But he was “out and about” during the day. To her continual inquiries regarding what he did with his day, he’d simply respond, “I have things to which I must attend.”
Those things kept him away from the house. She didn’t want to contemplate that one of his activities might involve a mistress. Yet he arrived home as immaculate as he appeared at breakfast. Too clean. Too tidy.
He was hiding something. She’d gamble her life on it.
And the only thing she could conceive of a man wanting to hide was his mistress.
Perhaps he had a woman in the nearby village.
She considered confronting him with her suspicions, but he’d made it clear they no longer shared a life. He remained with her because of a document and his desire not to have scandal surrounding his name.
As for her reasons for staying, they were more difficult to explain, to understand. She couldn’t fathom why she hadn’t already packed up her things and returned to Texas.
She’d survived hunger and cold. And a Texas winter wasn’t nearly as frigid as marriage to a man who wanted nothing more from her than money.
On their wedding night she’d actually held out hope that his feelings for her would grow. Not enough to include love, but fondness at least.
He’d been kind and gentle. And passionate. She’d almost believed he wanted her in his bed.
A notion that had died along with her father.
Indebtedness had prompted his solicitousness.
Yes, indeedy. She ought to gather up her belongings and head home, where she knew how to play the game.
Here the apparent rules and rigidity of class distinctions confused her.
Sometimes she thought Devon looked at her with a bit of caring. At least she’d thought that as he sat beside her in the foyer at midnight, studying the paintings on the ceiling. He’d appeared amused, maybe even glad to visit with her. And a little lonely.
He seemed to carry a heavy burden, and she didn’t know how to help him when she understood nothing about it.
He had proclaimed that gentlemen didn’t work.
Then what in God’s name did he do all day, and why in tarnation couldn’t he do it at the house?
Her musings came to an abrupt halt when she spotted the workers in the field. A longing for the familiar had her guiding her horse toward them.
Several men were swinging scythes, cutting what appeared to be wheat. Or corn, she supposed with amusement, was how they would refer to it.
One man in particular caught her attention. His clothes, a tight fit, were more worn than the others. Sweat dampened his broad back as he wielded the scythe as though he thought to cast out demons.
He was obviously the leader of the group, working with more determination and fury than the others did.
She wondered if this land belonged to her husband and if he was aware he had such an extraordinary worker in his employ. He certainly needed to be told.
One by one the other men stopped, removed their hats, and crumpled them against their chests. But this one man continued on, as though nothing could deter him from getting the crop harvested.
Suddenly he stilled, and obviously catching sight of his comrades, slowly turned.
The battered brim of his hat cast a shadow over his eyes, but she still felt the intensity of his gaze as he strode toward her.
When he neared and lifted his face toward her, the utter and complete mortification etched into his features almost unseated her.
“What are you doing here?” Devon demanded.
She couldn’t take her gaze from the beads of sweat coating his throat, the dirt pressed into the tiny lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, the rope of muscle in his forearms as he held the scythe in a white-knuckled grip.
“I…uh, I wanted to see the countryside.” She looked out over the land before returning her attention to him. “This is where you spend your days.”
She watched the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed. “Go home, countess. We’ll discuss this matter after dinner.”
“My riding or your working in the fields?”
He looked as though she’d just cut him off at the knees. Her heart restricted. “Devon—”
“Go home, countess. Now.”
He spun on his heel and strode back toward his men. He shouted an order, and the men immediately returned to work.
She urged her horse into a lope. Obviously her husband did have a mistress. A very demanding one.
The land.
Chapter 18
S tanding at the window in his library and staring at the moon, Devon considered lying to his wife. He contemplated explaining that what she’d witnessed today was an aberration. But in the end, he decided she deserved the truth. And if what little respect she might have held for him deserted her, so be it.
Dinner had been a beastly uncomfortable affair. The children had rambled about their day, lessons taught, stories told. Gina had listened intently, giving her usual delighted praise. But she’d seldom glanced at him—as though she found him as disgusting as he found himself.
Each morning he arose while the moon still cast a faint glow and went to the fields. He changed clothes in a barn when he arrived and before he left. He worked for an hour or two before returning home. Breakfast. Then back to the fields.
Until today only those who worked beside him had known what he did. Their silence bought them their positions.
Now the whole county would know.
Turning from the window, he met and held his wife’s gaze. “I had hoped to spare you the shame of learning your husband is little more than a common laborer.”
Obviously in stunned astonishment, she sat on the edge of the chair, her hands folded in her lap, her lips slightly parted, her brow furrowed, and her eyes blinking rapidly.
“In light of my confession, if you find it intolerable living here…” What? What could he offer her? A divorce? Separate living arrangements? Passage back to Texas? Each suggestion seemed wholly inadequate, only worsening the situation.
He plowed his hands through his hair and dropped his gaze to the floor. “Christ, Gina, I don’t have anything to offer you that could begin to make up for this deception.”
“You think I’m upset because I saw you working in the fields this afternoon?” she asked.
He lifted his gaze to hers. “How could you not be? Your father thought he’d arranged for you to marry a gentleman. A gentleman does not work until his hands bleed and his back aches in agony. He doesn’t awaken before the sun in hopes of getting in additional hours that might make a difference. He doesn’t pore over his books until midnight, hoping he’ll discover something he missed that might better his plight.”
Gracefully she rose and approached him. She took his hand and trailed her fingers over the calluses, which had grown more prominent since his return to the fields.
“A gentleman is supposed to have soft hands?” she asked.
“Of course. I was surprised you didn’t notice on our wedding night that my hands weren’t…as they should be. Since you didn’t mention the fact, I thought perhaps I’d succeeded in distracting you.”
A warm smile played across her lips. “Oh, you did indeed distract me.”
Lifting her gaze to his face, she brushed his thick, black locks from his brow. “Your face reflects its battle against the wind and the sun. It makes you stand out in a ballroom.”
“Should anyone ask, I attribute it to hours spent hunting instead of days spent toiling in the fields.”
“I thought you had a mistress, that you were spending your days with her.”
“Dear God, where would I find the energy?”
She smiled fully then, and it hit him that she wasn’t responding with a tantrum, as Margaret had when she’d noticed his hands losing their softness and the lines in his face growing deeper.
“How long have you been working in the fields?” she asked.
“Five years now.”
“You hoped my
father’s money would get you out of the fields.”
“I hoped—eventually—that it might. I wanted to purchase a mechanical reaper. A thresher. Five men can cut two acres in a day. I wanted more.”
He didn’t think it was possible for her smile to grow any fuller, but it did. She clapped her hands together and spun away from him.
“I can’t believe this,” she said.
He wasn’t quite sure what to make of her reaction. “I realize you must be horrified.”
She twirled back around. “Horrified? I’m delighted. I thought you were a lazy no-account waiting for someone to rescue you. Instead you’re working hard to better yourself. I respect that.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I am titled. That alone should have caused you to have had a measure of respect for me.”
Confusion clouded her eyes. “Devon, I honestly don’t know what I felt for you. It’s not that I didn’t respect you. I just didn’t feel as though I really knew you. I only knew I wished that I did.”
He sighed with resignation. “Well, now you know.”
Devon swung the scythe with practiced ease.
He enjoyed the solitude that accompanied him at dawn. The other workers arrived a bit later, so he was alone to work as he saw fit. Usually at a brisker pace than those he hired.
He encouraged them, kept up a steady rhythm as an example, but always tried not to outdo them by much. He didn’t want a man to leave his employ because he felt he was being ridiculed or made to look incompetent.
This morning, however, he worked at a slower pace, his mind constantly drifting to last night.
He hadn’t expected his wife to understand. He’d certainly never entertained the notion that she’d curl up in a chair before the hearth and ask him pointed questions about his crops, his yields, and the pattern of his seasons.
What truly amazed him was that she’d not only appeared truly interested in his answers, but she’d apparently comprehended their significance.
A horse’s whinny caught his attention. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw Gina sitting astride the dark bay mare, holding a wicker basket in her lap.
“What are you doing here?” he asked as he walked toward her.
“I thought it would save you some time if we had a picnic here.”
“I’m not certain I’ve ever heard of a picnic at dawn,” he said as he took the basket from her. Although he wished she wasn’t here to witness his efforts yet again, he was hungry enough to bring forth his manners. “I rather think it’s a splendid idea.”
Raising his hands to help her dismount, he noticed they were already grimy and dirty.
“One moment.” He wiped them on his trousers, not that it did much good.
“Honest dirt doesn’t bother me, Devon,” she said quietly.
He looked up at her. “It’ll ruin your dress.”
“Not this one. It’s old enough to go on the rag heap.”
Chuckling, he helped her to the ground. Only Georgina Sheridan wouldn’t bother to dress in finery for a picnic. She wore no gloves, and the hat perched on her head closely resembled his—a wide-brimmed beastly thing with no adornments whatsoever. He supposed she was more concerned with keeping the slowly rising sun off her face than appearing elegant.
Although he seemed to recall she’d worn a fanciful hat the day before. But then no one was likely to spot her at this time of morning. By the time they’d finished eating and she was headed back to the manor, a few of the villagers would be out and about, but he wasn’t overly concerned with them sighting her.
Carrying the basket and a blanket in one hand, with his other hand resting against the small of her back, he guided her to a portion of the field they’d cleared the day before, near evening. He was hard pressed to explain why he was pleased she was here.
She was correct in her assumption—her actions would allow him to lose little precious time. He didn’t have to wash up, change clothes, ride back to the manor, eat, ride back to the fields, and change clothes. His clandestine activities were wearisome at times.
He spread the blanket over the ground. Before he could assist her in sitting, she’d made herself comfortable and was scrounging around in the basket. He dropped down beside her.
“Give me your hands,” she ordered.
“They’re filthy, Gina.”
She bestowed upon him a dazzling smile. “I expected that.”
She flattened a towel over her lap. Before he could argue further, she took his hand and wiped a damp cloth over his palm, his fingers, and his knuckles. He could well imagine that when she’d begun her journey, the cloth had been hot, because a trace of warmth remained.
Guiltily he gave himself up to her tender ministrations. Margaret had grown to despise his coarse hands. Gina stroked them as though she considered them something of a marvel.
After she’d removed every bit of dirt to her satisfaction, Gina patted his hands dry with the towel she’d placed in her lap.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” she said, reaching into the basket.
He honestly believed it had been—almost as much as it had been his. He could not fathom the contentment hovering around her, as though she considered eating in a field no different from eating in a park.
“You won’t have as much of a selection as you have at home, but I figured what we lacked in choice, we could make up for in abundance,” she said.
Home. Strange how he’d never truly thought of Huntingdon as home. His family’s ancestral estate. The manor. The albatross around his neck that he dearly loved. But he’d never considered it home.
She set out an assortment of meats and pastries. “No plates. Just pick up what you want and eat it with your fingers.”
“How frightfully civilized,” he murmured as he reached for a slice of ham.
She brought out a jar wrapped in a towel and promptly poured some into a china cup. With one of her rare gamin smiles, she extended the delicate cup toward him.
The absurdity of sipping his tea as he sat on an old blanket in the middle of a field while the sun was only just clearing the horizon almost made him laugh. All that stopped him was the realization he’d nearly forgotten how.
The last thing she placed before him was The Times. Although too many dawn shadows prevented him from seeing the words clearly, he did appreciate her thoughtfulness. He set it aside. For the moment he decided he’d prefer to read her.
Stretching out on his side, he raised himself up on an elbow. He saw little point in pretending to be a gentleman at this precise moment. “What did Mrs. Cooper say when you asked for a picnic basket at this beastly hour?” he asked.
She nibbled on a crumpet. “She did her usual harrumph, but when I explained it was to become the new morning ritual she fetched the basket and helped me prepare the food that I wanted to bring.”
“You can’t bring me breakfast every morning.”
“If you don’t want to eat breakfast out here, then I’ll have it served earlier, before you leave.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, you can’t change the staff’s routine.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s simply not done.”
“Fine. Then I’ll cook breakfast for you before you leave the house.”
“You can’t—”
“But I can. I know how to fix flapjacks, griddlecakes, sourdough biscuits, gunslinger’s scrapple—you name it, I can cook it.”
He shook his head in amusement. “Gina, it’s not that I think you’re incapable of cooking. Rather, you are the lady of the manor and therefore you do not cook.”
“It’s ridiculous for you to leave the house, work for a couple of hours, and then come back just to salvage your pride. If they’re your servants, I don’t understand why they can’t serve your needs when they change.”
He supposed she made a compelling argument. “All right. You may instruct Mrs. Cooper to begin serving
breakfast two hours earlier.”
“Splendid.”
He thought he heard a great deal of triumph in her delivery of that one word with a trace of British accent. Perhaps he’d make an Englishwoman of her yet.
He sipped the tea, which was rapidly cooling in the chill of the morning. Sitting up, he hastened to finish the meal, so she could be on her way. No sense in making her suffer any longer than necessary simply because he enjoyed her company.
“What’s the wagon for?” she asked. “I didn’t notice it yesterday.”
“I have a man who tosses in the cut wheat and hauls it to a nearby barn. He was making his first trip when you stopped by.”
“I can do that.”
He nearly choked on his muffin before forcing out, “Do what?”
“Put the wheat in the wagon and haul it to the barn.”
He downed the remainder of his tea in order to unclog his throat. “Don’t be absurd.” He placed the cup in the basket.
“Then I’ll chop the wheat.”
He looked over his shoulder at her, not certain if she was infuriatingly frustrating or delightfully charming. “You are my countess. You do not toil in the fields.”
“Why not? You’re my earl and you do.”
“I have explained to you why I must. I take no pride in the fact that I must—”
“You should,” she cut in.
“Should what?”
“Take pride in your efforts.”
He’d decided. She was infuriatingly frustrating. “My family is made of generations of gentlemen. We do not have to labor. They would be horrified to see me do so now.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Because you don’t understand Englishmen. Your father wanted better for you. You’re not to blame because he didn’t search harder for it, but I’ll not allow you to sully yourself in the fields.”
She placed her hand over his, and everything within him stilled.
“Devon, don’t you understand that I admire what you’re doing out here? You’re trying to save your family’s estate with hard work.”
“My hard work shall suffice. I see no reason for you to labor in the fields.”
“But I want to! I’ve picked cotton from ‘can see to can’t,’ and by God, nothing is harder than that. I’ve spent too many days to count bent over, plucking bolls with bleeding fingers, while the sun—hotter than blazes—beat down on me. I helped my mother cook meals for a hundred farmhands, scrub heavy iron pots, and haul wagons loaded with cotton to the gin.”
To Marry an Heiress Page 20