He asked a passing basket-carrier for Mrs. Janeway and continued on his quest, although now it seemed unlikely Mrs. Janeway would be able to accompany him on any rounds. A tour of his tenants would have to wait.
But things were looking up. He found Mrs. Janeway atop a ladder, her mind engrossed in the picking, her long legs and delectable derriere encased in a tantalizing pair of trousers. Things were looking up indeed, and not all of them had to do with ladders. Mrs. Janeway was turning out to be quite a surprise. He’d not expected a tree-climbing paragon.
“Hallo down there, I need another basket.” She called without looking.
Killian grabbed up an empty basket at the base of the tree and passed it up, appreciating the view, a more than apt compensation for the harridan who had met him at the door. “Mrs. Janeway, might I have a moment of your time?”
She turned to take the basket and halted, momentarily stymied upon recognition of who stood at the bottom of her ladder. The expression on her face clearly indicated her rushing thoughts: how did one greet a peer when they showed up at the harvest?
Mrs. Janeway passed down her basket and nimbly descended, apparently having decided since there was no known protocol to cover such a contingency she’d behave normally. She stripped off her heavy gloves and reached a hand up to pull off the cap she wore, red-gold hair tumbling in a rich waterfall over her shoulders, blue eyes challenging his right to interrupt her harvest.
It was Killian’s turn to be surprised for the second time since entering the orchard. Mrs. Janeway, the village paragon, was the woman who’d stared so boldly at him yesterday. Hmmm. Events were taking an interesting turn.
He gave her a slow smile of acknowledgement. “Mrs. Janeway, I feel as if we’ve already met.”
“Looking for work, Pembridge? I haven’t got any. There’s barely enough to go around as it is.” Rose replied coolly, ignoring the implication that he was going to make her accountable for yesterday’s unguarded moment.
“Looking for you, actually. I’m afraid I’d forgotten what time of year it was. I’ve caught you at a bad time but I’d appreciate it if you could take a stroll with me. I’ve a proposition for you and it won’t take long.”
His dark eyes danced with deliberate mischief. Proposition indeed. He’d used the word on purpose, she decided. Well, she wouldn’t bite and give him the satisfaction of having made her all hot and bothered with his innuendos. Not yet anyway.
“I won’t even pretend to match wits with you, Pembridge. I would be out of my depth in no time. No doubt you’ve made a career of such dazzling wordplay in London while I’ve sharpened mine not at all. However, a proposition implies there’s something in it for me, so I’m willing to listen.”
Rose gestured toward a quiet place at the corner of the orchard where they might talk in relative privacy and she could keep an eye on the activity. The crop had ripened late this year and every day before the frost counted if the apples were to be saved. If he expected to be taken inside for tea and scones, he’d be sadly disappointed.
He was not fazed by her business-like demeanor. “Are you really so indifferent, Mrs. Janeway? Yesterday, I rather thought you weren’t.” His voice was low and private, far too seductive for the orchard.
She was conscious of his eyes on her as they walked. Her first line of defense was being eroded with astonishing speed. She was well aware that she had the full sum of his attentions. Acutely so. The woman in her fired too easily to the flattery of his scrutiny. Her fantasies were within her reach if she dared.
She opted for the truth. “I’m not indifferent, as you well know.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Rose.” He’d paused ever so slightly before saying her name. That did unnerve her. A bolt of want shot through her at the sound of her name on his lips, intimate and personal.
“Is this your proposition?” She asked, trying to regain her equilibrium. Sparring with Killian Redbourne was an undeniably heady experience.
He shot her a teasing glance and she saw an appreciation for her bold, honest wit. “Rose, I don’t have to bargain for a woman’s affections.”
“Well then, what do you have to bargain for?” Rose fired back, matching his tone with a light sauciness of her own.
They reached a quiet niche of the orchard, out of earshot and out of the way of wandering eyes. He stopped and turned so that he stood very near her, close enough that she could smell the spices of his toilette.
“I need a guide to show me around and help me meet everyone. My uncle’s solicitor, a Mr. Connelly, suggested you would be best suited for that role. It should not take more than a day or two.”
It was as she’d feared. He had no intention of actually being the earl. He was going to claim the title and go without a thought for what he left behind. Pembridge-on-the-Wye needed more than a handsome face.
“And then you’re back to London, just like that?” Rose snapped her fingers, the light sassiness that had peppered their encounter earlier overcome by the reality.
“I have my own business to look after,” Killian explained.
“There’s plenty of business here to look after too.” Rose reprimanded sharply.
It did the trick. The playful charm was instantly muted in his eyes. Good. Life in the country was serious business these days. There’d been reports of machine-breaking in Kent and swing riots in East Anglia. Another bad harvest was all it would take for the unrest to spread here where there were more laborers than farms that could employ them.
Her hands were on her hips and she was conscious of the defiant picture she must present in her trousers and boots. “These people will expect you to look after them.”
“I’ve heard you’re doing a superior job of that.” Pembridge broke in. “They don’t need me.”
“I’m just the squire’s widow. I can bring them food baskets and hold their hands when they’re sick. But I can’t solve their real problems.”
“And I can?” Pembridge queried, putting her on the spot. If he was going to force her to spell out his duty to him then she would.
“If you can’t, then no one can. Have you wondered why so many people turned out for the funeral yesterday in the middle of the apple harvest?”
“Curiosity, I suppose, if your behavior is anything to go on.”
Rose snorted. “It takes more than curiosity and respect for protocol to drag a farmer away from his crops at harvest. They came because you’re their last hope.”
Pembridge leaned back against a tree trunk in casual repose, his legs showing to advantage in his buckskin trousers and high boots. They were as long as she’d imagined yesterday beneath his greatcoat and far better muscled than her imagination gave them credit for.
“Bravo, Mrs. Janeway. You should be an actress. Although I must admit, while your performance is inspiring, it feels rather over-dramatic.”
Rose gestured to the orchard beyond them, her agitation rising. “There hasn’t been a good harvest since 1827. Last year there was snow in October. Even if legislation in Parliament and the Enclosure Laws weren’t conspiring against the average farmer, the issue of the weather would be enough to cause these folk grave concerns. At this point, it’s not a matter of making economies to get through the winter. It’s a matter of surviving. For some of these families it’s not a foregone conclusion that they’ll make it. That’s why their children are out here working alongside them.”
“I will meet with them. I will do what I can for them to see them settled for the winter. Let that appease your conscience. But Mrs. Janeway, I do not intend to be an earl in residence. I rather doubt anyone thought I would be, whatever other expectations they had. I haven’t been here in fourteen years.”
“You’re here now.” Rose said coldly, disappointment swamping her. The disappointment was all her own. Unlike the others of Pembridge-on-the-Wye who’d given up, she’d hoped the new earl would take an active interest in the estate, that maybe he’d have some magical solution to their problems. They neede
d an additional source of income that could last beyond the harvest.
Pembridge gave a curt nod. “Good day, Mrs. Janeway, I seem to have let you down. That was not my intention.” He moved past her, probably wanting to get away from her company as fast as he could. No wonder. By all social standards, she’d behaved abominably. She had no right to scold a peer. But Rose had never been one to bow to social mores when right was on the line, and it was on the line now.
“You haven’t let me down, Pembridge. You’ve merely lived up to the rumors. I am at fault for stupidly wishing for more. I imagine that’s the difference between expectations and hope.”
She regretted the harsh words the moment they slipped out of her mouth. If she hadn’t alienated him already, she’d surely done so now. She barely knew him and it was unfair to make him the whipping boy for her shattered hopes.
Pembridge paused in his departure and turned back to face her. Rose squared her shoulders. She could not take back the words. She deserved whatever he said next. There was an unmistakable look of challenge on his face and she braced herself.
Chapter Four
Rose watched perplexed as Pembridge shrugged out of his coat and slowly rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, an expensive one, made of fine lawn. Men around here didn’t have such shirts except perhaps a lucky few who saved them for church. Surely he didn’t mean to work in it? If not, what did he mean to do?
A horrible thought came to her. Did he mean to spank her? She hadn’t been spanked since she was four, and she’d deserved it for talking back to the minister. You deserve it now, a little voice prompted. You never did know when to keep your thoughts to yourself.
Pembridge stepped towards her and she instinctively backed away, although a wicked thrill replaced her initial reaction at the prospect of a spanking. Her cheeks flushed at the image of her own naked buttocks on display across his lap.
He laid his jacket over a low limb of the tree; her eyes followed his every move. His hand tested the strength of the branch. “Good solid wood.”
Rose sucked in her breath. Dear lord, what was happening to her with all these heated, sordid thoughts? She hoped he didn’t have any inkling of the lust he was stirring in her beyond that which he already guessed at.
He cast a brief glance at the sky overhead, blue and sunny. “Snow in October, you say? I’ll take your word for it. In that case, you’ll need all the help you can get.”
That was not at all what she’d expected to hear. It took a moment to drag her thoughts away from spanking. “What do you mean to do?” He was not nearly as angry as he should be after that stinging retort of hers.
“My dear Mrs. Janeway, I mean to change your lowly opinion of me.” The Earl of Pembridge favored her with a dark-eyed wink. “It may surprise you to note that I am not entirely unaccustomed to labor, although you and Mr. Connelly seem inclined to believe I live the raciest of lives. I hate to disappoint you, but between mistresses and gambling dares, I manage to help off-load cargo from my ships in London.” He gave a jaunty bow in her direction, a laughing smile on his lips and sauntered off into the depths of the orchard, scooping up an empty bushel basket as he went, his shirtsleeves rolled up.
Rose watched him go, manly swagger and all. What a man! He exuded sexual possibility at every turn—each look, each word a seemingly calculated attempt at seduction. Yet, she sensed an honest man beneath the winks and slow smiles. A man who didn’t claim to be more than he was, who liked women and took opportunities to enjoy them. There was intelligence beneath the surface too. He’d built his own business after all.
It put her in something of a quandary to feel such an attraction to the man who could save Pembridge-on-the-Wye and wouldn’t. Pembridge-on-the-Wye was her passion. She wanted it to be his too, because he had the connections and the ability to do something here. And yet, he wouldn’t stay. While that was good news for any potential affair (it would be best if her lover could simply disappear after they were finished. Lingering would create complications), it went directly against her larger priorities.
That was putting the cart before the horse. He wasn’t in her bed yet. Still, Rose couldn’t help but feel such an event was inevitable. He wanted her, had indicated that he found her interesting. Even after her scold, he’d not run away from her. He’d walked with the cocky assurance of a man who knew he was going to get what he wanted.
A man like that was dangerous to the feminine mind. She’d do best to keep an eye on him and that would be no hardship at all.
As surprises went, this was the most pleasant one she’d had in some time. It was also the most distracting. Everyone had recognized Pembridge immediately and shyness had fallen over the orchard like a blight. Wonderful. The stubborn man had found a sure way to destroy productivity. They’d never get the crop in at this rate and while Rose wasn’t worried about snow this year, she was worried about frost. There was a bite in the air suggesting the first frost was not far off. But Pembridge was cognizant of his effect on the orchard and moved immediately to dispel it with his easy manner. Within a half hour, all was miraculously restored to its proper order and Rose breathed easier.
It appeared he’d been telling the truth about off-loading cargo. Unafraid of hard work and heights, he volunteered himself for the taller trees, agilely climbing up and down the ladders with athletic grace. He carried filled bushel baskets on one shoulder with ease. Rose saw him stop on numerous occasions to relieve women struggling with heavy baskets; he was a gentleman and a laborer all neatly rolled into one exquisitely male package.
Pembridge was indeed undeniably male, a fact made self-evident by the sweat of his efforts and the thinness of his shirt by late afternoon. More than once, she stopped to admire the play of his muscles through the perspiration-soaked shirt as he lifted and hauled. He hadn’t the usual stocky build of the laborer, but the muscled leanness of an athlete. He bent to retrieve an apple from the ground, his buttocks flexing at the motion, setting sinful notions running throughout Rose’s head, enough to start a slow heat low in her belly. Again.
Rose blamed her unseemly fascination with him on the rumors. She never should have listened to the gossip. It was only natural to wonder about such things when so many of the rumors surrounding him were sexual in tone. But she’d rather not be so consumed by them out in public.
From up near the house, she heard her housekeeper, Mrs. Hemburton, ring the bell, signaling the end of the work day. Mrs. Hemburton would have cider casks out with plenty to drink before the workers headed home. There would be a short bit of socializing over the cider, a chance to celebrate the day’s labor before it was too dark to travel.
It was a good day’s work too that they’d put in, Rose noted, taking stock of the trees as she trudged through the rows. By the end of the week all would be harvested, safe and sound. She was lucky; her apple harvest had been good. But she knew many around her who had not had the yields they’d expected.
Pembridge was already at the casks, surrounded by men as if he were another local at the pub. His shirt was dirty (probably unsalvageable) his dark hair loose from his queue. The utterly masculine sight of him sent a small jolt of desire through her. The image of a hard-working man was a potent one. She tamped it down with a reminder; this was only one day. He still meant to leave as soon as he possibly could. He had no plans to make a long-term commitment here. His long absence and his estrangement from his uncle proved he viewed Pembridge as nothing more than an unwanted inconvenience. To be fair, he was not the cause of their suffering, that had been in place long before he’d come.
And when he looked at her with those laughing dark-brown eyes and sensual smile, she couldn’t think of anything but the pleasure he promised. It gave one ideas and set one’s mind to wondering what it would be like to be indulged by such a demigod of a man. Why not seize what the moment provided?
And then what? Moments had consequences. Reality intruded. An earl might dally with a squire’s widow while rusticating in the country, b
ut nothing more. What did she expect would happen after an affair? He might not be the marrying kind now, but his title was new yet. He’d have to change his mind sooner or later and beget an heir. When he did, it would be with some suitable London girl with rank. These were crazy thoughts indeed.
Rose took a mug of cider to clear her thoughts and waited for the crowd of workers to ease away. It was clear she was not the only one affected by the earl’s presence. There was a wave of energy among the people gathered for cider. He’d certainly boosted morale. She feared it may also have boosted their flagging hopes for change. A man of power who worked beside them was an intoxicating prospect.
“You did well today.” Rose approached him as the last of the workers disappeared down the lane. She needed to make peace for her earlier behavior, regardless of her mental dilemma.
He turned his slow smile towards her. She couldn’t help but smile back. His charm was contagious. “Why, Mrs. Janeway, is that an apology?”
Rose laughed, catching the teasing tone beneath his drawl, and met him head-on. This was the second time he’d held her accountable for her bold actions. “Do you never let a woman forget her foolishness?”
He considered her for a moment with thoughtful eyes. “I like a woman who can be honest with herself, Mrs. Janeway, as you were yesterday. You didn’t look away even after you’d been caught in the act.”
“There seemed no reason to stop since the damage had been done.” Rose tossed him a coy glance and gave him back a taste of his own wit, “After all, I told myself, he doesn’t seem to mind.”
She was actually flirting with the enemy. No, enemy was too strong a word. Pembridge wasn’t opposed to her—just the opposite, in fact. He wanted her. It was just Pembridge-on-the-Wye he was opposed to.
Pembridge laughed outright, his laughter a rich, full-bodied sound that filled the night air and wrapped her in its warmth. How long had it been since she’d laughed with anyone? There’d been so many cares of late, and only she to carry them.
Wicked Earl, Wanton Widow Page 2