“You don’t want to try me,” she warned.
“But I have tried you, my dear. And from what I recall, you were…”—the new husky timbre of his voice quivered through her insides—“very, very sweet.”
His eyes were aimed at her mouth, and she couldn’t quell her physical response. Her nipples throbbed, her pussy dampening. His hypnotic gaze sucked her back into the night of passion, the joy of her own surrender…
“The oatcakes are ready!”
Mrs. Ellerby’s voice slapped Bea back to her senses.
“Move back, you oaf.” She shoved at him.
This time, he stepped back. “It would be rude to make our hostess wait.” His eyes gleaming, he swept her an elegant bow. “We’ll continue our negotiations at a later time, angel.”
“We’re not continuing anything,” she said in a furious whisper. “Stay away from me.”
She marched off, praying he didn’t see her shaken state.
8
When Bea arrived at the fields the next morning, the farmers were at work collecting the sun-cured hay. The sky was a bright blue canopy as she rode her mare, Zeus loping along by her side. It was a day that exemplified the proverb, “Make hay while the sun shines.”
Bea had always enjoyed taking part in the communal harvest, and today, more than ever, she needed a distraction. Needed to get her mind off that blasted Wickham Murray.
It’s just a scar. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re a singularly beautiful woman.
She told herself that he couldn’t have meant those words. He was glib, a man who knew how to charm and get what he wanted. At the same time, she’d come to the grudging conclusion that his proposal hadn’t been prompted by mercenary reasons.
His affront had been genuine when she’d accused him of wanting to marry her for her land. Moreover, a confirmed bachelor like Murray would probably sell his soul rather than give up his freedom. With his negotiation skills, he had to believe that there were easier, and less permanent, ways of achieving his goals.
That left his honor as the motivating factor for his offer.
As much as it pained her to admit it, her interactions with him thus far supported that he was, indeed, a gentleman. He’d intervened at the masquerade when she’d been accosted. His manners toward her and her friends had been annoyingly faultless: Fancy, Mrs. Ellerby, and even little Janey had seemed to fall under his spell. In contrast to his amicability, Beatrice felt like an ill-tempered shrew.
How else was she to behave? Her grip tightened on the reins. She couldn’t let his compliments or her dashed attraction to him distort reality. And the reality was this: she’d lost Croydon because of the scar. Her parents and her brother soon thereafter. Her entire life as she knew it had disappeared the instant her horse had sliced open her face.
She’d learned her lesson: if beauty was a broken promise, then love was an outright lie.
Now she had a new life, one she’d built for herself that had purpose and meaning. She wouldn’t let any man—no matter how courteous, handsome, and attractive he was—take it away from her. She wouldn’t open herself up again to pain.
With proficiency borne of practice, she shut out the troubling thoughts, returning her attention to the surrounding fields. Haymaking was a laborious task. Earlier this week, the men had cut the grasses, spreading them out to dry and raking once more to ensure even curing. Now they were collecting the hay, using pitchforks to pile the stuff onto horse-drawn carts. It would take two full days of work to stack and store the fodder in the barn, ensuring the livestock had feed for the winter months.
Arriving at the refreshment tent her servants had set up earlier, Bea dismounted, leaving her mare to graze. Zeus followed her to the tent. Beneath the striped awning that provided shade from the sun, Mrs. Ellerby and her fellow farmwives were organizing the food and drink.
“Good morning to you, Miss Brown.” Mrs. Ellerby bobbed a curtsy, as did the other women.
“Hello, ladies.” Eyeing the trays of sandwiches, Bea asked worriedly, “Do you think there’s enough? Shall I send for more?”
“There’s plenty, miss,” Mrs. Haller said, smiling. “Enough to feed an army, I’m sure.”
When Sarah Haller had first come to Camden Manor, she’d been starved and desperate, a former prostitute with no means of feeding herself or her bastard child. Now her blonde curls were shining, her blue eyes bright, and she had the wholesome prettiness of a doll. She also had one hand resting on her aproned belly, and Mrs. Ellerby was right: it was difficult to tell whether the Hallers might be expecting a new bundle of joy.
Mrs. Ellerby snorted, setting out a platter of cheese and cold mutton. “You best beware feeding the men too much o’ this fine food, miss. After a meal like this, they’ll be wanting a nap.”
“One couldn’t blame them.” Looking out into the fields, Bea saw the groups of men, the powerful and tireless arcs of their pitchforks sending hay soaring into the carts. “It must be hard toiling in the sun.”
“Toiling, my arse. They’re amusing ’emselves with a game.”
This came from Mrs. Gable, another of the wives. Beneath her cap, her ginger curls poked out haphazardly, curls that she’d given to her son Billy who was pouring lemonade into tin cups under her watch. He did so with meticulous care, filling each cup with the precise amount, his attention fixed on the task.
At twelve, Billy had yet to speak a word and avoided looking people in the eyes. Bea had the sense that he lived in his own world, marching to the beat of his own unique drum. Mrs. Gable had confided that, in the prior village they’d lived in, the boy had been mercilessly bullied for being different. To her and her husband’s relief, the residents of Camden Manor were far more accepting of Billy’s oddities, and she’d been bringing him more and more to public functions.
Bea thought this was good for the lad. Today he did not reply to her soft greeting, but he did cast her a quick, side-long glance. Knowing what an improvement that acknowledgement was, she gave him a warm smile of encouragement.
To his mama, Bea said curiously, “What sort of game?”
“Can’t bring a group o’ males together without ’em wagering on something.” Mrs. Gable lifted her chin toward the group pitching hay into a cart some twenty-five yards away. “They’ve a bet on who can clear their patch the quickest.”
Amused, Bea observed the men at work. Straw hats shaded their faces so she couldn’t make out who they were, but their pitchforks whipped through the air, the cart piling rapidly. This might be a game, but the competition was getting the work done.
The tallest of the group, in particular, showed impressive strength. He moved with athletic grace, wielding his tool with potent efficiency. She wasn’t surprised when he finished first, whoops erupting from the other men. He tossed off his hat, and her heart shot into her throat as the sun hit those rich brown waves, picking out the glints of bronze.
He turned suddenly; even from the distance, she felt the heat of his gaze burning through her.
Dash it…what is Murray doing here?
In truth, she ought to have expected him. His amicability hid a tenaciousness that rivaled Zeus’s when he got hold of a bone. She steeled herself as Murray prowled toward her.
“Mr. Smith’s quite the sight for sore eyes, ain’t ’e?” Mrs. Ellerby murmured beside her.
If Bea wanted confirmation of Murray’s effect on women, then she needed to look no further. Mrs. Ellerby wasn’t the only one reacting to him: Mrs. Gable was fussing with her cap, Mrs. Haller smoothing her apron. Mrs. Sears licked her lips the way Bea had seen her do at tea, when there was a particularly good cake to be had. Mrs. Sears’s reaction was particularly telling since she’d just celebrated half a century and the birth of her fifth grandchild.
Apparently, Murray’s animal magnetism affected all women, regardless of age.
Clearing her throat, Bea asked, “How long has he been here?”
“Since the crack o’ dawn when me and Jim arrived,
” Mrs. Ellerby replied. “The wind could’ve knocked me o’er, miss, when ’e said ’e wanted to ’elp with the harvest. When I asked ’im why, ’e says if ’e’s to buy an estate, ’e wants a taste o’ real country living…as if that would amount to anything more than the ’unt and ’ouse parties for a toff like ’im.”
Bea shared the other’s amazement. Why would Murray offer to help with the harvest?
What is the blighter up to?
“Whate’er Mr. Smith’s true reason might be,” the farmwife went on, giving Bea a knowing look, “Jim weren’t about to turn down an extra pair o’ ’ands during ’arvest. Hay don’t collect itself, as ’e likes to say.”
“Indeed,” Bea said faintly.
“Now these eyes o’ mine ain’t no stranger to the world, Miss Brown, and I don’t mind telling you what you already know: Mr. Smith is a looker. But there are fine-lookin’ gents and then there are fine-lookin’ gents who can make ’emselves useful. Mr. Smith is keeping up with the best o’ the lads…and adding to the scenery while ’e does it.”
It annoyed Bea that the other was right. And she couldn’t strip Murray of his halo: revealing his true motive for being here would only cause more problems. Saying he was a railway man would be like throwing a lit match to kindling. She would have to deal with an inferno of worry from her tenants, especially since everyone now believed him to be her personal acquaintance.
She held onto her irritation like a shield, hoping that it would protect her from Murray’s mesmeric charm. But as he neared in that long, loose-limbed stride, she felt a quiver in some deep, primal part of her. Lord knew he was dashingly handsome in his tailored attire, but in this sweaty, fresh-from-the-fields state he was pure temptation.
His shirt was untucked, the fine linen clinging to his broad shoulders. He’d rolled up his sleeves, revealing sinewy, veined forearms (who knew that forearms could be so carnal?). He’d abandoned his cravat, the open collar of his shirt revealing a glimpse of the curling hair on his chest, and her fingertips tingled with the memory of stroking that light furring and the hard planes beneath. Her gaze followed the corded length of his throat, sheened with honest male sweat, upward to his defined jaw, beautiful mouth, and his eyes…
The bronze around his pupils lit up the green of his irises like the sun shining through leaves. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at her. A slow, sensual smile that made her heart pitter-patter as if she were a miss fresh from the schoolroom rather than a spinster on the cusp of her twenty-fifth birthday.
He swept her a bow. “Good morning, Miss Brown.”
Zeus, the traitorous creature, bounded over to him. The bull terrier wagged his tail as Murray murmured, “Hello, boy,” and patted his head.
“Mr. Smith.” Aware of their audience, which included not only the wives but the men who’d followed Murray in from the field, Bea said pointedly, “What a surprise to see you here.”
“When you told me about the harvest, I was curious to experience it for myself,” he said easily. “I’ve found nothing substitutes for hands-on experience…don’t you agree?”
Sensing the subtext, Bea narrowed her eyes. If he thought he could gain the upper hand by bringing up their dalliance, then he was bound for disappointment.
“Perhaps some things ought to be tried once,” she said with cool emphasis.
His lips twitched. “Only once?”
She shrugged. “Repetition can be tedious.”
“On the other hand, there’s that old adage: practice makes perfect.”
Flustered by the wicked gleam in his eyes, Bea tried to think of some clever repartee.
Luckily, Jim Ellerby cut in. “Now me, I don’t mind repeating things, but I really don’t mind ’aving an extra pair o’ ’ands when I’m doing it.” The brawny farmer clapped Murray on the shoulder as if they were long-lost cronies. “Smith, I ’ad my doubts ’bout you, on account o’ you being a toff, but you’re a fine worker. Ne’er seen a fellow pitch hay as quick as you did back there.”
“Maybe you ’ave the makings o’ a farmer after all,” Mr. Gable said with a guffaw.
This was no small compliment from Mr. Gable, who was burly and strong as an ox. Grunts of agreement rose from the other men as well. A few of them buffeted Murray on the arm, and he returned the masculine gestures with good-natured punches of his own.
Bea watched on in amazement. By all rights, as a wealthy gent amongst the laboring class, Murray ought to stick out like a sore thumb. Instead, he was like a dashed chameleon, able to fit in wherever he happened to be.
“The winner o’ the contest deserves a drink,” Mr. Ellerby declared.
Mrs. Gable handed her son a tray of cups and nudged him forward. “Go on, Billy, and bring the gent some lemonade.”
Billy shuffled a few steps over to Murray, his gaze averted. Silently and abruptly, he shoved the tray in Murray’s direction, almost hitting the other in the midsection. The action would seem rude to anyone who didn’t know the boy; Bea saw the worried looks exchanged between Billy’s parents.
Before she could intervene, Murray took one of the tin cups.
“Thank you…Billy, is it?” When no reply came, he smiled and sampled his beverage. “Nothing like lemonade on a hot day. I’m sure the others would like one of those drinks too, lad.”
Without looking up or replying, Billy made the rounds to the others.
Mrs. Gable hurried over to Murray. “I’m sorry, sir. Billy’s just learning—”
“He’s a good lad,” Murray said. “A helpful one, too.”
“He tries.” Mrs. Gable bit her lip. “He’s just different, see, from the others—”
“Every flower blooms in its own time, ma’am, and in its own way.”
Murray’s gentle words struck a chord in Bea, surprise and some deeper feeling reverberating through her. He was the most confounding man. How could a tenacious industrialist and reputed rake be…caring? For there was no doubting his sincerity, nor its effect on Mrs. Gable who looked as if he’d given her a gift.
Which he had, by not treating Billy like a pariah. For seeing beyond the boy’s oddities to his positive qualities. For being a man who can see beneath the surface.
With a desperate shiver, Bea shut out the thought.
“You’re very wise, sir,” Mrs. Gable said.
“I can’t take credit for the saying. I stole it from my sister-in-law. She uses it to console my nephew.”
“Console him, sir?”
“He has the double misfortune of being the youngest of three boys and my namesake.”
As his rueful words drew laughter from the others, Bea told herself that she was not interested in Murray’s family and background. At all. Yet she couldn’t stop the image from forming: of him playing with his nephews, who, if they had the Murray blood, must be altogether too charming.
Family, children… Her throat cinched. Things that can never be mine.
In a flash, she saw the worst of the dangers Murray posed: he resurrected her old dreams.
She had to talk to him. Seeing him with Billy and her other friends convinced her that he wasn’t entirely a bad sort, surely not the cold-hearted railway tycoon the papers made him out to be. She would give him a final refusal of both his offers—for her hand and her property—and hopefully, that would be that.
“The hay won’t collect itself, lads,” Mr. Ellerby declared. “We best get back while the sun is still a-shining.”
“The sooner we finish, the sooner we can celebrate,” another of the men added.
Mr. Gable sauntered over, a half-eaten sandwich in hand, and thumped Murray on the back.
“Think you’ll be up to another wager, Smith?” he asked between large bites.
“Why not?” Murray set his cup down on the refreshment table. “I’ll take a sandwich with me.”
“That’s the spirit. Get the man a sandwich, will you, luv?” Mr. Gable asked his wife. “And another one for me while you’re at it?”
Her gaze a
iming upward at her cap, Mrs. Gable went to fetch the food. The others were busy eating and palavering. Bea saw her opening.
“Mr. Smith,” she said in an urgent undertone, “before you go, I should like to—”
“Now, Miss Brown, you heard Ellerby. Hay doesn’t collect itself.” Murray’s eyes gleamed with humor. “I’m sure there will be plenty of time to chat tomorrow night at the ball.”
“The ball?” Her voice rose sharply. “Surely you aren’t going—”
“Who’s not going to the ball?” Mr. Ellerby ambled over.
“Don’t look at me.” Mr. Gable hitched his thick shoulders. “You know I wouldn’t miss the finest celebration in the county. But seems like Smith ’ere might not be going.”
“Not going?” Ellerby’s rugged features pulled taut, as if the notion of not attending Bea’s party was tantamount to sacrilege. “Smith, Miss Brown’s harvest ball ain’t to be missed. There’ll be food, drink, and dancing…and I’ll be bringing some o’ Ellen’s cider. Finest you’ll e’er taste.”
“Is Mrs. Ellerby’s cider as good as her oatcakes?” Murray inquired.
“It’s better.”
“Then I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Good man,” Ellerby said approvingly. “Best be getting back to the fields, then. The hay—”
“Won’t collect itself,” Murray and Gable said simultaneously.
The two men chuckled. They slapped each other on the back, like two schoolboys congratulating each other on a trick well played and headed back toward the fields.
Mystified, Bea watched after them.
I’ll talk to him at the ball, she told herself. Then I’ll settle everything once and for all.
9
The evening of the harvest ball, Wick was getting ready at his suite at the inn. He’d just stepped into the copper tub when he heard a knock. Assuming it was his valet Barton, he called out, “Come in” as he sank into the hot sudsy water.
Christ, that felt good. He was a fit man, one who excelled at boxing and other gentlemanly sports. But two days of farm work had nearly killed him.
The Duke Redemption Page 8