Dunstan shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them from straying elsewhere. She might be tall for a woman, but she was delicately formed, and he felt like an oaf next to her. He had no need to impress anyone, but the worm inside his brain desperately wanted the lady to look at him with the same warmth and approval that Lily had.
“The viscount is determined to remain in his grandfather’s good graces,” Dustan went on. “He is making extravagant promises to me in return for marrying you off. Isn’t there somewhere else you could plant your gardens?”
“What extravagant promises?” she demanded.
His shoulders twitched uncomfortably inside his coat. “He promised to give me a tenant farm if I persuade you to marry.”
“The ungrateful little monster,” she muttered, returning to pacing. “I can see Lord John’s fine hand in this. His sister is on the hunt for a husband, and Staines is easily malleable.”
“Would that be Lady Mary?”
“Staines keeps poor company,” she agreed, without answering directly. “If they twist him to their thinking, they’ll likely try to murder me so he can have the estate.”
Dunstan didn’t think the adolescent viscount was that dangerous, but then, he hadn’t thought himself dangerous either. Alarm filled him at the thought of jeopardizing another woman with his presence.
“The viscount and his grandfather have it within their power to destroy my crop as well as yours with a single ill-timed hunt,” he said. He didn’t think she understood how serious the consequences would be for him. “You had better be very certain gardens are what you want. If I lose my crop because of your disagreement, it would set agricultural advancement back a decade.”
He watched her wrap her arms around her waist, as if she were holding herself together. Desire and a need to protect her surged through him again. For a brief, shattering moment, it only mattered that she was a woman, with all a woman’s frailties. He ought to comfort and defend rather than berate her.
But he knew where that would get him—and he couldn’t afford it.
He turned back to the garden. Work on the stone wall was proceeding nicely. It would fit in well with the stone terraces he would construct up the hill—if the lady didn’t marry and lose the land.
“This conflict is not about turnips or roses,” she finally answered. “It’s about power and control. Those who have them always want more. People like the earl will never be satisfied until they have it all, because they think they’re the only ones who are right.”
She was a revolutionary, Dunstan realized. He lusted after a witch and a revolutionary. He cast his gaze skyward and wondered why the devil was tormenting him.
“You have more power and control than you need,” he said, impatient with the dilemma. “If you move the gardens, the viscount might be persuaded to leave you alone. Why should I sacrifice my turnips for a passing fancy?”
“It is not a fancy. I’m very good at creating perfumes, and I wish to create bases of my own design. I need all these acres planted.” She gestured toward the grassy lawn. “More bushes arrived today. Aside from the earl, I am the only family my nephew has. I would like to see him learn the proper care of his estate, but he cannot override my wishes so long as this land is mine.”
Dunstan bit back the reminder that all she had to do was marry and the land would no longer be hers. She’d hired him to do a job, and he would do it. The temptation of finding a man to marry her so he could gain possession of the tenant farm nagged at the back of his mind, but he disliked the idea of being the one to end her dream, if that’s what the garden represented. “I’ll bring in more men to wall off the lower garden,” he finally agreed. “Keep the bushes in water until we can plant them.”
He started to turn away, but Leila placed a hand on his coat sleeve. He stiffened, fighting another wave of desire. She had a body to try a man’s soul. He hungered to haul her by her slender waist into his arms and feel her against him as if she were Lily. How would her lips taste if he covered them with his? Would she yield readily to his tongue?
He simply had to remember that she was a lady and keep his hands to himself.
“Thank you for telling me,” she murmured, interrupting his lustful ruminations. “Most men think women no better than beasts in the field, good only for rutting and fair game for a man’s plots.”
Disgruntled by her blunt honesty, Dunstan threw up his best defense. “On the whole, men have but the one thing on their minds and believe women think the same,” he said harshly. “Women do not always discourage us in those beliefs.”
“Well, in that case perhaps women are beasts,” she said with amusement, smoothing his coat sleeve. “But even hens have the right to choose the best rooster. Give some of us a little credit for good taste.”
“And credit some of you with fowl taste?”
She chuckled at his pun. “Some men are strutting cocks,” she agreed. “I just don’t think most women enjoy being held down by talons on their necks.”
She sounded like Lily when she talked like that. Without thinking, Dunstan reached out and rubbed his thumb down the delicate line of her face. She didn’t pull away. He couldn’t believe he was doing it. He watched his hand as if it belonged to a stranger.
“Before the topic strays into breeding practices, I’d best bid you good night.” He tried not to strangle on the words as her rigid posture softened under his caress. “This cock knows better than to dally with hens who expect him to pay the price of his sport.”
She instantly shoved him away and almost spat her reply. “You have the brain of a peacock if you think I want payment for your sport.”
That hadn’t been what he’d meant, but if it got him out of here faster, he would let it be. He’d spent a long day resisting temptation and he was sorely tried. Two damned women, and he wanted them both. May the heavens preserve him.
“Someone always pays,” he retorted and strode off, wondering if it wouldn’t be easier to find a good cave and become a hermit.
Eight
“Hullooo, Mr. Ives,” a cheerful feminine voice caroled as he stepped outside the cottage the next morning.
Dunstan blinked in astonishment at the array of colorful silks and golden curls bouncing up his walk. Fashionable females generally avoided him.
Catching his breath at the knifing pain of that reminder, he scowled at the intruders, recognizing Malcolms when he saw them. They must have been the guests the lady had entertained last night.
“We’ve brought you a housewarming gift,” the elder cooed, batting her pretty lashes at him and handing him a beribboned basket.
He held the frivolous thing on the tip of one finger, wondering what to do with it. Did unmarried females usually carry gifts to widowers? Or to accused murderers?
“And we brought an invitation,” the bespectacled younger female said shyly, handing him a card. “All the local ladies are curious to meet you, and we have promised that you will be there.”
He scanned the neat penmanship requesting his presence at dinner at the manor house that evening. The widow had a whole company to keep her entertained. What could she want with him, other than the amusement of watching her guests laugh and whisper behind his back?
He handed the card back to them. “I have other obligations. Give my regrets to—” He couldn’t remember if these were sisters or cousins. There were too damned many of them, and they all looked alike. “—to Lady Leila.”
They refused to take the proffered card. Two pairs of bright blue eyes stared soulfully at him from beneath bounteous blond curls. “Oh, you really cannot refuse,” they said in chorus. The younger continued, “We have promised, and you would make liars of us. Ninian said you would be nice.” The plea ended on a hiccuping lament.
They were but children, scarcely older than his son. Grimacing at the thought of the fourteen-year-old he’d left behind, Dunstan dug a hand into his hair. Ninian was an annoying pest, but she’d promised to keep an eye on Griffith for him. He o
wed her, and her family, however much he despised being obligated to anyone.
“I can’t stay long,” he warned.
“Oh, you will not regret it,” the younger one exclaimed. “We will have so much fun! Leila has promised us dancing,” she whispered in excitement, as if the idea were too delicious to say aloud.
Dunstan bit back a vivid curse. He felt old and jaded in the presence of such youth and innocence. With nothing better to say, he nodded curtly. The girls waved their farewells and wandered off, leaving him holding the gaily wrapped basket.
Carefully, he pulled back the gingham cover. The fragrance of new-mown grass under warm sunshine wafted upward. Frowning, he poked at the neatly wrapped packages within and finally peeled off the paper to uncover perfumed soap.
Snorting, he flung the basket into a chair and proceeded to the stable. Unlike the gentlemen of London, he preferred a good strong lye soap and a daily bath rather than covering odors with perfumes and lotions. Hell would freeze before he’d appear in public smelling of anything but himself.
After spending a filthy day overseeing the drainage of the fens and avoiding the garden, where he might run into the too tempting Lady Leila, Dunstan dragged himself back to the cottage, hoping his housekeeper had left one of her savory stews on the stove for him.
To his disappointment, he smelled nothing cooking as he opened the kitchen door and discarded his muddy boots with the help of a boot hook. He was late today, but Martha usually left something simmering.
Flinging his coat and vest over a chair and padding across the stone floor in his stocking feet, he found Lady Leila’s invitation to dinner propped against the saltcellar and cursed. He’d forgotten.
He glanced at the wall clock. He would have to hurry. With no time for a proper bath, he grabbed the soap at the kitchen sink, started to lather his hands, and caught the scent of new-mown grass. He’d always liked the scent of grass. Eyeing the fresh cake skeptically, he tossed it aside and reached for the sliver of strong soap. Martha must have found the basket and decided to freshen the kitchen with the scented stuff.
Dropping his mud-bedecked shirt on the floor, he poured some hot water from the stove into the sink, scrubbed his chest and shoulders, and shaved. He should be thankful he was no longer married. A wife would have hysterics seeing him walking half naked from kitchen to bedchamber. Bachelor life had its advantages.
Except in the matter of clothing. He had never wasted much time on London fashion. Poking through his wardrobe, he found that he’d not spilled anything on the frilled linen shirt he’d worn to Drogo’s wedding. The fancified breeches still fit, but he’d ruined the silk stockings. Cotton would have to do. He didn’t want to make a complete country dolt of himself, but he had no intention of competing with the beribboned beaus who were finding their way to the widow’s door these days.
This summer should be a right jolly tickle while he waited to see if the lady accepted anyone’s offer. Had he thought he had a chance, he ought to join the parade of suitors himself.
But he couldn’t do that, not even to a Malcolm. Fear that deadliness might lurk in his heart chilled any desire to marry again.
Feeling like a fop in white lace jabot and black satin evening habit, wondering how the hell he would keep clean on horseback, Dunstan strode out the front door to discover a carriage waiting for him.
“There you are, sir. I was about to knock.” The driver opened the door and bowed.
The widow wasn’t taking any chances. Perhaps he ought to polish a few phrases of flattery so she’d be satisfied and leave him alone. So lovely to be dragged out after an exhausting day to be entertained by fools and fops didn’t sound like a practical suggestion. Perhaps, Madam is too kind to flaunt her charms in my face, knowing she can scream for help should I reach for them.
Did he want to reach for the lady’s charms?
Better he should find Lily. At least she was honest about her desires.
Crossing his arms and leaning back against the seat, Dunstan scowled as the carriage swept up a lane illuminated by torches and linkboys running about with lanterns. The scene was Celia’s favorite fantasy—glittering jewels, gaily bedecked finery, and prancing fops to bow and flatter and flirt.
He had to stop thinking so cruelly of his late wife. She’d been young and infatuated with the idea of someday becoming a countess. Perhaps if he’d indulged her more, she might have matured enough to see the foolishness of society.
Then again, perhaps not. Lady Leila obviously hadn’t.
Entering the chandelier-lit foyer and surrendering his hat to a severely garbed butler, Dunstan stalked into the mansion’s immense formal parlor. Gilded furniture and mirrors reflecting elegant gowns bedazzled his eye.
Silence descended the instant he entered.
Devil take them all.
Clenching his jaw and straightening his shoulders, Dunstan strolled across the room as if he possessed it. Inwardly, his skin crawled. The widow’s London suitors must have brought the gossip with them. Even the locals watched him with suspicion.
Narrowing his focus until the entire company disappeared, Dunstan cast his gaze across the immense handwoven carpet to where the Black Widow waited. He might not know how to deal with women, but he would learn how to manage this particular Malcolm, if only for self-preservation.
Lady Leila smiled beguilingly from beneath a coiffure of tight white curls adorned with diamond butterflies. Concealing most of her curves with a flowing habit à la française of black crepe accented in white lace, she drew him like a bee to nectar. Her provocative touch and enticing perfume haunted his dreams. Fury simmered at his helpless attraction to her as much as at the idea that he’d been manipulated into this predicament.
To hell with Malcolm witches and their beguiling eyes. He captured hers from across the room.
The midnight blue of the lady’s gaze sparkled in the candlelight, striking Dunstan with the force of a blow. Her eyes were the shape and color of Lily’s eyes. What manner of witch was this, who could steal color from the eyes of another?
Don’t panic, he told himself, forcing his nervousness down to his belly and striving to regain his senses. Use logic. Even Malcolms couldn’t steal eyes. It had to be the strikingly thick black lashes fooling him. Malcolms were fair and should have light-colored lashes . . .
He lifted a suspicious glance to the lady’s powdered curls. What color did the powder conceal? Was she even a Malcolm? He hadn’t looked closely at the woman in London. Was this even the same person? She stood as tall as he remembered, taller than Lily. She wore the cosmetics required of society. She could have darkened her lashes. Perhaps the illusion was a trick of candlelight. He’d only seen Lily in the gloom of evening and thunderclouds.
He couldn’t possibly believe the open, honest Lily could masquerade as a Malcolm, could he? To what purpose? It had to be the lady.
His discomfort subsiding beneath a seething fury, Dunstan strode forward.
By the goddesses, he was magnificent.
Leila didn’t need Christina’s ability to read auras to know that Dunstan Ives was toweringly, breathtakingly furious as he navigated the path between them.
He swaggered through her parlor as if born to a kingdom, his broad back straight and proud. Though he wore only black with a minimum of lace, he exuded authority—and glowering majesty. She almost expected her guests to bow before him.
The man who halted before her had a tremendous control she couldn’t help admiring. A slight twitch of his jaw was the only outward manifestation of his discomfort. He made a gentlemanly bow, sweeping back his long evening coat.
Even though she could understand his intimidating effect, it amazed her that people could be so blind as to believe he had murdered his wife. A man like Dunstan Ives would not soil his hands or waste his time with the blood of an adulteress, although he might coldly cast her to the wolves and go about his business without a second thought.
That realization chilled her and should have
been sufficient warning. It wasn’t. Some imp of hell goaded her on. Or the dire need for this man’s support against the wolves at her door.
“I am grateful that you have torn yourself from your work to visit my humble home.” She smiled for their audience, but sarcasm dripped from her tongue.
The fury in his eyes could scorch. “And I am humbled that you have been so good as to invite me,” he repeated, as if by rote.
“Oh, very good. Now tell me another.” Returned to the coquetry that came to her as naturally as breathing, Leila drawled with artificial sweetness, “I particularly like the lies that begin by comparing my eyes to moonlit nights.”
He straightened and stared down at her as if he were contemplating the matter. It took him so long to reply that Leila wondered if her coiled hair had come undone or if her beauty mark had gone askew.
Then she realized he was studying the way her corset molded her breasts above her bodice, and heat colored her skin. She considered swatting him with her fan, but she needed it to cool herself. She had wanted his attention, but this wasn’t what she’d had in mind. She could have desire from any man. From Dunstan, she wanted a meeting of the minds.
The thought of their bodies meeting stimulated far more than her mind. She took a deep breath, and his gaze burned hotter. She might melt into a puddle and sauté her toes if he did not respond soon.
“I am an agronomist, not a poet,” he finally answered. “Perhaps I should compare you to the fertile valleys between the Gloucester hills?” His words taunted despite his innocent tone.
“Comparing me to dirt—how unique.” With a sharp crack, Leila snapped open her fan and gazed past him to her guests. “You are late. That may be fashionable, but it gives these fools time to talk. I need to speak with you about Staines, but not now.”
She could see her nephew whispering to Lord John and Lady Mary in the far corner. What mischief did they stir now? She wished she had sufficient influence with the boy to divert him from those parasites, or that his grandfather would deign to teach him responsibility. She hated to be the one to stand in the old earl’s stead, but if she was all Staines had, she would have to find some way to teach the boy his future role as the owner of vast properties.
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