The Peculiar Folly of Long Legged Meg

by Jayne Fresina

  She got up at once from the wooden stool upon which she'd been holding court. "Now don't make a fuss. It's just a few things to cheer the place. And these men will work better on a well-filled stomach, so you surely cannot complain about— Why are you looking at me like that?" She backed up behind her stool.

  He couldn't help it. All he could think about was that lover Lady Honoria had mentioned. Someone she chose over him, when there was so much heat between them and he had begun to yearn for another taste of her skin whenever he saw her.

  Joss stepped aside and gestured, with a sweep of one arm, for her to leave through the door. "You've done your damage, set us back a good few hours. That's what you wanted, I suppose."

  "I only tried to—"

  "Off you trot, madam. We've work to do, and you're in the way."

  She glared, muttered a "Well, really!" under her breath, picked up her basket and marched to the door.

  With difficulty he kept his lips firm, his eyes off her as he chastised his men. "I'm surprised at you all, for letting the dowager marchioness distract you this morning. Have I not warned you? If she had her way you'd all be fat, lazy and falling asleep before the day's work has begun. Can you not see she's out to sabotage us with these sinful indulgencies? She'll whisper her stories in your ear while she has a hand in your pocket."

  "She meant no harm, sir," one of the men called out, spraying scone crumbs down his jerkin. "She were telling us a grand story."

  "Aye," shouted another. "Let the lady stay a while. We'll make up the time later."

  The menace swung around to face them all and said proudly, "Fret not. I am familiar with your master's desire to live like a monk. I had not realized he expected the same from the men he employs. I tried only to make your stay here a little more comfortable. But pay me no mind."

  As she stepped outside, Joss said loudly, "On the contrary. Pay that lady every mind. She is not a woman upon whom a man should ever turn his back. It would be akin to sleeping in the company of a tiger."

  At once she returned, having overheard his comment, of course. "I can assure you no fellow has ever fallen asleep in my company."

  He looked at her and caught a brief glimpse again of that scar on her cheekbone. "Unless you slipped something in his drink, madam." He hadn't realized it was coming out of him, until it did.

  The words hung heavily in the still, warm morning air like sunbeams that glittered with sudden menace. Her eyes widened, and then she swiftly lowered her lashes like a curtain.

  Aware of his men looking on, listening avidly, he quickly ushered her out of the house.

  "I told you, madam, once you trust me, I'll trust you. What were you up to with my men? Getting them on your side, I suppose. Fluttering your lashes and tempting them with baked goods; captivating the poor fellows with your stories?"

  She spun around and took something out of her basket. He flinched, thinking it might be a knife with which to stab him through the heart. Why not, she might as well.

  "I saved one for you, so you can stop sulking." It was one of her scones wrapped in a linen napkin to keep it warm.

  Oh. For a moment he didn't know what to say. He cleared his throat. "Is it buttered?" he demanded.

  "Of course."

  He took it warily. "Share it with me?"

  She laughed. "Still think I'm out to poison you?"

  "No. Just thought I'd enjoy it more with the company."

  Thankfully she didn't argue and they walked together along the narrow, rutted lane, until they came to a stile, where they stopped and he divided the scone into two. He offered to put his coat down so she could sit, but she was apparently too restless.

  Joss decided to let her lead the conversation for he still had too many thoughts to mull over, pieces of memory to fit together.

  "I hear you are ready to make a start on Araminta's temple," she said. "Davy said they brought in some stone yesterday."

  He nodded, his mouth too full to speak.

  "It is a pity that of all the ladies to come before her, she is the one to have a temple built in her honor. She will be the Marchioness of Holbrooke remembered for posterity. Especially if you dig up that secret garden. Then there will be nothing left of those who came before. It seems vastly unfair." She hesitated. "And I don't know why I look for your sympathy. I can expect none."

  Joss swallowed and wiped his mouth. "Women tend to tell me everything. Their deepest, darkest secrets." He grinned. "I should have been a priest."

  She cast him a skeptical look.

  "Well... perhaps not," he added sheepishly. "Not since you ran into me, in any case."

  "And you were so well behaved before that?"

  He replied proudly, "Yes. As a matter of fact. When it came to women I always minded my ps and qs."

  "While they were throwing themselves at you?"

  "If they threw themselves, doesn't mean I caught any." He briskly wiped crumbs from his shirt and waistcoat. "Truth is, Persey, I was never so taken with any woman until I saw you. I've kissed a few— not many. But that's where my intimate familiarity with the ladies ends."

  She stared, her face pale, her lips parted.

  "What ails? Did a bee just fly up your petticoat?"

  Was it because he'd called her Persey? Or because of his stark honesty? He waited, wondering. He couldn't apologize for being honest, and she ought to know how he felt by now in any case. But even so, the silence made him nervous. He brushed his hands on his thighs, his pulse galloping too hard and fast. Perhaps he ought to learn subtlety. Perhaps he ought to learn how to hide his feelings better.

  At last she spoke. "Are you telling me that you've never...had a lover?" The morning sun was bright on the side of her face, tinting her skin with a soft blush of rose gold. She reminded him suddenly of an angel on a medieval Italian fresco. She had never looked more beautiful, timeless, unearthly. "You're eight and twenty, Radcliffe. What have you been doing all this time?"

  "Waiting for you," he said with a shrug. To him it was simple. Women tended to complicate matters, getting men tangled up in their knots. Look what she'd done to him for example.

  She turned away and gave a soft groan that sounded very much like despair.

  "So if my kiss lacked something, that's why," he added. "I haven't had a lot of practice. I hoped to bluff my way through it."

  Persey shook her head slowly, still facing away, looking over the fields and the distant chimneys of Holbrooke house. "Your kiss lacked nothing, Radcliffe. I would say you're a natural. No need to worry about that."

  He perked up. "That's alright then."

  But she turned to look at him, her arms leaning on the stile. "No, it is not alright, is it?" she muttered, frustration sparking in her eyes. "Why would it be alright?"

  "Why not?" He stretched out his arms. "We're both unattached. Or are we?"

  Her tone impatient and irritable, she replied, "I am a widow, as you know."

  "Aye. But..." He paused and then decided to get it over with. "Lady Honoria seems to think you've acquired a lover in recent weeks. Have you?"

  She stared, the sparks even brighter now. "How dare you ask me such a question?"

  "Well, you made me woolen socks with my initials."

  "What in god's name does that have to do with anything?" Did she blush, or was that merely the sun's mounting heat on her face?

  "I just thought your interest in the comfort of my feet might—"

  "Entitle you to ask me about my lovers?"

  "Herald a new intimacy between us. That you might care about me. And if I didn't ask you for the truth then I could only speculate and that would do no good for either of us, would it?"

  "You are impossible."

  "I told you that from the start." He grinned.

  "I do not have...ugh!" She threw her hands in the air. "It is no business of yours, but Lady Honoria has leapt to conclusions. And that is all I shall say on that matter. This is not a subject you and I should discuss—"

  "Why should
n't we? I'm a man, and you're a woman. And I've waited a damnably long time to find you." Advancing toward her with single-minded purpose, he placed his hands on the wooden bar of the stile, one on either side of her shoulders, effectively trapping her there.

  "Have you forgotten who I am?" she exclaimed, breathless.

  "No. How could I forget you?" He smiled, looking at her lips, because suddenly he knew. It had to be her. Seemed impossible, but it must be. "I know you and where you came from. I know you better than anybody here, don't I?"

  * * * *

  As if somebody had just popped a cork, panic bubbled up rapidly through her veins. He was too close, surrounding her with his strength, pinning her to the stile. The wood rubbed against her back, but she could not escape without touching him and that, she suspected, would be dangerous, lighting the fuse on her gunpowder.

  "Don't remember me, do you?" he murmured, sounding crestfallen. His dark gaze wandered over her face, exploring.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Forgive me, your ladyship, for being presumptuous, but....you and I have met before, have we not? Of course, it was a long time ago."

  "I cannot think where we might have met, sir. No. I am sure you're mistaken."

  The slight forward and downward motion of his lips brought them closer to a kiss, but he waited, holding himself in check.

  "I'll leave you to think on it," he said softly. "As I said, it were many years ago. You might remember. Eventually."

  "If I knew you, Radcliffe, I would remember. I have a good eye for faces."

  "So do I." Raising one finger to the side of her face, he swept the hair back and touched her scar very gently. "And a memory for tall tales."

  Her heart beat raced, lively as a pony just let out to stretch its legs in the paddock. Did he mean to bribe her in some fashion? Was he simply fishing, to see what she might confess?

  He must have read the trepidation on her face, for then he said, "Don't get your petticoats twisted, your ladyship. I'm not going to tell. I promise."

  She swallowed. "There is nothing to tell, young man. I don't know who you think I am, but I have never seen you before. I would know if I had."

  "Would you? Perhaps you never really noticed me. It was a long time ago."

  "I'm certain I don't know you."

  Slowly he smiled, his finger curving down the side of her face to her chin. "Whatever you say, Meg of the Long Legs. Wouldn't want to end up buried under those hollyhocks."

  And thus her heart stopped a moment. She'd always known, in the back of her mind, that she'd be caught out eventually. Indeed, her new life had lasted longer than she'd expected. She'd been lucky; many times she'd told herself that. But when the end came it was no less sudden and painful.

  Now this man could bring her house of cards tumbling down.

  Was this why she had felt such a tremor when they met, because she knew, instinctively, that he was the man who would bring an end to her happiness? Had she somehow recognized him from her past?

  He would use this, of course. Anyone would.

  "What do you want from me, Radcliffe?"

  "A smile."

  "That's all?" She arched an eyebrow, trying to remain calm and collected.

  "And then you can kiss me this time," he murmured. "I'll wait."

  Persey was still trying to understand how he knew her name.

  Abruptly he took her right hand and held it to the left side of his chest. "Feel my heart beating like a drunken drummer on May day. I haven't known whether I was coming or going. You'll be the death of me, woman."

  Now she was "woman" again.

  "It might surprise you to know, but I haven't time for a love affair," she snapped. "Lady Honoria's future is—"

  "You've time to sit there telling stories and distracting my men."

  She felt the hearty thump of that organ in his chest, under his warm shirt. He perspired a little already that day and when he quickly swept off his hat with a frustrated motion, flinging it to the grass verge, she saw the sweat glistening in the furrows of his brow. He always wore his dark hair tied back in a short tail, but some strands were loosened by the rapid, churlish removal of his hat and they wafted upright in the air's friction.

  "And if you dare tell me, one more time that I'm too young for you, I'll take that bloody kiss whether you give it freely or not."

  "Ah, the height of maturity!"

  "Perhaps it's time someone took command of you."

  "Try it. I dare you."

  From the look on his face he meant to accept her challenge. Fortunately— or unfortunately, she couldn't be sure what she felt about it— the sudden clump of iron horse shoes in the dry lane and the creak and rattle of leather bridles, caused him to step back in the nick of time. At least he had some sense of propriety.

  Two seconds later a curricle appeared around a bend in the lane, traveling at a steady pace toward them.

  Minty.

  And worse. Seated beside the marchioness was her cousin Hugo Weston, a scoundrel who only visited Holbrooke when his pockets were light and he needed something he termed a "floater" from Minty.

  There was no time to think about Radcliffe's claim any further just then. It was necessary to regroup, straighten her spine and remember her lines as the dowager marchioness. The last person she needed suspecting anything was Minty, who had always cast aspersions on her background. It would be sin enough that she and the garden designer were found standing together in conversation.

  "We'll discuss this later," Radcliffe whispered.

  Whatever he meant to extort from her, she felt certain it would be costly. He was clever, ambitious and not easily dissuaded when he had made up his mind.

  Hugo Weston waved stupidly. As usual he appeared merry and careless, which was all a mask. Underneath it all he was sly and scheming, never did anything without the expectation of reward.

  Persey had met many men like Hugo, but few who were quite so unabashed about their state of debt. Minty, usually appalled by anything as distasteful as gambling, turned a blind eye to her cousin's antics, had an outrageous excuse for all his failures, and talked of him to anybody who would listen as if he was a misunderstood genius, cheated out of great success in life by the scheming ill-will of others and not by his own laziness at all.

  The last time he came to Holbrooke, Minty had even gone so far as to suggest that her cousin might be a suitable match for Honoria. Probably because that girl's dowry would save him from a valley of debt for longer than the gifts of money occasionally sanctioned by Albert.

  Honoria was repulsed by the idea, and quite rightfully so.

  As the approaching curricle drew near, Minty's face took on a decidedly green pallor, her eyes widening upon the upsetting view of her arch nemesis in close proximity to her hired gardener. Exactly where they were both not supposed to be.

  The two horses quickened to a brisker trot, bringing the curricle closer.

  "Master Radcliffe," Minty exclaimed in her most shrill voice, "I do hope you are not distracted from your work."

  The gardener glanced over at Persey, who still clung to the stile because her legs were unsteady, and she caught the gleam of mischief in his dark eyes before he replied, "It takes a great deal to distract me, your ladyship."

  Minty waited for her cousin to help her down, but since he took so long about it, Radcliffe stepped up to manage the doubtful honors instead, adding,

  "I cut my hand recently, and the dowager marchioness has been so good as to tend it for me with her own herbal salve, Lady Holbrooke." He held up his hand to show her. "All better now."

  "Well, I'm sure you might have come up to the great house and had it looked at there. My housekeeper has a large apothecary cabinet with all the latest medicines."

  "The efficacy of which is still in question," Persey felt compelled to say. "Whereas, my remedies have proven themselves many times over." Remembering that she had promised Albert not to upset his wife, in light of her "delicate condition", she bi
t her tongue.

  At this point, Hugo Weston finally removed his lazy hindquarters from the curricle to greet Persey with the obsequious manners of a snake whose poisonous fangs had been removed.

  "How delightful to see you in such good health and beauty, madam! I just encountered Lady Honoria, who, I declare, has grown up before my very eyes! Plumpened like the Christmas goose. Where has the time gone? And there you are, Lady Holbrooke, apparently decreasing in years, while the rest of us get old. I was just remarking to cousin Araminta how the passage of time steals youth so swiftly from us, yet here you are proving that this is not always the case."

  For that remark, he received a heated glare from his cousin.

  "I owe it all to witchcraft, Master Weston," Persey assured him tightly as he kissed her hand. Radcliffe's eyes were still upon her, searching and bemused.

  Minty gave a sharp huff. "I wouldn't be at all surprised."

  "And preservation by pickling in only the best wine, of course," she added.

  Hugo laughed, but he was given no more time to simper over her hand. Instead he was hauled off quickly to be introduced to Josias Radcliffe and hear all about the plans for Holbrooke. Persey was about to walk back to the lodge, when she heard her daughter-in-law inviting the gardener to dine at the great house that evening.

  To her surprise, he replied, "Thank you, your ladyship, but I have been invited to dine with the dowager marchioness."

  He had not received any such invitation from her, but now Persey felt the need to tread with care since he claimed to know her before. He was up to something, and whatever he wanted it was undoubtedly more than a kiss. Anticipation touched every part of her body, as if she was naked and at the mercy of his work-roughened fingertips already.

  "I'm sure I do not mind if you must attend at the great house, Master Radcliffe." The words came out on a thin, shattered breath. "An invitation by the marchioness is far more important than any of mine."

  "Exactly," Minty snapped.

  "Oh, but I am a man of my word, madam, as I told you before. I would never accept one lady's offer and then reject it for another. Even a lowly gardener has his principles." He was all gravity and humility. Quite possibly she was the only one not fooled.