Читать книгу The Historical Collection - Stephanie Laurens - Страница 18

Penny would have no difficulty keeping her promise to her friends. She was never truly alone. Her collection of unusual pets had successfully kept men at bay for a decade. She didn’t see any reason that would change now.

The following afternoon, she was just bringing in Marigold from her browse in the square when the rumble of approaching cart wheels pulled her out of the stables and into the alley.

The cart was drawn by a team of the most massive draft horses Penny had ever seen. A middle-aged couple in simple attire sat on the driver’s box. And standing on the bed of the cart, like the marshal of his own parade, was Gabriel Duke.

The team drew to a halt. He vaulted over the side rail of the cart and landed before her.

“What’s all of this?” she asked.

He gestured to the driver and his companion alighting from the box. “Allow me to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Brown.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Penny said, though she wasn’t at all sure why she was making their acquaintance.

Mr. Brown doffed his hat and held it over his heart as he bowed. “’Tis a true honor, Your Ladyship.”

His wife made a deep curtsy. “Never thought to meet with a genuine lady.”

“The Browns own a charming farm in Hertfordshire,” Mr. Duke said. “And they’d be delighted to take the animals off your hands.”

“All of them?”

He grinned. “All of them. Today.”

Penny couldn’t believe it. “How did this happen? How did you meet?”

“It was Hammond who met with them in the market. They’d come into town with a load of … What was it, Brown?”

“Parsnips, sir.”

“Parsnips.” Mr. Duke nodded. “Hammond does love a fresh parsnip. Tell Her Ladyship about your farm, Mrs. Brown.”

“It’s a lovely patch of country, milady. Just a smallholding, but it’s ours. Pasture for the horses, and fields of oats, alfalfa, clover.”

“And parsnips,” Penny said.

“Yes, of course. And parsnips.” Mrs. Brown smiled. “There’s even a little pond.”

“Tell me, Mrs. Brown, would you say this little pond of yours would make a good home for an otter?” Mr. Duke asked.

“I daresay it would make the ideal home for an otter, sir.”

“Well, then. How convenient. Did you hear that, Your Ladyship? They can take the otter, too. Go on, then. Box him up.”

Penny narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “I assume Mr. Duke has explained to you that many of these animals require special care?”

Mrs. Brown clasped her hands together. “God never blessed us with children of our own, milady. It would be a true joy to look after the animals. We need creatures to love.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Brown gave Angus a smack on the rump. “I’d wager this old girl is a fine milker.”

“That’s a Highland steer,” Penny said.

“Oh!” The farmer—if indeed he was a farmer—peeked under Angus’s tail. “So he is. Out in Herefordshire—”

Mrs. Brown elbowed her husband. “Hertfordshire.”

“Out in Hertfordshire, we don’t often see this breed.”

Penny could have pointed out that the breeding organs of cattle remained largely the same, regardless. She didn’t bother. Whoever these people were, they were not parsnip farmers from Hertfordshire. They weren’t farmers of any sort.

“Well, then.” Mr. Duke clapped his hands. “Shall we load them all up?”

Just how far did he intend to carry this ruse? Did he think Penny had taken a headfirst tumble off a parsnip wagon?

“By all means,” she said. “And while you do that, I’ll fetch my things.”

“Your things?”

“Yes, of course. With no offense intended to Mr. and Mrs. Brown, I have to see and judge the place for myself.”

“The journey will take two days.” His tone was clipped. “Each way.”

She smiled. “I’ll pack accordingly.”

“Fine. You do that. Mr. and Mrs. Brown will be waiting.”

Before she could take his bluff to the next level, “Mr. Brown” intervened. “Hold a moment, sir. What is this mischief, I ask you? Two days’ journey, in either direction? Inconceivable.”

The man’s amiable country accent had transformed into full-throated Shakespearean declamation, complete with trilled R’s and flourishes of the hand.

The woman purporting to be Mrs. Brown confronted Mr. Duke in a faintly Irish lilt. “We agreed to a onetime engagement, sir. A single afternoon playing the humble farmer and his wife. What’s this about travelin’ to Hertfordshire? We’ve a Drury Lane performance in a few hours. I’m not giving my scheming little understudy a chance at Lady Macbeth.”

“I’ll have you know I make an appearance in the first act, sir!” the farmer bellowed. “I cannot miss the curtain.”

“As if anyone would notice, Harold. You’re naught but scenery.”

Harold puffed his chest. “In the theater, there are no insignificant roles.”

“Oh, to be sure there aren’t. Size doesn’t matter. Keep tellin’ yourself as much.”

Mr. Duke dug in his pocket for money. “Just go, the both of you.”

Penny waited until the actors had gone. “You are unbelievable. And unimaginative, too. A parsnip farm?”

“Very well, there’s no farm. But in my defense, I had every intention of purchasing the first available bit of pasture.”

“The first available? You promised me they’d have the best available. With people who care.”

“You handed me a mile-long list of animals. Where am I supposed to find a pension home for aging livestock?”

“This was a terrible idea. I should never have accepted your offer to help. If you’re going to mock me, there’s no point in this at all. You agree with my aunt. I’m silly and pathetic, and it’s time for me to give up.” She turned to retreat into the house. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.” He caught her by the wrist. “The two of us … We’re from different breeds. Different species, even. I can’t pretend to fathom what you’re doing with all these animals. However, I doubt you approve of the way I live my life, either.”

That was fair to say, she supposed.

“There is, however, one thing we have in common. I’m stubborn as hell, and I’d formed the impression that you don’t surrender easily, either. Or was I mistaken?”

“You weren’t mistaken.”

“It’s settled, then.” His gaze held her captive. “I’m not giving up, and neither are you.”

Pink bloomed on her cheeks. Her gaze dropped to his mouth and lingered there. Good God. She was thinking about kissing him. Not merely remembering kissing him the other night, but thinking about kissing him again.

She was a fool. A naïve, trusting, sheltered fool.

And Gabe wanted to corrupt her so damned badly, his bones ached.

He had to get this absurd task accomplished, and soon.

“I’ll buy some property in the country. We have to find a place to put them all at once. How do you feel about Surrey?”

“Surrey? I’m ambivalent about Surrey.”

“Everyone’s ambivalent about Surrey. I’m not certain there’s any other way to feel about Surrey.”

“It doesn’t matter. We aren’t ‘putting them’ on a random parcel of land. We’re meant to be finding them homes. Ones with real people.”

“The problem is, real people need to eat. They don’t have time to take on animals with dietary restrictions and missing legs.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? That’s precisely why they’re all here with me. No one else would take them. Angus, for example.” She moved toward the Highland steer. “Some foolish merchant traveled to Scotland on holiday and decided on impulse to bring his wife a pet calf from the Highlands. Never stopped to think about the fact that he would grow.”

“Surely people aren’t that stupid.”

“Oh, it happens all the time. But usually they make that mistake with pups or ponies. Not cattle.” She shook her head. “They dehorned him in the worst, most painful way. When he came to me, the poor dear’s wounds were infected. Infested, too. He could have perished from the fly-strike alone. That man was stupid, indeed. The only thing he got right was his choice of calf. Angus is exceedingly adorable.”

Adorable?

Gabe eyed the beast. The animal stood as tall as Gabe’s shoulder, and it smelled … the way cattle smell. Shaggy red fur covered its eyes like a blindfold, and its black, spongy nose glistened.

“He’s the best Highland steer in the world,” she said. “Come meet him.”

“That’s not necessary.”

She didn’t give him a choice about it, leading him by the arm until they stood before the giant, shaggy beast.

“He loves being scratched between the ears.” She stroked Angus’s forelock. “There aren’t many creatures who don’t enjoy a scratch about the ears. Go on. Have a turn.”

“I don’t want to pet the cow.”

“He’s a steer.”

“I don’t want to pet the st—”

She reached for his hand and placed it atop Angus’s flat head, guiding his hand back and forth. As if he were a child who needed to be taught.

“See? He’s softer than he looks.”

Gabe was less interested in the texture of Angus’s hide than he was in the texture of Lady Penelope’s skin. Her hand was small and graceful atop his, but it was not the soft, delicate hand he would expect of a fine lady. Her skin was crossed here and there with lines and scars—some faded, some still pink. They were healed bites and scratches, accumulated over years. She had a lifelong habit of extending care to animals too wild or frightened to accept it—which made her the bravest kind of fool.

Gabe wanted to kiss each and every one of those healed wounds—which made him just an ordinary fool.

Angus snuffled and bobbed his head.

She smiled. “I think he likes you.”

Gabe stepped away, brushing his hand on his trousers. “I didn’t invent a farm and hire those actors out of complete heartlessness. It’s a practical matter. Settling the animals one by one will mean we’d be spending a great deal of time together. That’s a bad idea.”

“If you’re worried about my reputation, don’t. It won’t be noticed. No one pays much attention to me.”

The injustice in that statement confounded him. How could no one be paying attention to her? Over the past few days, he’d been unable to concentrate on anyone or anything but her.

“We’re adults,” she said. “Surely we can behave ourselves. I promise not to kiss you again.”

“It’s not a mere kiss that should worry you.”

“What else are you worried could happen?”

Good Lord. What wasn’t he worried could happen. He’d been up half the night inventing possibilities.

“Look at your goat,” he said. “You weren’t paying attention to her, and now she’s breeding.”

“Marigold is not pregnant.”

“See? You’re too trusting. That’s why this is dangerous. If we’re spending all that time together unchaperoned, there’s too much chance of—”

“Too much chance of what?”

He moved closer, letting the tension build between their bodies. “Of this.”

Her golden eyelashes kissed her flushed cheeks. “You’re worried for nothing. My animals are incompatible with attraction, courtship, romance, or marriage. I’ve been reminded of that regularly for years. They’re exceptionally talented in discouraging gentlemen.”

“I’m not a gentleman. And if I could be discouraged, I’d never have amassed the fortune I have now. When I set my mind on something, a herd of elephants won’t stand in my way.”

A beam of sunlight caught the swirling dust motes and turned them into a glittering halo about her head. Those sparks invaded his body, coursing through his veins until every inch of him was sharply aware of her beauty.

He bent his head to kiss her.

She stretched to meet him halfway.

And Angus sneezed, spraying him with whatever wet, sticky substances comprised the contents of a bovine nose. Gabe wasn’t willing to contemplate specifics. He merely stood there, sputtering with horror, and—

And dripping.

Wiping his face with his sleeve, he cursed cattle, the Highlands, and the world in general.

Lady Penelope laughed. Of course she did.

She unknotted the fichu from about her neck and dabbed at his shirt, oblivious to the amount of cleavage she’d exposed to his view. Her lips curved in a fetching smile. “I think Angus has made my case for me.”

He shook his head. “From now on, we communicate in writing.”

“We live next door to each other. That’s absurd.”

“It’s necessary. This will be the last time we find ourselves alone. Animals don’t count as chaperones. Not even phlegmy ones. Do you understand me?”

“You’re vastly underestimating my pets’ ability to prevent scandal.”

Swearing under his breath, he caught her chin and tipped her face to his. “Your Ladyship, you are vastly underestimating yourself.”