The Cottage by Coniston (Seasons of Change Book 5)

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  “Ah, business, I assume?” Hugh clicked his tongue. “Surely letters can wait for the sake of a young woman in need of your help.”

  “Surely they cannot.”

  “Hugh.” Mrs. Paxton’s tone was light, but even William saw the warning in her eyes.

  Hugh merely looked expectantly at William. Annoyed with the man’s pushing, William opened his mouth to refuse again, but when Miss Paxton shifted uncomfortably in her chair, he cringed.

  She was caught in the middle of all of this, and William had just made it worse by essentially rejecting her in front of her family. No matter what game Hugh was playing, William couldn’t behave ungentlemanly, nor could he stand by and allow Hugh’s control over his sister any longer.

  “You are right, Hugh,” William said. Miss Paxton’s head swung up. “Business can wait for such a cause as helping another.” He reached for the racket and shuttlecock from Hugh then finally faced Miss Paxton. “Shall we?”

  She stared up at him. “There is no need, sir. My brother may have forgotten his manners, but I haven’t. You needn’t linger when you have business to see to. You may leave at once, if you must.”

  William sniffed. And leave Hugh to berate her for standing up to him? He would not allow it. “I assure you, the letters can wait.”

  Neither Mother nor Charity would fault him for the letters being a day or two later than normal. Not when he had such a noble cause.

  At least, that’s what he told himself.

  “Run along, Amy,” Hugh urged, pulling her up. “Do allow Mr. Eastwood to teach you as you would not allow me.”

  Miss Paxton reluctantly stood, sending an annoyed glance to Hugh as she retrieved her racket from the grass nearby. William left his hat on his seat, draping his jacket and gloves over the top of it. He was glad to be rid of the black clothing, removing them every opportunity he could.

  He was not mourning for his grandfather, but wearing the black jacket and gloves appeased Society enough to let them think he was in mourning. Still, he didn’t really like the idea of wearing the clothes to honor such a man.

  Setting any thought of his grandfather aside, he followed Miss Paxton to the clearing near the bracken and hedges.

  Whispers followed him as he walked away, and he stole a quick glance back as Mr. Paxton scowled at Hugh, speaking under his breath.

  Something was absolutely occurring, but William had no idea what it was.

  “I’m sorry my brother pressed you into doing this, Mr. Eastwood,” Miss Paxton said in a hushed tone over her shoulder. “I understand you are busy, so you needn’t feel obligated to help me.”

  William’s heart reached out to her. She didn’t wish to impose—at least he knew that much about her now. But he did feel obligated to help her, just not at Battledore and Shuttlecock.

  “I assure you, it is no trouble.”

  She made no response. The ribbon hanging down from her bodice rippled in the wind before catching on her hip.

  He looked away. He shouldn’t even be noticing such a thing.

  When they reached the open area, Miss Paxton faced him. “So what do you suggest I do to improve my…my incompetence with this game?”

  William studied her for a moment, wondering how long he should feign ignorance. Her family was far enough behind them so any conversation he might have with her would remain unheard. But he wouldn’t wish to injure the girl by accusing her of lying—even though that was exactly what she was doing.

  Perhaps he’d first give her the opportunity to confess herself.

  “You have the correct grip on the racket,” he began, eying her gloveless, elegant fingers encircling the handle with a light touch. “And your stance appears correct.”

  She remained silent, unmoving, apart from her eyes that focused over William’s shoulder. After a subtle nod—no doubt in Hugh’s direction—she looked to William.

  “That is good to hear, at least,” she said. “What do you suggest we do now?”

  She was still taking Hugh’s advice from across the garden. William drew a deep, calming breath. “I suppose we must see how you strike the shuttlecock.”

  “Very well. I’m ready when you are.”

  He hit the shuttlecock toward her, but she remained where she stood, reaching out in languid movements before it fell to the ground nearby. She scurried toward it, then gave a poor attempt to send the shuttlecock back.

  “You see how terrible she is, Mr. Eastwood?” Hugh called out from behind as William bent to retrieve the shuttlecock.

  Mr. Paxton frowned again at Hugh. Mrs. Paxton averted her gaze. And Miss Paxton’s face shaded deep red—whether from embarrassment or frustration, William could not decipher.

  Either way, he was finished. He respected people’s privacy, for he knew what it was like to have none. But he could not go on like this any longer.

  “All right, after observing you play, I have only one suggestion.”

  Her brow twitched. “And what is that?”

  “You ought to stop losing on purpose.”

  He sent the shuttlecock toward her again. This time, her miss was not on purpose.

  “Losing on purpose, sir? I have no idea as to what you are referring.”

  He raised a brow. “Do you not? Because only moments ago, I stood just there”—he pointed to the open view of the road—“where I was witness to the rather remarkable transformation that has taken place from the time you played so poorly at Birchwick, to you playing exceptionally well right here.”

  She reached for the shuttlecock, missing her first attempt to hit it back to him. “You must be mistaking me for another, sir. I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”

  Her voice no longer shook, and her chin was held high.

  He hit the shuttlecock back, resulting in another miss. “I believe you do. And I believe your brother does, as well.”

  “You are imagining things.”

  “Am I?” Another hit, another miss. “Then how do you explain your sudden inability to strike the shuttlecock now, as opposed to when you were conquering in the game against your brother?”

  She shrugged. “I had a stroke of luck, I suppose.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. He was getting nowhere with this tactic. Perhaps he ought to try out a different route.

  “Very well, perhaps it was luck. Or perhaps you are failing to perform in the sport now—and at Birchwick, as well, I might add—because you are intimidated.”

  She tucked in her chin. “Intimidated? By what?”

  “Me.”

  Her mouth parted, and a soft, incredulous laugh slipped through her lips. “I assure you, that is not the reason.”

  “Ah, so you admit that there is a reason then?”

  Her grin disappeared. “No, I, well…”

  William shouldn’t have been so amused at the sight of her scrambling. But the answer was right there, the truth was within reach. All she needed to do was say it.

  “I have already told you the reason, and that reason is pure and simple luck.”

  Blast. He’d been so close to the truth. He hit the shuttlecock toward her again, and it bounced to the ground and into the bracken behind her.

  She bent over to retrieve it, and William quickly averted his gaze. “Very well, Miss Paxton. You can believe what you wish. But I still think you are intimidated by my presence, and that is why you cannot play as well as you typically do.”

  Her lips thinned. She did that sometimes when she spoke with Hugh.

  William frowned. How did he know such a thing?

  “I assure you. I am not intimidated by you.” Her voice was firm, like when she’d scolded him for holding the chickens improperly.

  “Then prove it, Miss Paxton.”

  Chapter Twelve

  William held his breath, awaiting Miss Paxton’s reply. Would she snap at his bait? Prove to him that she had pride, that she could stand up to William and her brother?

  Her eyes flitted beyond his shoulder but retu
rned without a flinch. Was she ignoring Hugh’s advice?

  A slow smile spread across her lips. “Very well, Mr. Eastwood. I shall.”

  Pride twinkled in her eyes—not in that she thought she was above another, but that she was now no longer afraid to reveal the confidence she had in her abilities.

  She was ignoring Hugh’s advice, and William was completely enchanted with the change.

  She tossed the shuttlecock up and down in her left hand. “Rather than playing as a team, perhaps we play as my brother and I have done since we were children? Whoever allows the shuttlecock to drop to the ground ten times forfeits the game. The player who wins the point serves.”

  “I think I can manage that.”

  “Are you ready?” She flashed a grin.

  “Ready.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, she tossed the shuttlecock in the air, striking it with such force that it sailed past his racket before he even had the chance to swing.

  “That’s one point for me, I believe,” she said.

  He studied her, fighting off his look of astonishment as he hit the shuttlecock back for her next serve. “You aren’t even going to allow me to hit it once, are you?”

  She shrugged a single shoulder. “You asked me to play like this, did you not?”

  She served again, but this time, William was ready, striking it with a flick of his racket. Miss Paxton lobbed it toward him, and they continued back and forth until he failed to hit it a fourth time.

  “Two,” she stated.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, sister?” Hugh called from the table.

  William didn’t miss the warning in his tone.

  Miss Paxton didn’t even look at Hugh as she responded. “More than ever before, brother.”

  William had an inkling that perhaps Hugh encouraged Miss Paxton to perform poorly so as not to intimidate the gentlemen with whom she played. But William could not have been more impressed.

  They continued their game, volleying often. Miss Paxton would strike the shuttlecock from one direction to the next, making William run back and forth across the garden. He did not possess one half of the control over his racket as she did.

  He loosened his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat halfway. “Why do I feel as though you are making me run on purpose?”

  She merely grinned, sending the shuttlecock toward him once again.

  After another point toward Miss Paxton, William paused, resting his hands on his hips as his chest rose and fell. He was out of breath and exhausted, yet still he smiled.

  “You’ve made me break a sweat, Miss Paxton,” he breathed, pulling out a handkerchief to swipe across his brow. “It’s not even warm out.”

  Her breathing was nowhere near as ragged as his. “Perhaps you are merely intimidated by me.”

  Her teasing words struck him by surprise, and a bubble of laughter rose in his chest, escaping his mouth before he had the chance to stop it. How did she know just the thing to say to make him laugh?

  And how did he not realize before now how good it felt, how light his heart was, when he did laugh?

  After an abysmal dismantling of his pride by losing ten to three, William insisted they play again.

  The next round was even worse, though the humor of the situation only rose. Together, the two of them laughed as they ran, hopped, and stretched to reach the shuttlecock each time it sailed above their heads.

  William couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so invigorated. So happy. His heart was racing, his cheeks sore from his smiles.

  At first, he chalked his joy up to not having played the sport in some time—he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed it.

  But each time Miss Paxton’s laughter rang out above the sound of the rustling leaves of the trees nearby and the soft, babbling brooklet, he knew she was the reason he enjoyed himself so fully.

  And the thought sobered him instantly.

  As Miss Paxton ran to retrieve the shuttlecock in a bed of flowers, his mind churned.

  Charity didn’t like Battledore and Shuttlecock. In fact, she didn’t enjoy most games. When they would attend dinner parties or picnics—William always sneaking away without Grandfather’s consent—Charity would sit out during card games, outdoor games, or parlor games, desiring to speak instead.

  William had followed suit the majority of the time, but when he did join in the games, he always enjoyed himself. It was nice at times to forget about life and have fun. Surely he could have such fun with Charity when she returned from London.

  At any rate, he didn’t need consistent laughter and exhilaration in his life. Not when he desired stability, comfort, and ease even more so. He was more of a serious person, anyway. Like Charity. The laughter he’d shared with Miss Paxton was clearly just a one time occurrence.

  Something sailed toward him, pulling him from his unsettled thoughts, though not quickly enough for him to move.

  As the shuttlecock hit him squarely on the brow, he pulled back, blinking at Miss Paxton, who stood away from him with a broad smile.

  “The goal is to hit the shuttlecock with your racket, sir. Not your head.”

  He battled to push away his returning joy. Had this woman put him under some spell to make him happy with everything she said?

  “I didn’t know we had resorted to striking people during the game,” he returned.

  “I had to get your attention somehow.”

  “Is that your excuse?”

  She shrugged her dainty shoulders once again.

  He gave her a daring look then launched the shuttlecock directly toward her. She maneuvered out of the way just in time to return it, pelting him directly in the chest.

  He gave a grunt, though the shuttlecock did anything but hurt him.

  “You have to be quicker than that to avoid my strikes, sir.”

  He hit the shuttlecock back, this time pelting her just below the knees.

  As they continued, they quickly lost count of who was winning or losing, though William hardly cared. Their laughter filled the air around them until he sent a final volley toward Miss Paxton, and he watched in horror as it struck her directly in her face.

  “Oh!” She dropped her racket and covered her eyes with her hand.

  William darted toward her, his jovial nature gone. “Miss Paxton, I’m terribly sorry. Are you all right?”

  “I-I believe so.”

  She lowered her hand, squinting her eye so he could no longer see the blue in it. A small red mark had already formed at the corner of her long, dark lashes, but her blonde curls leaned forward, blocking the rest of the wound.

  He winced, reaching forward to push back the curls, praying he hadn’t broken the skin. The cork the shuttlecock was made out of was soft to a degree, but if he’d hit her hard enough…

  No, thank goodness. The mark did not exceed half an inch, and no blood was visible. Still, his heart twisted. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have been playing so roughly.”

  Miss Paxton didn’t respond. Was she upset with him? He wouldn’t blame her.

  He smoothed a thumb over the mark to feel for swelling, his eyes dropping to see if she looked angry. But when he caught her staring up at him, shoulders raised as if she didn’t breathe, he stopped breathing, himself.

  What was he doing, standing so close to this woman, veritably caressing her face? And what was he doing not moving away from her?

  Every ounce of his logic screamed at him to turn, to look away, to do something other than study the curves of her face and the dark flecks of black in her otherwise blue eyes.

  But he couldn’t. He stared at the reflection of the trees in her wide eyes, sunshine glinting in their depths. Only, it wasn’t sunshine. It was the light within Miss Paxton that made them radiate.

  A light that infused his soul and lifted his spirits, that made his heart tremble in a way it should not have done.

  In a way that had not once occurred when he was with Charity.

  Finally, sense struck him like a
bolt of lightning to a tall, vulnerable tree. He withdrew his hand from her smooth skin and took an abrupt step away.

  With a swift look over his shoulder, he discovered the Paxtons and Hugh having moved to the far side of the garden, their backs turned so they would not have seen William’s breach of proximity with their daughter and sister.

  At least something was in his favor.

  “You are—” He stopped, clearing his throat from the huskiness he hadn’t expected. “You are sure you are well?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His heart tripped at her breathless tone. But it shouldn’t have. He was not supposed to be having this sort of reaction to any woman but Charity.

  He never should have agreed to play this silly sport.

  “I suppose we had better end our playing.” He buttoned his waistcoat and secured his cravat around his neck. “I wouldn’t wish to injure you again.”

  “You hardly injured me, Mr. Eastwood.”

  He finished tying his cravat. “That red mark on your eye would beg to differ.”

  The corners of her lips curled. “I deserve it after thoroughly beating you.”

  He stared, conflicting emotions battling within him like multiple opposing armies—guilt, happiness, frustration. Even still, he couldn’t stop his smile. “I suppose we are equal then.”

  He retrieved his racket and headed toward the table for the rest of his belongings. Before he had the chance to lift them from the seat at the now-empty table, Miss Paxton’s words stopped him.

  “Would you care for some refreshment?”

  He hesitated. “Thank you, but I think I had better leave now. I’ve already stayed too late as it is. The Rutledges are expecting me for dinner tonight, and I still have my letters to post, as well as other matters of business.”

  Business item number one? Getting as far away from Miss Paxton as possible.

  “Oh, I do apologize for keeping you so long as it is.”

  A fresh wave of regret rushed over him as Miss Paxton’s cheeks flushed. She was clearly embarrassed by yet another rejection from him.