by Mary Campisi
She hazarded a smile and said in a voice that sounded rather agreeable, considering it belonged to the woman who had done her best to be disagreeable since the moment he met her, “No, actually, I don’t.”
Was she ill? No signs of paleness or fever. Mayhap she was scheming? He studied the tilt of her chin, lifted just a hair in quiet defiance though not enough to be obvious unless one were looking for it. Scheming to what purpose? If that were the culprit behind her sudden agreeableness, Douglas would uncover it. “No list? Not a single chore? Well then, I could examine the manor and the grounds and formulate my own list.”
Her nostrils flared. “That will not be necessary,” she said in the old Madeline voice before reverting to the docile Madeline, “but thank you.”
He nodded. Oh, yes, that little brain of hers was busy devising a plan that unfortunately, included him. Patience and a quiet tongue would propel her to spill the truth.
“Gregory has grown concerned for your comfort and thought he heard you sneezing earlier. He mentioned you might have an allergy to the hay. He also noted you moved rather slowly this afternoon and attributed it to the hard ground.” Another timid smile and a quick glance in the direction of his chin. “I had not considered your comfort might be in question as it never was with Harold. If that is the case, I’d like to offer a room at the house.”
“Thank you.”
“And supper with us.”
“I shall look forward to it.”
She nodded and cleared her throat. “It has been suggested you might desire a bath in the main house as well.”
He raised a brow. Now they were discussing his personal care—naked personal care. Interesting lot here. And the English called the Americans barbaric.
A delicious swirl of pink danced along her neck. “I imagine a splash at the pump is not quite as soothing as a tub of warm water and a hint of spearmint. I shall see you have one tonight.”
“You are too kind.” What had this imposter done with the Madeline of the quick wit and waspish tongue? This one resembled a tepid replica and a pitiful one at that. Oddly, he missed sparring with the old Madeline.
She shrugged and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Douglas followed her hand as it slid from hair to waist to pocket. Such a delicate hand, such graceful fingers. His gaze moved to her neck, slid lower.
“Mr. Schilling.” Then, “Simon, if you please.”
Old Madeline seeped through the words. “Sorry.” He met her narrowed gaze and grinned. “Distracted, I guess.”
She huffed. “Do try to remain undistracted. Please. I have something of great importance I wish to discuss and I must have your full attention.”
Here it comes. “Would this matter of great importance have to do with the bed, the bath, and the meals you so generously offered moments ago?”
Another blush, this one darker than the previous one, but just as fetching.
“I would have offered those comforts to you despite the other matter.” Her lips stretched into a smile. “I thought I would save the trip and deal with both at once.”
Her attempt at a smile looked painful. “How may I assist you?”
Her gaze darted to his chin, his chest, finally his eyes. “We are expecting a visitor.”
He waited.
“It is of utmost importance that Lingionine give the appearance of strength and unity. Unfortunately, that appears to necessitate the presence of a man.”
“Me?” he surmised.
She nodded. “You need do nothing but provide an appearance. I should not like you to talk or engage in any manner of conversation with the visitor.”
“I’ll play the mute.”
“Well, you will need to say one or two words.”
He gazed down at her and said, “Provide me with the script and I shall see it is carried out.”
She smiled, a real smile this time and announced, “What a splendid idea. I’ll write it out and Gregory can go over it with you.”
She meant because he could not read. “What part will I play?” Probably an idiot she had taken in as a promise to his parents or some such nonsense. Madeline was certainly one for fabrication. Or mayhap she would cast him as an older brother who had suffered a fever and a fried brain. Whatever the role, Douglas was certain it would not be a flattering one.
“It is a rather small but important role,” she hedged. “You shall have access to my brother’s wardrobe and his bed.”
He was playing the scoundrel brother? Absolutely not. Anything but that. “I’ve no interest in playing your brother,” he said, making no attempt to hide his contempt.
“My brother?” Her brow furrowed. “You are not playing my brother.”
He stepped away from the stall and moved toward her, stopping when his boots brushed the hem of her gown. “Tell me, dear Madeline, what role shall I play?”
She licked her lips and opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.
He’d wager that was a first for her. “Madeline?”
She met his gaze. Swallowed. “You’re to play the role of my husband.”
Chapter 8
I’m delighted you find the prospect so humorous.”
Simon Schilling swiped his eyes and just when he appeared to have control of his person, he burst into another round of ill-intended laughter. Why the man acted as though she were incapable of securing a husband. She was not in the least incapable, she was merely disinterested and being such, had taken precautions to insure she would not be caught in a trap and forced to marry for the sake of family and security.
And if Mr. Simon Schilling found the notion of her securing a husband preposterous, well then she did not care. Not one bit. Still, she could tell him how much she did not care after she got him to play the role. If Douglas Fontaine were the scoundrel Weston purported him to be, she would need to employ her own brand of subterfuge and what bigger lie than the fabrication of a husband?
“Will you do it or not?” Oh, bother, she hated being at the mercy of a man. They were so very undependable and entirely self-serving. Mama had certainly learned that in her years with Papa, a lesson Madeline would not forget.
Simon cleared his throat and laid a hand on her shoulder. His mouth wobbled as though he were on the verge of another round of laughter, which he probably was. If he made one peep, she would kick him in the shins.
“I’ll do it.”
Finally. She managed a weak, “Thank you.”
He moved his hand from her shoulder to her chin. “I have a few conditions.”
“Oh bother. Have I not offered you a bed and food and a bath? What more could you want?”
“I should like access to the library.”
“Fine.” The man could not read, mayhap he would spend his time perusing picture books.
“And I should like you to read to me.”
She scrunched her nose. “Read? To you?” That meant spending time with him, in close proximity, mayhap on the same sofa. Simon Schilling created odd, unexplainable sensations in her belly and the region of her chest, at times, even in her brain, causing lapses of speech and thought. No, she would not spend one extra moment with him. “Gregory is an excellent reader with more suitable interests. I’ll enlist his services.”
He shook his head. “I want you.”
The air around her evaporated in one giant swoosh. Good heavens! Her thoughts collided in a jumble of confusion that spilled out with, “You want me? For what?”
His gaze settled on her lips. “For reading, of course.”
Madeline stepped back and the air began to seep into her brain again and with it a welcome flood of logic and common sense. “I assure you, Gregory is much better suited to the task.”
He smiled. “I assure you, he is not.”
What was he doing to his voice? Dipping it low, stretching it out so it rolled over her, sweeter than the most decadent chocolate. She did not appreciate the sensation. Not one bit. There was only one way to end this torment. “Fine. I shall read to
you.”
He moved closer. The smile spread. “My choice of reading material.”
“Oh, all right.” She backed away, out of reach. “After dinner. One hour, no more.”
“I shall look forward to it, though I would have settled for half that,” he said as his lips began to quiver.
Madeline turned on her heel and fled with as much speed as could still be considered a walk. This was not good. Not good at all.
* * *
Douglas watched Madeline retreat to the house as though chased by spirits. Or his words. He chuckled and grabbed a shovel. The little minx set a plan in motion and then ran when it backfired. Oh, but she knew just how to lighten his mood. How had he let himself be talked into the pretend husband business? Of course he could not resist observing the manner in which she would implement such an endeavor. How exactly did she propose to carry it off? He chuckled again.
His fanciful thoughts of Madeline sparring with her nemesis—Douglas Fontaine— were interrupted by a peculiar sound emerging from the vicinity of Matilda’s stall. He paused, tightened his grip on the shovel and listened. Matilda watched him through half-closed eyes as though he were of no interest or consequence, which he was not, unless it was feeding time. Seconds later, he heard the sound again, this time louder.
Was that a snicker? Cows did not snicker. He would wager it was the little pickpocket, looking for a bit of entertainment. But it might be Gregory—the boy did like to follow him about. Douglas approached the stall, prepared to confront Matilda’s companion with a lecture on eavesdropping and manners. But the snicker had not come from the pickpocket or Gregory.
“Ethan?”
Ethan Montague—valet, friend, and constant source of aggravation—crouched in the corner of the stall, making a damnable effort to maintain a straight face. Of course, he failed. Miserably.
Ethan’s lips twitched. “Was that really you speaking moments ago?” he asked in what some might consider an innocent manner. Douglas knew it was mere preparation for a subsequent bombardment and was not disappointed when Ethan complied with, “I did not quite recognize the man who said, ‘I shall look forward to it.’”
“Shut up.”
“‘I should like you to read to me.’” Another snicker, followed by laughter, great damnable amounts of it.
“You’ll scare Matilda,” Douglas said. “And alert the entire household of your presence.”
Ethan quieted and seconds later stood before Douglas. “Honestly, man, you sounded like a lovesick cow bent on seduction.”
“I did not,” Douglas snapped.
“A lovesick cow with his privates on a shelf.” Ethan scratched his head and said, “What’s happened to you? Has Little Miss Country got you all aquiver?”
Douglas scowled. “I realize engaging in conversation with a woman is an abstract notion to you, but you might consider trying it.” He grabbed a curry comb and made his way to Big Red’s stall. Unfortunately, Ethan followed. The damn man had always possessed the ability to assess a situation with little hesitance, unlike Douglas who required more concrete information to draw conclusions. But Ethan was wrong this time—Douglas was not playing a lovesick fool. Why would he do that? He would have to be enamored of Madeline and he most certainly was not. Though she did have a certain appeal, a blend of cerebral attributes that challenged and exasperated him on many levels. But more than that? Absolutely not.
Ethan shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the stall. “She’s quite a looker.”
“She’s a he.” Douglas concentrated the curry comb on the horse’s forelock.
“Be damned!”
“I’m surprised you couldn’t tell.” Ethan really needed to spend more time out of doors and less with his head between books and women’s breasts.
“How could I tell? Could you tell? I didn’t have time to conduct a thorough evaluation, but good God, I should have been able to determine that.” His voice laced with worry. “She sounded like a woman, a very appealing one at that.”
Douglas’s hand stilled. “Horses do not talk.”
Ethan stared at him. “I might not know much about animals but I do know that.”
“Then you should also know with a name like Big Red, the horse is most likely a male. Not many females would care to be called Big Red, even the four-legged kind.”
“Christ. You’re talking about the damn horse.”
“Of course I’m talking about the horse.” Douglas’s gaze narrowed. “Who were you talking about?”
Ethan shrugged. “Forget it.”
“Who?”
“No need to get all prickly. I’ll tell you. I was talking about your ladybird, Madeline.”
Douglas scowled again. “Don’t talk about her.”
“Maybe you should just be done with it and marry her.”
That was an absolutely preposterous idea. “The woman would not give me a moment’s peace. She would question me at every turn, challenge my opinions and decisions.” He worked the curry comb in furious circles along the horse’s back end. “Nag, argue and offer unsolicited opinions.” His heart raced. “That little brain of hers would never stop. Why, I’ll wager she would attempt to re-evaluate the entire tobacco system.”
“Hmmm.”
“I require a woman with a little less opinion and a little more…” A little more what?
Ethan smiled.
Douglas hated it when he did that as though he knew something Douglas did not, something obvious. “I do not want to marry Madeline Munrove. Besides, the woman thinks I am an illiterate buffoon. Imagine what she would think if she knew the truth?”
“That you are a literate buffoon?”
Douglas glared at his friend. “That I am the man who is coming to boot her from her home.”
“Well, there is that. Nasty bit of complication but what do they say about love conquering all?”
“Shut up.” There were days when Douglas truly regretted insisting Ethan receive the education of a gentleman. Today was such day.
“If she’s not your bride, then you best show her the deed and be done with it.”
“Nothing is ever that simple with Madeline.”
Ethan tapped his foot and cleared his throat. “I am not trying to hurry you along, but there’s a tavern a short stretch from here. I stopped on my way in, and I daresay I happened upon a pair of comely barmaids.” He rubbed his jaw. “What are you in the mood for tonight? The blonde or the brunette?”
“Neither. I’m not leaving yet.” When Ethan continued to stare, Douglas shrugged and said, “I need a bit more time to settle things. Ten days or so.” There was the back fence to mend and the new garden to till. And he had promised to teach Gregory to ride a horse even though Madeline would undoubtedly throw a fit.
“It’s about the girl, isn’t it?”
“Of course not. It’s about honor and doing what is right even if the louse of a brother has no idea what that means. Besides, do you have the list of candidates ready for me?”
“I’m still working on it.”
“You are not permitted to test them out first. Sleep with them and they’re out of the running.”
“I know the specifications. Really though, do you think it necessary for a woman to decipher those little word puzzles you’ve created?”
“Absolutely.”
“Will you not take a healthy bosom and a sweet smile in its stead?”
Douglas met Ethan’s steady gaze. “I’ll gladly take the healthy bosom and the smile as long as they are attached to a woman of intellect. I’ll not have my offspring housed in the womb of a simpleton wife.”
Ethan rolled his eyes. “So you’ve said. On several occasions. Intelligence first, beauty—” he paused “—fourth? Or was it fifth after wit, common sense, and humor?”
“It was fourth.”
“And will you be able to sleep with this intelligence or will she be relegated to merely breeding?”
“That depends on the woman, I suppose. I wou
ld like to think we could strike an agreement of sorts, where we might enjoy one another’s company on all levels.”
“I’d wager your little lady dove would do just that. If her voice and the silhouette I gleaned told a tale, the woman could entertain her husband’s brain and every other part of him as well.”
Douglas did not respond. He patted Big Red on the rump and left the stall with Ethan jabbering on about Madeline and her many abilities. When they reached the center of the barn, Douglas grabbed Ethan by the cravat and yanked hard. “Speak of her in such a manner again and I’ll bloody your nose.” He paused, added, “And then I’ll dismantle it.”
“Let go,” Ethan said through clenched teeth.
Douglas released the cravat and stepped back, hands on hips. He’d fought his friend over politics and drunken stupidity, but never a woman. He did not want to start now, but if pressed, he would defend Madeline.
“I understand,” Ethan said, eyeing him as though Douglas had just revealed a deep secret. “I understand completely.”
Chapter 9
Would you care for another biscuit?” Sarah extended a basket with a blush and a smile.
“Thank you.” Simon Schilling dipped his voice in that oh so personal manner he had about him as he reached for a biscuit and returned Sarah’s smile.
At the moment, Madeline wished he were a mute…with a sack over his head so as not to disturb their dinner. Or rather, not to disturb her dinner. Judging by the absence of food on the other plates, she appeared the only one discomfited by the man’s presence. If he were not a necessary part of her plan to outsmart the scoundrel who had stolen the deed to Lingionine, she would send Mr. Schilling and his biscuits back to the barn to sup with Matilda. Indeed she would. And that smile, too.