Chapter Eight

 

Sheltered from the blazing sun by a shady tree and seated with the other ladies on the organizing committee, Lucinda watched Lord Wanstead march across the patch of vicarage lawn. No sign of hesitation marred his stride today. She tried her best not to notice the way his blue coat hugged his brawny shoulders or the way his pantaloons stretched over his muscular thighs. After dreading and dreaming of their next meeting by turns, she perched on a chair whose cushion seemed to contain a frightened hedgehog, while her stomach engaged in what felt like somersaults.

With a beaming smile on his narrow face, the Reverend Postlethwaite surged to his feet. “Welcome, Lord Wanstead. You found time after all.”

“Good day, Vicar.” Lord Wanstead clasped the other man’s outstretched hand, his jaw set with all the determination of a man ordered to undertake an unpleasant but necessary duty.

“Let me introduce you to the committee,” Postlethwaite said.

Lord Wanstead nodded. “I should be delighted. Please, ladies, do not get up.”

“You know Mrs. Graham, of course.”

Lord Wanstead took her hand and bowed with crisp military formality. “Indeed. How are you today, Mrs. Graham?” Piercing beneath his dark brows, his forest-green gaze raked her face.

She controlled the urge to flutter her lashes and grin like an idiot. “Very well, thank you, my lord.”

The vicar moved around the circle. “This is Mrs. Peddle.” The gaunt innkeeper’s wife ducked her head.

“And Miss Crotchet.” The plump seamstress bridled like a schoolgirl, her bright-flowered cotton gown at odds with the tributary of wrinkles on her powdered cheeks.

“I am well acquainted with Mrs. Trip,” Lord Wanstead said with a small bow to the miller’s spouse.

How kindly he greeted these people who were not quite of his world. Gruff he might be, but not too high in the instep to treat these worthy ladies with respect. A whole new sensation filled Lucinda’s chest, warm and large. Pride?

“Wonderful.” The vicar rubbed his hands together. “We just need the Dawson ladies to arrive and we will be complete. Please, my lord, take a seat.”

It didn’t exactly surprise Lucinda when Lord Wanstead took the vacant chair at her side. His glance had returned to her more than once during the introductions in what looked like a plea for help.

Since the other ladies seated in the semicircle had the glazed look of chickens faced with a fox, she assumed none of them had noticed anything untoward in his behavior.

“We were just going over where we are with our plans,” the vicar said. “Mrs. Peddle tells us that the brewer will deliver the casks of beer two days ahead.”

Mrs. Peddle pursed her tight lips and nodded.

“Mrs. Trip, how are plans for the baked goods?” the vicar asked.

“Ah,” said that doughty lady. “My William has promised ten bags of flour. And Mr. Bell has ordered sufficient currants and sugar for ten dozen Eccles cakes and ten of pies. Eccles cakes sell for a penny a piece. Pies for a tuppence. He’ll split the profit fifty-fifty.”

“I say,” the vicar said. “That is generous. That will go a long way to help with the church roof.”

“Another leaking roof?” Lord Wanstead said.

The three village ladies stared at him as if an oracle had spoken.

“Oh, yes,” Miss Crotchet said. “The hangings in the vestry are quite ruined. Lord Wanstead . . . The other Lord Wanstead, I mean your father . . .” She turned bright red, and her voice trailed off.

“What Miss Crotchet is trying to say,” the vicar interposed kindly, “is that your father and St. Mary’s last incumbent were at odds. The late earl withdrew his support of the project at a crucial moment and so it is in rather worse shape now than it might have been.”

Lord Wanstead frowned. “I am sorry to hear it.”

The ladies stared at him expectantly, as if they thought he would offer to pay for it out of his pocket. “That is our purpose for holding the fête,” Lucinda said.

The vicar nodded. “May I say how much we appreciate your permission to use the water meadow, Lord Wanstead?”

The earl visibly relaxed. “Mrs. Graham reminded me that my grandfather used to hold a similar event there years ago.”

Every eye turned toward her. How generous of him to give her credit. The warmth of his gaze resting on her face gave her a funny tingling feeling across her breasts. It sent a flood of warmth to her face. Not again. After the embarrassment of the picnic, how could she respond to a simple glance with such wanton heat? She lifted her chin. “Thank you, my lord.”

The vicar turned his angelic beam in her direction. “And how are plans for the children’s games coming along, Mrs. Graham?”

“Very well indeed, Vicar,” she managed to reply with a semblance of calm, despite Lord Wanstead’s steady scrutiny. “I sent word to the man in Maidstone about the merry-go-round, and he agreed on the date.”

The sound of a woman’s laugh floated out of the whitewashed thatched house. Those with their backs to the mansion swiveled in their chairs as two fashionably attired ladies stepped through the French doors into the garden. The diminutive Miss Dawson in primrose muslin, her fair complexion carefully shaded by a white silk parasol, floated across the lawn accompanied by her mother, who was wearing a green- and red-striped walking gown and a haughty expression.

Once more the vicar leaped to his feet. This time he rushed across the lawn to greet the newcomers. “Mrs. Dawson, Miss Dawson,” he called out. “Here you are at last.”

Miss Dawson picked up her pace. “I’m sorry. Are we late?”

Lord Wanstead came to his feet with what Lucida could only describe as an expression of genuine affection. “Miss Dawson. Well met.”

Miss Dawson must be the reason he’d attended the meeting today. Lucinda’s heart grew heavy. Her ploy to bring him out of his shell had resulted in the desired effect. Something sharper than a hedgehog quill seemed to work its way between her ribs. Envy? Unlikely. She’d no reason to envy any young woman.

Miss Dawson, her dark eyes twinkling, cast him a gentle smile. “Wanstead, I must say I did not expect to find you here.”

Gripping her green parasol with one hand and the reverend’s arm with the other, Mrs. Dawson arrived, puffing and blowing at the final burst of speed.

Lord Wanstead bowed in her direction. “Mrs. Dawson, good afternoon.”

“Wanstead,” Mrs. Dawson said with a narrow look, first at Lucinda and then at him. “A bit out of your element, are you not?”

Lucinda glared at her. At any moment, he’d feel unwelcome and return to his cave.

“Mother,” Miss Dawson exclaimed. Laughter lit her expressive face and eyes. The beauty of her elfin face deepened the insidious pain around Lucinda’s heart, when the sight of Wanstead’s answering smile, the curve of his lips, and the crinkle around his eyes should have cheered her. How could she be so selfish?

Postlethwaite looked from Lord Wanstead to Miss Dawson. His animation seemed to dwindle. “Perhaps we can get back to our business? Please, ladies, take a seat.”

The vicar’s housekeeper arrived with a tea tray and set it on a small wicker table.

“Mrs. Dawson, I hope you will do us the honor of pouring?” the vicar said as the servant left.

“Certainly.” Mrs. Dawson bestowed her agreement like a knighthood.

While she poured, the vicar caught the newcomers up with what had gone before. “In addition to the children’s games, I’m told by Mrs. Peddle that some of the men would like to have feats of strength. We will need prizes.”

“And a greased pig,” Mrs. Trip said.

Mrs. Peddle wagged a work-worn finger. “That’s all Lord Wanstead needs on his land. A bunch of drunken louts chasing a greasy pig all over the place.”

“What about a greasy pole?” Lord Wanstead asked.

“Too much grease, if you ask me,” Miss Crotchet said and giggled.

“Then what about a rope pull instead?” Lord Wanstead sent a swift glance Lucinda’s way. “Across the river.”

“That might cool them louts off a bit if it’s a hot day,” Mrs. Peddle admitted with a grudging upward tilt to her hard mouth.

“Archery,” Mrs. Trip said.

“You would think of that,” Miss Crotchet said. “Your son is a whiz with a bow. I’d like to see a baking contest for the ladies.”

“And a prize for the best preserves,” Mrs. Dawson threw in, no doubt thinking of her own cook’s strengths.

Now that they had a decently sized location, ideas flew like shuttlecocks around the circle. The vicar wrote them down on a sheet of paper, and Lord Wanstead, while mostly silent, nodded his general approval with a hint of a smile on his straight lips.

Lips that had kissed her so pleasurably. Lucinda daren’t even look at them. Every time she thought about that kiss, her stomach gave a little hop.

Dash it. She must stop thinking about the picnic. While seeking his help with the fête had been a good idea, it now left her with the task of sorting out Mrs. Hobb’s accounts. Not that the accounts were a problem. Rather, it was the thought of running into him every time she called that had her in a tizzy. Fortunately, he had been absent from home when she had returned on Friday as promised, called out to one of his tenants to discuss business. She’d been grateful for that absence, yet stupidly disappointed. After having lain awake half the night worrying what she would do if he tried to kiss her again and tormented by her body’s protest when she was sure he would not, it had all seemed rather deflating.

“What about pony rides for the children,” Miss Dawson said, smiling at Lord Wanstead over the rim of her cup and bringing Lucinda’s thoughts back to the here and now.

Lord Wanstead balanced his cup on his knee. Miraculously, it stayed there. He turned to Lucinda. “Mrs. Graham is organizing the children’s games. What do you think, Mrs. Graham?”

“I think that would be fine,” she murmured.

Miss Dawson swiveled in her chair to look at her full on with a tiny frown on her alabaster forehead. “You know, Mrs. Graham, every time we meet, I have the strangest feeling I know you from somewhere else. Did we meet in London, perhaps?”

Lucinda’s stomach pitched. They had never met, but Miss Dawson might have seen Jonathon in town. Everyone said they looked remarkably alike. Darn it, now Lord Wanstead had his ear cocked for her reply. She shook her head. “If we had, I would recall, I am sure. I spent very little time in London before my marriage.” And no time in polite company, once Denbigh had made his disgust obvious.

“Nasty horrible place,” Mrs. Peddle muttered. “I went there once. Couldn’t breathe for the smoke. Couldn’t hardly see a hand in front of my face, neither.”

“I would love to go to London.” Miss Crochet breathed, her smile achingly wistful. “Think of the culture. Why, my cousin often sees the King or a member of the royal family go by in their carriages.”

The vicar clapped his hands. “Ladies, please, back to the task at hand. If we are to have all these games, someone has to organize them.”

“I can look after the pony rides,” Miss Dawson said with a bright smile at Lord Wanstead. “Fairy is a bit long in the tooth, but she is fine for small children.”

“You still have that fat old thing?” Lord Wanstead asked.

“She is not fat,” Miss Dawson said, then laughed. “You always were rude about poor old Fairy.”

“You always gave her too many treats.”

While they bantered back and forth with the ease of long-standing friends, Lucinda wanted to slink away unnoticed and leave them to it. Instead, she straightened her spine and fixed a calm expression on her face. Miss Dawson would make a beautiful countess. Elegant, charming, and ravishingly beautiful. And he would be a kind and respectful husband. A perfectly happy ending.

Then why did she feel as if a canyon had opened in her chest?

“I will look after the archery,” Mrs. Trip said. “Trip will help.”

“I’ll be too busy making sure Peddle doesn’t give the beer away to be of much help on the day,” the innkeeper’s wife said.

The conversation flowed around Lucinda like a river passing a boulder. She tried to maintain an expression of interest.

“I’ll put up a notice about the baking contest,” the reverend said. “I will send it to all the nearby parishes.”

“And preserves,” added Mrs. Dawson.

“Yes, yes, of course. Preserves.” The vicar scratched busily on his paper.

“I’ll arrange for the pig and the grease,” Hugo said. “Trent can help organize the men for the event.”

There. Now he was joining in, just as she guessed he might if something caught his interest.

“And I will ask a couple of ladies I know to help with the stalls,” Miss Crotchet said.

“Excellent,” the vicar said. “It looks as if we will need one or two more meetings and everything can be finalized.”

“Well, miss,” Mrs. Dawson said, turning to her daughter. “If the house is to be ready for our guests, we must go and prepare.”

“Guests?” Lord Wanstead inquired with a raised brow.

“Yes,” Mrs. Dawson said. “Arthur is bringing friends from town for the ball. The fête seemed like a perfect addition to the entertainment.”

People coming from London? Lucinda’s pulse picked up speed. Stupidly, she had expected only members of the local society to attend the squire’s ball.

“Ah, yes,” Lord Wanstead said. “I recall you mentioned something of the sort.” He looked as horrified as Lucinda felt.

“I have your promise to attend, Wanstead.” Mrs. Dawson patted her daughter’s knee. “Very popular with the gentlemen, my Catherine. You will have to claim your dance early if you do not wish to be left out in the cold.”

Miss Dawson cast Lord Wanstead a pained smile. He grimaced in sympathy. The canyon in Lucinda’s chest seemed to deepen.

“If you wanted to make yourself useful, Wanstead,” Mrs. Dawson was saying, “you could invite some of the gentlemen to stay with you. Otherwise they will have to stay at the inn.”

Lord Wanstead stiffened, no doubt thinking about the dreadful state of his housekeeping arrangements.

“Nothing wrong with the inn,” Mrs. Peddle snapped. “My accommodations are perfectly fit for the gentry. Not that I want a bunch of rackety young gentlemen staying, I’m sure.”

“They don’t have to stay in the village,” Miss Dawson said gently. “Maidstone is only a half hour away by carriage.”

“The Grange is less than ten minutes away,” Mrs. Dawson said. “It would be most obliging of you, Wanstead.”

Lord Wanstead’s complexion darkened, his gaze becoming unreadable. “I have absolutely no interest in obliging anyone,” he drawled, changing from fellow well-met to arrogant nobleman in the blink of an eye. Lucinda couldn’t help but admire his strength faced with such a daunting adversary.

Mrs. Dawson glowered. “As your father learned to his cost.”

A shocked silence fell on the group.

“Don’t bother to deny it, Wanstead,” Mrs. Dawson charged on. “Your duty was here. You put your father through a dreadful time going off like that.” She shot a sharp glance at her daughter. “Not to mention the rest of us.”

Lucinda’s jaw dropped. Hugo had jilted Miss Dawson and married another?

Miss Dawson’s face turned red and then white. She shot Lord Wanstead an apologetic glance and rose to her feet. “Mother, it really is time we left.”

Was it guilt Lucinda saw in Lord Wanstead eyes, or anger? She tried to focus her gaze anywhere but on him.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Dawson agreed with a sniff and a rustle of skirts as she stood.

The Reverend Postlethwaite rose with her, as did Lord Wanstead. Both men looked ready for murder.

“Don’t bother to see us out, Vicar,” Mrs. Dawson pronounced, twirling her parasol. “Call in at the Hall tomorrow. I want to discuss your idea for a church organ.”

Lord Wanstead and the reverend remained on their feet as the two ladies trotted across the lawn. Suppressed fury glittered in Lord Wanstead’s eyes as he glanced at the circle of faces gone suddenly blank. When his gaze reached Lucinda, it speared her with a silent accusation. She refused to look away. If he had somehow wronged Miss Dawson, it was up to him to set things right. Perhaps this ball of Mrs. Dawson’s would be the perfect opportunity.

“Well, really,” Miss Crotchet finally whispered.

“I think I must be going, too,” Lucinda said. She managed a smile. “I promised to return home long before now. Good day, everyone.”

She fled for the safety of her cottage, her mind a fragmented whirl.

 

• • •

 

“Oh, no.” Lucinda moaned as smoke poured from the stove. Coughing, throat and eyes stinging, she snatched up a cloth, grabbed the tray of biscuits, and pulled it clear. The hot baking tray hit the metal rack she’d placed ready on the table with a clang. She flapped her towel to clear the air.

Sophia tugged at her skirts. The sky-blue bow, a match to her dress, flopped amid her soft yellow curls. “Biscuit?”

“Wait a minute, sweet,” Lucinda said, lifting the shortbread onto a plate before it got any worse.

“Mummy burn?” Sophia said.

Head on one side, Lucinda regarded the charcoal edges with a flicker of amusement. Annie had given her detailed instructions before she left for her day off, but it was years since Lucinda had spent any time in the kitchen. The Armitage cook had let her and her siblings play with the dough, but Lucinda couldn’t recall making anything edible. “Actually, they are not too bad if I cut off the singed edges.”

The little girl held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. “Biscuit?”

Lucinda caught the hot little hand in hers and dropped a kiss in the palm. “You cannot be hungry; we had lunch only an hour ago.” The longing glance Sophia cast at the biscuits cut Lucinda’s heart to ribbons. Perhaps the child remembered her hungry days in London “Soon. I promise. We have to let them cool or you will burn your tongue. By the time I have made the tea, they will be ready.”

Sophia tilted her head on one side, her chin starting to quiver.

“No crying, sweet. I promise they won’t be long. Now, be a good girl and play with Marmalade for a while. I don’t want either of you under my feet while I boil the water.”

Sophia trotted around the kitchen table and hunkered beside the kitten stretched out on the hearth rug.

While she waited for the kettle to boil, Lucinda scraped the charcoal off the biscuits. “I was right not to go to the vicarage today,” she said, placing a ragged-looking finger of biscuit on a clean plate. She picked up another burnt offering. “Miss Catherine Dawson will be perfect for his lordship.” A hot lump seemed to fill her throat. She swallowed it and forced a shaky laugh. “She is having guests come down from London for the fête, you know. If he doesn’t choose her, there is sure to be someone suitable at the ball.”

Sophia looked up from tickling the kitten’s tummy. “Mummy cry?”

Lucinda wiped the stinging drop of moisture from the corner of her eye. “It is the smoke.” She crossed to the window and opened it wider, gulping down a lungful of fresh air along with a measure of calm before returning to the table.

She shouldn’t be thinking about Lord Wanstead. Her decision to resign from the fête committee was the right one. She had quite enough to do taking care of Sophia without involving herself in the vicar’s projects. He had agreed with her decision. Too readily, Lucinda thought with a glower at the steam emerging from the kettle. She filled the pot and set it on the tray.

Sophia looked up from the cat. “Walk?”

“Maybe later.” Lucinda set out the plates and cups. “If it stops raining.” She carried the tray into the parlor and set it on the piecrust table in front of the hearth.

Trotting behind her, Sophia climbed up on the sofa and leaned over the back, staring out at the rain. “Man coming.”

“What man?” Lucinda’s stomach dipped. Not the Bow Street Runner? She rushed to see for herself.

“Horsy,” Sophia said, pointing.

At the sight of the burly figure tying his horse to her gate in the pouring rain, a thrill shot through her. Lord Wanstead.

She watched him stride up the path between the borders of purple heart’s ease. Why was he here? He should be at the vicarage, meeting with Miss Catherine Dawson.

“Oh, Lord.” What if he wanted to come in? A mixture of panic and hope left her unable to move. The house reeked of burnt biscuits, and she hadn’t a decent piece of cake to offer until Annie returned from the market in the morning. Perhaps she shouldn’t answer the door? If only her heart wasn’t beating so hard, she might be able to think.

And that was another thing. If she was as cold as Denbigh had said, why did she glow like a furnace every time his lordship entered her line of sight? Dash it. What should she do?

Sophia stared at her. “Man coming.”

“It is Lord Wanstead. Come away from the window, Sophia dear. It is rude to stare at people.”

She removed her apron and ran back to the kitchen to hang it up. Standing in the passage, she smoothed her hair and adjusted her cap while she waited breathlessly for his knock.

Sophia’s hand crept into hers, and the child looked up in puzzlement.

“Be a good girl, Sophia. He’s a very important man.” Their landlord. That must be the reason for the disconcerting tremble behind her breastbone.

The loud rap made her jump.

She took a deep breath, wiped her damp palms on her skirts, and opened the door. “Lord Wanstead. How can I be of service?” Her voice sounded breathy and hoarse from the smoke.

He looked taken aback, no doubt expecting a servant to answer the door. Then eyes the color of a storm-tossed ocean and equally as angry pinned on her face. “I want to know why you weren’t at the meeting this morning?”

“I didn’t have anyone to care for Sophia,” she said as calmly as she could around the thudding of her heart.

“Postlethwaite said you resigned.”

She tried for a light bantering tone. “My presence isn’t that important, my lord.”

His frown deepened. “Not important?” His voice growled as if he had swallowed grit, or a bear. “After you pressed me into attending these wretched meetings with your talk of serving the community, your lectures on civic duty?”

She blinked. “Nothing is left undone. Miss Dawson is to take my place organizing the children’s games. She has more resources at her disposal. A pony, money for prizes . . . eggs.”

One shoulder against the doorjamb, his head lowered to avoid the lintel, he looked like a puzzled bull ready to charge. “There are eggs at the Grange.”

She glared back. “They are your eggs.”

“And that is a problem?”

His anger buffeted her like a gale. She held her ground in the face of its fury. “There is no problem. You donated your land. Miss Dawson is in charge of the children’s games. Everything is arranged.”

“You were the only reason I agreed to the use of my land.”

A strange melting weakened her limbs. She stiffened against it. “I am sure you will be just as generous with Miss Dawson.” Oh, God, was that bitterness she heard in her voice? Briefly, she squeezed her eyes closed in mortification.

He frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Tears, stupid hot and wet, emerged from nowhere to choke her throat. “I mean for the sake of the villagers.”

Sophia popped up in front of her. “Mama cry?” Her lower lip trembled.

“By thunder, madam,” Lord Wanstead said. “I simply came to ask you why you were not at the meeting. Can we not discuss this like civilized people?”

Civilized didn’t seem to fit Lord Wanstead right at this moment. But she had been rude keeping him standing on the doorstep. She managed a stiff smile. “It is my housekeeper’s day off, but Sophia and I were just about to take tea if you would care to join us?”

He visibly relaxed. “Tea would be most welcome.” He peered over her shoulder. “Someone is baking?”

“Not very successfully, I’m afraid.”

Sophia hopped on her toes. “Biscuits, Mama?”

“Please, my lord, step in out of the rain.”

As he ducked beneath the lintel, water sluiced from the brim of his hat onto the floor. “Damn,” he said under his breath.

She pretended not to hear and glanced past him out the door. “I don’t have a stable for your horse, I’m afraid.”

“I can assure you Grif and I have suffered worse conditions.”

A pang of sympathy invaded her heart. “I can well imagine.” She gestured him into the parlor and closed the front door behind him. “Please, won’t you sit down?”

He chose the more solid-looking sofa. Even seated, he seemed to fill the room, not so much because of his size but because of his virility. He belonged outdoors, not in the confines of a lady’s drawing room. And if it weren’t for the shadows in his eyes, she might well have believed his mask of invincibility.