Читать книгу Wicked Earl, Wanton Widow - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 10

There were worse days for a ride. The wind of yesterday had died down and the sun had deigned to shine. With a blue sky overhead and the crispy crunch of fall leaves beneath the gig’s wheels, Killian was happy to be out of doors, even if it meant he was on his way to collect Pembridge-on-the-Wye’s model citizen, the Widow Janeway.

The estate’s gig could only seat two and Peyton, no doubt seeing a way to avoid the task of going, had generously volunteered to stay behind and look over the books. Killian turned at the fork in the road and tooled the gig down the short drive leading to the Janeway grange.

In the drive, he pulled the gig to a halt in front of a neat, well-kept brick-and-timber house and jumped out, reminding himself the day was beautiful even if Mrs. Janeway was not.

A knock on the heavy door of the grange brought his fears to fruition. A stout, gray-haired woman answered the door, wiping her hands on an apron.

“Mrs. Janeway?” Killian inquired with all the charm at his disposal, only to find it didn’t work. The woman skewered him with an assessing eye, looking him up and down with a slight air of disgust. He assumed her disgust stemmed from having been interrupted on what was clearly baking day judging from the smear of flour on her cheek and the voluminous apron.

“Dressed awful fancy for work, aren’t you?” She jerked her chin to the left behind the house. “Mrs. Janeway’s out in the orchards. You can see if she’s still hiring.”

The door shut before Killian could give his charm another try and disabuse the woman of the impression he was looking for employment. All the same, he was relieved; Mrs. Janeway, whoever she was, couldn’t be worse.

The orchard behind the house hummed with an activity that took Killian quite by surprise. Apple trees spread in long straight rows, ladders against their trunks, their branches alive with pickers. Calls rang up and the down the rows for basket runners to come collect full bushels. Even children were employed to gather up apples that had fallen or been shaken onto the ground.

He’d forgotten the time.

For the last fourteen years, he’d been a city man by necessity, his kind of business more efficiently conducted near banks and the Exchange. He’d forgotten the rhythms of the country. It was October, and to the people of Herefordshire it was time to pick the apple crop. At the sight of such industry, a deep-seated desire for the satisfaction of manual labor, of seeing the physical results of one’s efforts, stirred. Something that had lain dormant since he’d left his father’s home began to awaken in Killian.

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 needed 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.