Читать книгу The Duke’s Seduction of Lady M - Raven McAllan - Страница 12
ОглавлениеMary couldn’t remember a night quite so dream-filled since just after Horry had died. Those dreams had been more of the nasty and dark kind, not the frustrating type. Yet in both she woke grasping for someone or something that wasn’t there. However, whereas before she’d woken up bereft, because her husband was never going to be next to her again, the night just passed she had felt more of an ache deep inside. The longing and expectation you experienced as you waited for a lover to fill you.
She flung back the covers with exasperation and got out of bed. Enough was enough. Her life had changed and it was up to her to take charge of it. She’d chosen not to be part of the ton, not to be hemmed in and confronted on all sides by suitors who thought no more of her than a cup of chocolate in Whites. Instead she’d chosen to be seen as a young widow who was in effect the custodian of the Grange until such times its usage – unspecified as to how – changed. That persona suited her and was close enough to the truth to not make her feel uneasy when people commiserated. It was just some facts she’d supressed. Like a lot of money and her title.
Why the local had chosen uphold what the school children called her – Miss Mary, not Mrs Mary Lynch – she had no idea but she liked it. She was no longer Lady McCoy – or, she thought with a jolt, the Dowager Lady McCoy – and, unless she went back to her brother with her tail between her legs, would likely never be again. Each time that thought hit her, she became ever more determined that once her year of grace was over, she intended to continue her life how she wanted it. It would be an uphill struggle, she had no doubt of that, but even if she had to stall until she was twenty-five she was determined to do as she desired.
‘Right.’ Mary spoke to herself as she dressed in her plain cotton chemise and simple sprigged lilac cotton gown. Old and serviceable, it was a firm favourite of hers and she knew it suited her dark curls, even as it upheld her status of a widow, not totally out of mourning. Or did it? Maybe the colour was too definite?
So be it. Enough was enough. If she had followed Horry’s diktat, she would have been in colours months ago. However. whilst she lived with Desmond and Patience, the idea had horrified them, and in deference to her hosts and their sensibilities she’d kept to greys and purples. Here in Welland village she’d lightened up a bit, but now she decided her wardrobe needed updating. She’d call on Miss Wishlade, ask for advice, and choose some pretty coloured gowns and outerwear for autumn.
With that in mind, Mary hummed under her breath and waited as Barlow, her groom, saddled her beloved mare, Darcy, and let him give her a hand into the saddle. As ever she countered his pleas to accompany her, and rode along the drive towards the gates and the lane, which went towards Welland in one direction and the tiny hamlet of Bliston in the other.
Miss Wishlade lived halfway up the steep hill on the far side of the Welland estate. A spritely widow who said cheerfully she’d stopped counting her age when she reached eighty, a goodly age for anyone, and now kept active by making gowns for the locals and knitting and tatting garments for those she deemed worthy.
Evidently, she deemed Mary worthy.
They’d met at church and when Mary had enquired diffidently if Miss Wishlade could remake a grey gown into one more serviceable, Miss Wishlade had looked her up and down, and then nodded. ‘Of course. Tomorrow at ten. Marmalade Cottage over towards Manton way, by Home Farm and don’t be late. I only do plain sewing, mind you, but that fits the bill, admirably.’
It had been no surprise to Mary to learn Miss Wishlade had been the present Duke’s sisters’ governess for many years, before she retired to the cosy cottage she now resided in. She oozed authority in the nicest way possible.
Over the months their unlikely friendship had grown, until now it was such that they exchanged weekly visits. One week Mary would send Barlow with the carriage to bring Miss Wishlade to the Grange for lunch, the next Mary would make her way up the escarpment, past the castle and thence to Marmalade Cottage for one of Annie, Miss Wishlade’s companion’s light lunches, or if they ate later, delicious stews or roast dinners. Usually followed by a pudding so filling Mary thought if she fell off her horse she would merely roll down the hill. Hopefully not into the duck pond.
She took the little used bridle path which meandered below the castle and tackled the hill at a place more suited to pedestrians or horses, but definitely not for carts or carriages. At least it meant she could let Darcy pick her own way between the thistles and poppies, and ignore the meadowlarks and starlings that flew around her. Likewise the hare, which darted across the track and which, with any other horse, could have caused a ruckus. Darcy merely snorted, shook her head, and plodded on.
It was a perfect morning. The sun wasn’t too hot and was still in the process of burning off the early mist that hung like a net curtain over the fields. The hedgerow was covered with cobwebs, which sparkled and gleamed like the jewels in a tiara. Tiny creatures darted in and out of the bushes, and somewhere a skylark sang its melodious song. The last of the wheat was nigh on ready to be harvested and the late ripening apple trees she passed ready to drop their fruit.
Mary sighed in contentment. She loved this time of the year, when the earth gave up its bounty and settled into silence for the long cold winter months ahead. When the barns were full, the haystacks made, and the pantries and larders groaning with the fruits of the people’s labour.
With the added bonus of not being threatened with the season turning wintry, well not yet, Mary was more than happy. She hummed to herself and Darcy pricked up her ears as if in agreement. ‘All’s good with the world eh, girl?’ Mary tugged gently on Darcy’s ears and directed her to take a track around the edge of the hundred-acre field, still awaiting the ministrations of the harvester. Only a few days to go Mary judged, and then she’d be able to ride straight across the field and not skirt the crop.
Of course before long, if the winter were severe, she’d be on shanks’ pony, because the ice would make the tracks treacherous for the horse. However she’d face that problem when or if it happened. One thing she was determined about – she’d still be at the Grange, and not in London for the season, whatever anyone said.
As she approached Marmalade Cottage – so named, Miss Wishlade said, because of the colour of the stone walls – that lady popped out of the door as if she were on a spring. She waved vigorously as Mary drew Darcy to a halt, dismounted, and eventually settled the horse with some oats in the shade of a venerable and fruitless plum tree.
‘Such news,’ she said excitedly as she waited for Mary to pick up the saddlebag she’d brought full of garden produce. ‘Brody’s out and about again.’
‘Brody?’ Mary asked as casually as she could manage, as she followed her hostess into the trim cottage and put the heavy saddlebag down on the long oak table that dominated the kitchen.
‘The Duke,’ Miss Wishlade said impatiently as Annie bustled in, and kissed Mary on the cheek affectionately. ‘He dropped by earlier and invited us to lunch at the castle. Of course I refused, and explained why. He was most interested in the way you have become one of us.’
I bet he was. His insolent stare still rankled.
‘As I told him,’ Miss Wishlade continued, ‘you’re like a daughter to Annie and me. So the dear boy said he’ll call in later for some cakes and we’re to go for lunch tomorrow instead. So good of him to pop back, though it’s not surprising – Annie was baking, you see. He loves her baking.’
Mary thought she saw rather more than Miss Wishlade did.
‘I hope I get to meet him,’ she said diplomatically. Just not today. If and when they did meet up it would not be in front of innocent bystanders. She rather thought any interchange between them might not be fit for delicate ears. ‘If he arrives before I must leave. It will have to be a short visit today, I’m afraid.’
Miss Wishlade’s face dropped. Mary thought rapidly. What on earth would be a good enough reason to return home at an earlier hour than normal?
‘I’m expecting a missive from my late husband’s solicitors.’ It was partly true; she was, but not that day. ‘There may be a little more money for me.’ Also true but Mary rather thought her idea of a little and Miss Wishlade’s was somewhat different.
Miss Wishlade beamed and patted Mary’s shoulder. ‘There now, that will be handy, eh? Of course you must be there to receive it. Is Mr Niven going to Uppingham to check at the receiving office?’
Oh lord she hadn’t thought of that. ‘Er, no, a courier should arrive. It might not be today, as this is the first day possible, but, well, I must be around in case an immediate answer is needed.’ She hoped Miss Wishlade didn’t feel the need to probe further. Her inventiveness only went so far.
‘Then we’ll have a cup of tea now, and lunch at noon instead of half past. How’s that?’
Mary nodded. ‘Perfect.’
Even though a lot of ladies didn’t bother with lunch, Mary liked the idea and Miss Wishlade and Annie embraced it wholeheartedly. When they ate early, their meal wasn’t heavy, but always tasty and relied on local food and usually hedgerow wines. Those Mary had learned very early on to partake of lightly. They were lethal.
‘Potato and veg soup today,’ Annie said as they took their tea outside and sat down on a long bench in the orchard. ‘I’d thought of pigeon pie, but as we’re eating early I’m glad I didn’t. Plus it’s too hot for such a heavy meal. Today’s wine is oak leaf.’
‘So true about the heat, and good regarding the wine. But didn’t I smell apple pie?’
Annie nodded. ‘Well of course.’
Miss Wishlade chuckled, and after a second Mary and Annie joined her. Mary’s love of Annie’s apple pie was well known.
Darcy lifted her head and regarded them steadily until she was sure no treats were forthcoming and then proceeded to ignore the chatting, sniggering women.
Mary never ceased to be amazed and thankful that the age gap between them didn’t matter and they could pass many a happy hour in chat or crafts.
‘I’ll have to give my tatting lesson a miss,’ Mary said, as Annie rushed indoors, convinced she could smell the soup burning. ‘But I’ve got some to finish before Mr Niven collects you next week. And I want your advice on who to get to make me some gowns. I have material, but no aptitude, and these are the ones you say you aren’t able to create.’
‘Bless you, the tatting is not set in stone,’ Miss Wishlade said comfortably. ‘We just enjoy your company and to teach you tatting is an extra pleasure. As for dresses? Like I said, I’m fine with basics and gowns for people round here. You need something better. Molly Trevor over at Riverside is best. Tell her I sent you. She’s clever, and an ex-pupil of Gloria La Compte. She only came home because her mother took ill and there were seven little ones to look after.’
Mary had heard of Gloria La Compte. If she had trained this Molly Trevor, she must be good. ‘I will do.’
Miss Wishlade nodded. ‘She’ll see you right.’
‘So,’ Mary broached the subject she really wanted some information on. ‘You mentioned the duke is out and about again. What do you mean?’ It hit Mary that in her months at the Grange, no one really mentioned the duke at all, other than he had been abroad for many years. Had anyone ever said he was at the castle? She searched her mind but couldn’t recall any conversations. After all, the locals would know what was going on and have no cause to talk about it to her.
‘Ah, Brody? Well it’s like this. Or –’ Miss Wishlade said with a frown, ‘– I believe it is. Mind I only know what I hear from Mrs Loveage, but he came back a changed man and did nothing.’
‘Came back?’ So he had been away then? ‘How changed?’
‘Oh I forgot you weren’t here before.’ Miss Wishlade looked around the garden and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Well, the young Duke – not that he was the Duke in those days – he was, not to put it too finely, a hellion my dear. A rake and a womaniser. His poor mama was in despair. He took but never repaid if you know what I mean.’ She coloured as she spoke. ‘Even though the estate is wealthy, no coffers are bottomless. I tried to tell her, he’d been spoiled, that there was nothing malicious in his behaviour. That if you are brought up to believe you are so important you bow to no other diktats than those you chose to, you are not going to listen to reason. Sadly, he was treated in that manner by his mama. His papa, bless his soul, tried to intervene but when a thrashing resulted in the uproar his mama created, why, it was no wonder it had no real effect.’
Mary pondered Miss Wishlade’s words. ‘But surely he went away to school?’ From what her brother had let slip, school tended to beat all delusions of grandeur out of everyone.
‘Well, yes, but whatever it achieved was lost each time he came home. I dare say his schooldays meant he wasn’t quite so obnoxious,’ Miss Wishlade said fairly. ‘But it still meant he had no concept of money management, or how to run the estates.’ She shook her head. ‘Or in those days have any desire to learn. Or so it appeared.’
‘He seems like a wastrel,’ Mary observed tartly. No wonder he looked at me so insolently. He is no gentleman whatever his title.
‘The problem is, my dear, when you are told the world owes you, then why sadly, you tend to take those sentiments at face value and follow that path.’ Miss Wishlade sat back in her chair and shook her head. ‘If truth be told I feel sorry for him. His mama is very strong willed, and no one really stood up to her.’
‘Not even her husband?’
Miss Wishlade shook her head until her white coiffed hair stood out from her skull. ‘Oh no dear, as I said, he tried, but in the end? Why something happened and Brody left. No one knows all the ins and out of why and what happened next, but it is rumoured he was working for the crown. I suspect we’ll never know.’
Mary agreed with her. She searched for something to say to change the topic but Miss Wishlade pre-empted her.
‘Now he’s home? Who knows what he’s like? Although Mrs Loveage says he’s kept himself to himself. Even when his mama took the rest of the family away, he’s not really been out and about. He’s been very quiet. No one has really seen hair nor hide of him. I thought though, when we saw him earlier, that he’s a man with a lot of anger in him.’ She paused and tilted her head to one side like an inquisitive bird. ‘And even more sorrow. Poor man.’
It was still no reason for him to stare at a woman in such an insolent and denuding manner. Mary had an awful though, one she immediately scotched. Surely he didn’t believe in droit de seigneur? Those days were long gone.
‘Anyway, whatever it is, it looks like he’s back with us again,’ Annie said as she caught the end of the conversation. ‘Which is good.’
Mary nodded. It all sounded somewhat far-fetched. Something made up to explain his boorish attitude? If so, it wasn’t enough to appease her.
What if it was right though? That he’d been away fighting for his country, instead of what she might have supposed – if she’d thought about him at all – that he’d been in London or visiting one of his other estates with the rest of his family. Like many of the ton? She was feeling a little uneasy about her holier than thou attitude. Wasn’t it as bad as his ‘I do what I want’ one?
She needed to get away and think about the revelations.
As soon as luncheon was finished and her offer of helping with the tidying up refused, Mary made her farewells a good two hours before she normally did. The food was delicious, and she missed the somnambulant period that usually came after, plus the hour of crafts that followed their laziness.
It wasn’t until she’d ridden away from the cottage and accessed the overgrown lane she usually took that she breathed easier. There was no doubt she’d meet his grace one day, but after that scorching look at the school, she’d prefer it to be later rather than sooner. She needed time to plan just how she would react. To take him down a peg or two would be preferable, but not likely. To slap him hard would be even more satisfying, but she thought that as probable as the Whigs taking office. Mary sighed. Why did she see difficulties ahead?
Plan for the worst, hope for the best. Her husband’s words danced into her mind. A good adage to follow.
Impatient now, and ready to reach the safety of home, Mary clicked her tongue to encourage Darcy to increase her slow pace to a slightly livelier one.
Darcy, amiable as ever, responded and they proceeded briskly to the corner where the track met the bridleway, before disaster struck. Mary, deep in thought, didn’t have the reins as securely as she could have.
Evidently, Darcy, now eager to get out of the heat, away from the flies and sensing the unusual opportunity to sleep the afternoon away in her own field, didn’t see the partridge until it whirred up under her hooves and flew away with a lot of noise and action.
Darcy reared and took off like a racehorse – which she certainly was not.
Mary grabbed ineffectually for the reins so unceremoniously yanked out of her hands, missed, and slid off backwards over the horse’s rump then down onto the ground. It was hard and rutted and the jarring took her breath away. Her hair fell out of the few pins left in it and tumbled over her shoulders, and into her eyes.
She blew the strands from her face, muttered something not really supposed to be uttered by a lady, tucked the long tresses behind her ears, and looked around to see Darcy disappearing into the distance.
Mary swore, stood up, promptly caught her foot under a tree root and fell back on her rear again. That pain was nothing to the one that now shot through her head. One of total annoyance and frustration.
Hellfire and damnation. Now what do I do? It seemed shanks’ pony time had arrived several weeks earlier than the season demanded. With a long huff that fluttered the grass next to her, Mary considered her situation. In all the time she’d used these tracks and bridleways she’d only seen one person, and he, she now knew, was Hubbins the local poacher. One of the gossipy titbits Miss Wishlade had shared, was that Hubbins had been caught with a trout in his bag that he couldn’t vouch for. Luckily for Hubbins, neither could the bailiff. However, a scuffle had broken out and Hubbins was now the less than proud owner of a black eye and a broken arm. Therefore, it was unlikely anyone else would pass by and either offer her a lift or get Mr Niven to come and collect her.
Mary, my girl, just get on with it. She wriggled her foot out from under the root, stood up and dusted her gown down. To her horror she noticed the lace that frilled around the neckline and covered her breasts to make the dress decorous and not semi-indecent was torn in places. One garter had come untied, the silk in tatters, and that stocking was laddered and now lay in wrinkles around her ankle. The other, still in place, had no knee. A waste of a pair of good everyday stockings. She supposed she should be thankful it wasn’t her fine silk special hose she’d ruined.
But the worst thing was that now the demure day dress had taken on the role of a teasing evening gown, albeit a dusty and tattered one.
It was the last straw. If she were a lesser woman Mary swore she would have broken down and cried. As it was she uttered several pithy words that would have earned her a severe scolding and her mouth washed out with soap and water if her schoolteachers had heard, stripped off the remains of her stockings, and wondered what else could go wrong.
There was no way she could be seen as she was. The lace had ripped in such a way that one rosy nipple was only just covered and if she moved – or breathed – too sharply it would pop out for all and sundry to see. Why oh why didn’t she carry a reticule full of pins to effect running repairs, or a shawl to cover herself? A lady would, surely?
One more sign that whatever her title, a lady she was not.
A mind full of what she needed to do the following day and a tatting hook wouldn’t answer.
But the wool she tatted with could. Except her saddlebag was attached to her saddle which, in turn, was on the back of Darcy. Who, by now, would be halfway to the Grange and about to cause mayhem, worry and confusion when the Nivens discovered her without her rider.
Mary sighed, and bit her lip. Something had to be done. She tied her hair up with the tattered hose and wondered if she was about to set a new trend. Now what? How to cover her bosom and hold her head up in public was uppermost in her mind.
Then she remembered the ribbons on her bonnet and nodded in satisfaction. Where was it? Mary scanned the immediate area, grabbed the chip straw confection from the bush it had landed in, avoided the prickles and considered her options.
It was no good, there was nothing else for it. The bonnet, one of her favourites, would have to be sacrificed in the name of decency. With strength born of determination, Mary ripped the mauve ribbon ties from their anchoring and resorted to biting off the long streamers and pretty knot, which adorned the back. Then she set to weaving them in and out of the tattered lace until, although not elegant, the dress was once more decent. She tucked the knot in her cleavage for good measure, and looked down at the result of her labour. Not too bad. She’d still better not breathe too deeply or make excessive movements but with luck the repair would hold until she arrived home.
Now she had to decide which way to go for the best. If she carried on, she would only have to negotiate half the hill and the village street looking like a hoyden. However, that track, although she preferred it on horseback, was longer than if she climbed up towards the castle, skirted the keep, and followed the road for a few hundred yards. Then she could head back down another better kept footpath and through the churchyard. Annoying though it was to turn away from her destination, sadly, there was nothing else to do, and it was much the most sensible option. She let out a sigh long and loud enough to be heard in the village should anyone choose to listen and identity it as such.
Mary tucked her hair behind her ears, and put the remains of her bonnet back into the blackthorn bush. Hopefully she could collect it later, when it didn’t add to her disreputable appearance. With a mental prayer that nothing else would go wrong, Mary began to trudge upwards.
The flies were out in force and the sun at its zenith. Within a few minutes she was sweaty as well as dusty, and wished she had the remains of her bonnet on her head. Even if it would only cover a few inches. Mary wiped her brow on the back of her arm for the umpteenth time and longed for a glass of water. However, unless she went into the castle, somewhere she’d never ventured, water would have to be her lodestone until she reached the pump on the village green.
Muttering about birds, horses, and the heat, she tramped around the castle perimeter and onto the road; thankful she had half boots on and not her sandals. At least the stony track didn’t impinge too much on the soles of her feet. Even so, she’d be glad to get off the said feet and soak them in a basin of hot water and some of Mrs Niven’s special salts.
All of a sudden Mary saw the funny side of everything and giggled. Why did things like this not happen in the Gothic romances she usually enjoyed reading? It would be an interesting excursion for Lady Hermione Hepplestone, the somewhat insipid heroine of the improbably named “Esoteric Adventures of An Innocent Lady”. It would be better named “The Non-Adventures of an Imbecile”. All the soppy Hermione did was wring her hands and say things like “woe is me”.
I’m sure I could do better. Even Miss Wishlade could. Mary resolved to leave the rest of the book unread. Life was too short to spend time on such things, when there was so much more she could do with her time.
She increased her speed, eager to get home and think. So intent was she on moving forward as fast as possible that the thrumming of hoof beats didn’t impinge on her consciousness until a newly learned, now never to be forgotten, deep and gravelly voice spoke.
‘Well, what have we here?’
That was the last thing she needed – it really completed her day, for all the wrong reasons.
****
‘A bloody travelling circus, what do you think?’ The dusty and perspiration-covered woman in front of him snapped back. ‘With you as the clown.’
Brody smothered his smile and contained his amusement. Her glorious chestnut hair, the colour of a ripe conker, was tied back with what looked suspiciously like cotton hose, and long strands escaped from it to curl riotously around her face. The eyes, which shot fire at him, were a gorgeous, albeit stormy, grey and ringed by long dark lashes. Her bosom, barely covered by what he thought was once lilac lace but now looked more like mucky grey sacking tied together with what… silk ribbons? … heaved as she stood, arms akimbo. With cold eyes, for one short second she glared up at him, before she dropped her gaze.
What had he done to deserve such an icy reception? Brody deliberately ignored the way he had eyed her body on their previous meetings. After all, that was just… just not acceptable. No more.
He swung his leg over his horse’s back – he’d chosen to ride without a saddle – and slid to the ground. ‘Are you all right… Miss Mary, is it not?’
She nodded without looking at him and bobbed a curtsey, one judged to the nth degree of correctness. ‘Your Grace.’
It seemed the lady knew of the intricacies of the aristocracy and what was due to him as a Duke then? He’d noticed that at school. Brody bowed in return, more intrigued by the woman in front of him than ever.
‘Brody.’
She did look at him then, with a startled expression. ‘Your Grace?’
‘My name is Brody, use it.’
The stubborn woman shook her head. ‘It would not be right, Your Grace.’ She dropped her eyes again, her back poker straight with disapprobation. The proper attitude for a servant indeed – apart from the disapproval. But she was no servant, he was now certain – why he couldn’t say – however something told him that, even if she was not his equal, she was at the least gentry. Her dress might have been practical and not of the finest quality, but it was better than a mere servant would wear except perhaps for Sunday best. That aside, he didn’t expect those who worked for him to be servile. If she were local or, as she did, reside locally, she would surely know that? His curiosity, always hovering near the surface, jumped up eagerly.
Brody narrowed his eyes and she took a hasty step backwards. ‘It is if I give you leave,’ he said emphatically. ‘Which I do.’
‘No. It is not convenable.’
‘You, my dear, are wrong, very wrong.’ He took the step forward needed to be close to her once more. She gasped and repeated her step backward. He advanced, she retreated. At this rate they’d reach the castle gates without her realising it. Very tempting, but perhaps underhand. Underhand was something he’d save for when it was really necessary.
‘We can carry on like this all day,’ he remarked easily. ‘However, I for one am thirsty, hungry and hot. And, not to put too fine a point on it, and no doubt to be incredibly indelicate, sweaty, and probably smell.’ He watched her eyes widen as she stifled a grin and sniffed. So the lady did have a sense of humour. He laughed. ‘I see you agree. I need a wash, a drink and something to eat. To be even more indelicate, you look as if refreshment would be of use as well.’ He thought it best not to mention anything else they had in common, such as perspiration and the need to utilise the pump over their heads. ‘Now use my given name or I’ll put you over my knee.’ Lord what did he sound like? He opened his mouth to refute his statement, expecting the frigid stare she gave him – the one that shrivelled his staff – when unexpectedly, her expression changed and she giggled.
‘In one way I’d like to see you try. You attitude Your Grace is not befitting your status. How you sleep in your bed at night I have no concept.’
‘I don’t.’ To his annoyance his voice was bleak. He raised one eyebrow rakishly and grinned in his best devil-may-care manner. ‘So overrated, when there are so many other things one can do, don’t you think?’
To his amusement, she yawned. Yawned. No one would do that to him. Except her, it seemed.
‘You know my dear, I’d be happy to show you what I assume you are missing,’ he drawled. ‘Just give me the word.’
‘Your assumption anyone would be pleased to receive such unwarranted attention astounds me,’ she snapped, her previous attitude gone in a flash. ‘Hor… how do you think you’d manage that? I’ve been taught how to protect myself.’ Mary tapped one boot-shod foot on the uneven earth. Brody rather thought she was well on the way to flattening a molehill and giving the poor, unsuspecting animal a headache.
Plus, he was damned sure she changed her statement mid-sentence.
Brody chose not to challenge it, not yet. This lady intrigued him with every look, every word spoken and definitely every heave of her bosom under the now grimy lace.
‘I’m very pleased to hear that you can defend yourself,’ he said equably. ‘Not all men who come across a lady in such circumstances would be as gentlemanly as I.’
Mary spluttered. ‘Let me tell you, Your Grace, that your attitude is… is… argh.’ She flung her hands in the air. ‘You say threatening to thrash me is gentlemanly? Just listen to yourself.’ She scowled, tightened her lips and glared at him
‘It would be, the way I did it.’
Her mouth dropped open and closed again without her saying a word.
Brody chuckled. ‘You look like one of the carp in my fishpond, when they are about to catch flies. I suggest you don’t emulate them. Flies are a devil to swallow, and believe me are no compensation for one of my cook’s lardy cakes.’ Even if they are made by Lovey, and not Cook today. Without thinking he reached forward and stroked her cheek. She didn’t bat his hand away, merely stared at him. This close the silver flecks in her grey eyes flickered in the sunlight and teased him. He hoped he saw interest there, and not just deference to whom he was. Or indifference.
‘Shall you accompany me back to the castle, freshen up and have a snack?’ Please say yes. Brody had no idea why her affirmative was so important. It wasn’t as if their acquaintance could go farther than this distant exchange of words… or could it? ‘Then I’ll take you to wherever you want to go.’
