that made him wonder what she could be doing. But in no time at all, she exited again, this time not wearing her usual dark gray gown and apron but a simple navy dress with narrow vertical gold stripes and touches of lace at the collar and sleeves. It was neither fashionable with its narrow skirt and lack of flounces nor extremely flattering since it still seemed a bit too large on her small frame, but Dominic was startled to see her dressed in something other than what he considered servant’s attire. She had repinned her hair into a softer style too, and Dominic found himself frowning at her transformation.

  “Your porridge is ready, sir,” she announced as she poured the thick mixture into a bowl and set it on the table. She hurriedly folded a napkin and set it on the table too, a spoon sitting neatly on top.

  “I’ll see to the dishes when I get back,” she declared as she tied the beige ribbons of her straw bonnet under her chin. “I’m sure you’ll be riding today. There’s cheese and gooseberries under those two plates on the cupboard. Oh, and the first of the season’s cherries. There is a rather good tavern if you ride due east. They sometimes have meat pies that they claim are worth the pennies. And they are the only ones willing to do business on Sunday.”

  She gave a hurried glance around the room, as if checking to see if she’d remembered everything. Dominic looked about the room too. It was very tidy with the exception of his porridge bowl, spoon, and the cooking pot.

  “The church bells will be ringing soon.”

  She looked at him expectantly, and Dominic felt a surge of satisfaction. He had been waiting for this conversation for days, really, ever since he heard how determined the vicar was for one of his parishioners not to miss a service. Now she would ask him to go…the fervently religious were always keen to drag others to their torturous services and look down upon those who refused. During his long solitary rides, he had prepared a speech about how he only entered such places for his societal obligations, namely weddings and funerals, and then only at the insistence of his mother.

  He raised his eyebrows, waiting for the suggestion or outright plead that he join her.

  “May I go, sir?”

  Her impatient expression suggested that she had only been waiting on his permission and had no interest in whether he joined her or not. Momentarily non-plussed, he nodded curtly, and she flew out the door, obviously intent on not being caught sneaking in the church door after services had started.

  Rising from his chair to lean against the doorframe, Dominic watched her light steps as she traipsed over the bridge and continued on her way up the hill in the direction the vicar had descended in a fury days earlier. Her skirts flew up in her hurry and Dominic noticed that she had very shapely ankles and then felt like a lecher for ogling women on their way to church. It was akin to leering at a nun. Well, nearly.

  And he was not a man who sighed over ankles and calves of maids or the curve of the cheek of a shopgirl. He had found plenty of willing distractions among his own class of people.

  The only reasonable explanation for his rather base thoughts was that he hadn’t been with a woman for months. Colette had become tiresome…or perhaps he had… but he hadn’t found someone who could outshine her or at least match her reputation.

  Even remote villages had their celebrated beauties if he looked hard enough. Maybe there was a merry widow in the vicinity, some headstrong daughter of a petty aristocrat or a knight’s widow bored with being a near recluse in the country. Though he was unlikely to come across her, even if she did exist. He had nearly become almost a hermit himself in the past few days.

  It wasn’t as if Mia was more than passingly pretty – her hair could only be described as a very common brown, nothing so romantic as to be called mahogany or chestnut. She was past the first blush of youth…she was likely as old as his middle sister, Georgiana. And no man alive would look twice at her figure – a slightly warped board would be more alluring. Yes, if he had a distracting woman to while away a few hours, he wouldn’t even look at Mia twice and he certainly wouldn’t inhale so deeply when she walked by.

  Chapter 4

  “What does he do all day?”

  Lettice Denning set a pot of tea on the table and eased her heavily pregnant body into a chair. Blonde and always a bit plump, Lettice’s figure was all the more comfortably rounded now that she only had a month or two until her baby would make its way into the world. Once the daughter of a tenant farmer and now married to one, Lettice found the leisurely days of the gentry fascinating.

  “Rides his horse, mostly. Or walks. Unless it is raining and then he reads,” Mia replied with a shrug.

  With a pointed glance out the window at the persistent English drizzle, Lettice raised her eyebrows, unimpressed.

  “So he reads all day…in that little cottage…with you trying to make it cozy?” Her pale green eyes were now alight with mischief, but she pulled a face when Mia remained completely composed.

  “I don’t know how you can be in the same room with him,” Lettice continued, throwing her hands up in disgust. “He’s like looking at the archangel Michael, or it is Raphael? The one with the flaming sword and fury in his eyes. I could stare at him all day.”

  Though completely devoted to her husband, Lettice carefully evaluated every young man in the area with the eye of a savvy horse trader and had no shame in declaring who she thought would be the best stallion.

  “You know how it is when you live with a man…you learn his peculiarities, his distaste for certain foods, his irritating habits. It takes a bit of shine off of hi
s golden curls. He is rather vain,” Mia said with a laugh as she remembered his horrified expression when she had guessed he was thirty-five years old. She had since caught him more than once, peering into a mirror and studying the skin around his eyes like a jeweler searching for flaws in a seemingly flawless diamond.

  Mia poured the tea into three mugs, one having a sizable chip in the rim, but it was only an excuse to avoid Lettice’s peridot gaze. Despite his high-handed behavior and sometimes ridiculous demands, Mia still found herself pausing to stare at the strong line of his chin, the length of his eyelashes, and especially the lean line of his frame when she knew he wouldn’t notice. She had nearly burned the pottage the other afternoon because she had been too busy spying on him currying his horse. It wasn’t the chore that she found so alluring, but that he had removed his jacket and finished the job in only his form-fitting shirt and even tighter trousers.

  But she wasn’t about to admit such a thing to Lettice. She had a reputation to uphold, and Lettice did enjoy tittle-tattle.

  “With his looks, he can be the oddest duck in the pond,” Lettice declared. “I can’t believe you’re sitting here instead of wrapped around him like an octopus.”

  Mia choked on her tea and barely kept herself from spraying the table with the hot liquid, causing Lettice to laugh naughtily though her husband, a mountain of a man, glared from across the table. Though he was accustomed to being ignored when his wife had friends at the cottage for Sunday tea, he didn’t enjoy the conversation revolving around the handsome stranger.

  “Charlotte Ward waited for him to start on his way back to the cottage and pretended that she lost her dog,” Lettice continued, with a knowing nod of her head. “She batted her big brown eyes at him and begged him to help her find it. He told her that she should train it better.”