The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

  All lush swells and hollows beneath her high-necked gown, she had the kind of voluptuous flesh a man could imagine sinking into without fear of crushing delicate bones. The kind of woman whose softness would be a comfort during the long hours of the night. To any other man, he reminded himself.

  He frowned as a wry smile curved her full lips. Did she find the situation humorous? Anger welled up, whether at her or his unruly response he didn’t know. “You are trespassing, madam.”

  The woman drew in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I apologize, Lord Wanstead, if my daughter’s sudden appearance caused your horse to startle.” Her voice was low, pleasantly musical, and that of a woman gently bred.

  And she knew who he was. “Madam, you have me at a disadvantage.” He spoke in tones designed to keep her at a distance. It worked well, for she recoiled, cuddling the child closer. Yet when she spoke, her voice was clear and calm. “I am Mrs. Thomas Graham, my lord.”

  Thank God. She was married.

  She gestured behind her. “We live at the Briars at the edge of your woods. This is my daughter, Sophia.”

  He’d never heard of the Briars. An unwelcome suspicion nagged at the back of his mind. “Where?”

  She raised her strong chin in a gesture of defiance. “The Briars, my lord.”

  The child twisted in her mother’s arms and pointed at Grif. “Horsy?”

  Mrs. Graham caught the tiny hand in fingers encased in York tan. “Hush, Sophia.” Her dark gaze returned to clash with his, bright with intelligence and mingled with wariness.

  What did she fear? Him? His horse? Why did he care? He shook off the intrusive thoughts. “I suggest you keep more careful watch on your child, Mrs. Graham.” He touched his hat and climbed aboard the now placid Grif.

  She retreated further to allow him free passage. Dipping a curtsey, she lay a hand flat on the base of her throat in a strangely vulnerable gesture. “I’m sorry we disturbed you, my lord. It will not happen again. I wish you good day.”

  Whoever she was, he’d clearly made her nervous. Blast the woman. He had no reason for guilt. He bowed. “Good day, Mrs. Graham.”

  He set Grif in the direction of Wanstead Manor, her magnificent figure lingering in his mind’s eye like some glorious Rubenesque beauty. He rarely noticed women these days. Couldn’t afford to notice them, for their sake. And a married woman to boot. Bloody hell. He reached for his flask and took a swig. Perhaps brandy would cure this nonsensical stirring in his blood.

  As he broke out of the woods, he concentrated on his family home. Despite his ten years of absence, the beech trees seemed no bigger, their trunks no more knotted and twisted than when he left. He liked the sense of permanence, he realized with surprise. It gave him a sense of belonging he hadn’t expected.

  The shade-dappled lawn beneath them badly needed mowing. The ancient ivy encroaching on the windows at the back of the house made it seem secretive, secluded, aloof from the rest of the world. He urged Grif into the stable yard.

  No one emerged to greet him. Where the hell were the grooms? Cursing under his breath, he dismounted and led the stallion into the first vacant stall, where he proceeded to rub down his weary horse. Old Brown was going to get an earful about the lack of servants in his stables.

  Having provided Grif with a blanket, water, and a manger of feed, he picked up his saddlebag, crossed the cobbled yard, and stomped in through the side door. He tramped along the unlit passage. Weren’t they expecting him?

  He paused where the passage opened out into the old medieval hall. In the middle of the white-and-black tiled floor, a gray lurcher lay curled in the patch of sunlight streaming in through the stained-glass rose window above the front door. The dog lifted its head and bared its sizable teeth.

  “Lady?” Hugo said, knowing he was wrong.

  The stringy tail whipped back and forth, sending dust motes flying.

  Hugo’s chest seemed to fill with a painfully hot lump. It was not the dog who’d been his constant companion as a lad, but it must be one of her get.

  In two quick strides he reached the dog’s side and dropped to his haunches, his hand running over silky hair and knobby ribs. Melting brown eyes stared trustingly into his. “Well, well, and who do we have here?” He turned the collar and found the name engraved on the leather. “Belderone.”

  The dog pressed his forehead into Hugo’s knee, whining and thumping his tail against the tiles as if in recognition.

  “Well, boy,” he said, his vision unaccountably blurring. “Here I am. Home at last.” He pushed to his feet, smothering a groan at the twinge from his thigh. Dammit, he needed a drink.

  “Jevens,” he called out, then thrust open the study door.

  Nothing had changed. He could almost imagine his father glaring at him from behind the paper-strewn desk at one end of the room. He closed his eyes briefly to dispel the image and opened them slowly.

  Although the curtains were drawn back, the room seemed unkempt and full of shadowy corners. What the hell had happened here these last few years?

  “Jevens,” he roared and then swallowed as Jevens appeared at his side, wisps of hair hugging his balding pate like damp string. Thank God, some things never changed.

  “Welcome home, my lord.” Jevens’s fleshy jowls wobbled. His old, pale blue eyes looked watery. “We were not expecting you until tomorrow.”

  Perhaps his early arrival accounted for the house’s general appearance of neglect. Somehow, Hugo didn’t believe it. “I came across country. It was quicker.” Hugo’s thigh throbbed a reminder. “Do we have any brandy?”

  “Of course, my lord.” His face flushed. “I should have thought to ask.”

  Hugo waved off the apology, and the butler trundled to the cabinet where his father always kept his wine.

  “And may I say how glad we all are to see you safely returned, my lord,” Jevens said as he poured.

  “It is good to be back. I met a woman wandering in my woods. A Mrs. Graham. Living at a place called the Briars?”

  Jevens brow lifted a fraction. “The Dower House that was, my lord.”

  Hugo’s heart stilled. “The Dower House?” No Wanstead woman had taken residence at the Dower House in over a century. They never outlived their husbands. But even so, to let out a house intended for members of the family seemed a little odd.

  “Mr. Brown advertised it as the Briars,” Jevens continued. “Mrs. Graham has lived there for about three months.”

  “What does her husband do?”

  “Sadly, she is widowed, my lord.”

  “A widow? Brown leased the Dower House to a widow?” This was not good. Not when the widow was so damned attractive.

  Jevens stared at him. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Ask Roger to see me immediately.”

  “Mr. Roger Brown retired, my lord. His son Ronald is now steward.”

  “His son?” The son had been naught but a lad when Hugo left for the war.

  “Nice young fellow, very organized,” Jevens said with what seemed like smug satisfaction. “Wants to make lots of improvements, he does. Get the estate back to what it was in your grandfather’s day.”

  Hugo lowered himself into the chair behind the cluttered desk, his mood lifting. “Good. The first business of the day will be to offer Mrs. Graham a good price for her lease. The woman is making altogether too free with my property. I want her gone.” He wanted her lush body gone. Her magnificent breasts and accusing eyes gone.

  Jevens stilled, his eyes round. “Gone?” he asked blankly.

  “Yes.” He flicked his fingers in the direction of the door. “Gone. The woman is a menace letting her child roam through the woods. I could have run her down.”

  The butler stood rigid, his happiness fading. “As you said, my lord. You will have to talk to Mr. Brown.”

  “Then send him in. By the way, why is there no one in the stable? Or is that another question for Brown?”

  “I will inform Mr. Brown of your desire to see
him, my lord. He is not expected until tomorrow.” Hugo heard the unspoken “and nor were you.” “Albert Farrow went to visit his daughter in the village. He will be back by nightfall.”

  “Albert? He is still working?”

  “Yes, my lord. There’s a few of us left. Cook—Mrs. Hobb, that is—Albert and me. That’s it, except for young Mr. Brown.”

  Why the hell had Father let the complement of servants dwindle to nothing? No wonder the house and grounds needed tending. He’d have a sharp word with this new steward of his, both about the lack of servants and the rental of the Dower House. He didn’t want strange females on his property. He didn’t want people bidding him good morning and looking to him to solve their problems, not when they looked like the voluptuous Mrs. Graham. He just wanted peace and quiet. He took a sip of brandy. Excellent. At least Father hadn’t allowed his cellar to go to the dogs with the rest of the place. The doctor had given him a choice of brandy or laudanum when the pain got too bad. Brandy tasted a whole lot better.

  “That will be all, Jevens. By the way, Trent, my batman, will arrive in a few days with my luggage and my horses. In the meantime, I will manage with what’s in my saddlebag.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Jevens’s wrinkled face rearranged into a smile. “Dinner will be served at six.” He shuffled off.

  Hugo took another long pull of his drink and felt the heat slide down his gullet and warm deep in his belly. The ache in his leg began to ease along with the uneasy feelings.

  Nothing about his arrival had been as he envisaged. He’d almost killed a child; a woman with a body to drive a man to distraction had taken up residence in his grounds; and the house and estate had drifted into disrepair.

  He raised his glass in a toast. Welcome home. He stared at his saddlebag on the floor where he’d dropped it when he entered. Perhaps he would take it upstairs and see what surprises the rest of the house held in store.

  Chapter Three

  Her heart beating too fast for comfort, Lucinda took Sophia’s hand. They wandered along the forest path. It was the near disaster that had her heart racing, not her enormous landlord astride his magnificent stallion. It had nothing to do with the way his gaze had lingered on her body like a caress. A huge man, with harsh manly features and the body of a seasoned warrior, the Earl of Wanstead engendered the kind of admiration one might have for a well-crafted sword. Not the least bit friendly, he’d sat his stallion like some knight of old defending his land. When he’d dismounted, his sullen glare and taciturn commands might have terrified her, had he not petted his horse with such a gentle hand.

  The trees opened out onto a rolling vista. Lucinda and Sophia ploughed through long grass stretching toward the ornamental lake and its flock of hungry swans. Slowly, the rhythm of her heart slowed. She glanced up at the Grange. Hopefully, he would not resent this further intrusion. Surely, a simple walk across his land did no harm, and she’d promised Sophia they’d feed the swans today.

  She sighed. And he really was a beautiful man. Well, she wasn’t blind. She couldn’t be blamed for appreciating a handsome man—from a distance. Her heart gave a little skip. A foolish flutter of appreciation. She choked down a laugh at the mad flight of fancy that he’d found her attractive. The heat in his gaze was all about anger. Obviously, Lord Wanstead had disliked her on sight. Never one to strike admiration in any man’s breast, she found that his instant hostility rankled, just a little. To be sure, the man was a great surly bear and best avoided.

  Sophia pulled free of Lucinda’s hand and crouched at her feet. “Daisies,” she said. She pulled the heads off two of the white flowers struggling through the grass.

  Lucinda picked another one and held out the pink-fringed petals for Sophia to see. “Like this, sweetheart. So you have a long stalk.” She smiled at the eager little face surrounded by wispy blond curls. “You try.”

  With a frown of concentration, Sophia bent over another cluster of flowers. This time she plucked the stem and a few blades of grass. “Daisy,” she crowed and handed it to Lucinda.

  “Good girl. Get another one.” She dropped to the ground, sitting cross-legged with her skirts smoothed over her knees as she had in the old days at home with her younger sisters. How they had giggled and teased in their youthful innocence. She pushed the memory away. Those days must be put aside, only to be brought out and dusted off at some time in the future, when she felt easier in her mind.

  Sophia trotted back and forth, dropping the little flowers in Lucinda’s lap one at a time. Lucinda pierced each delicate stem with her thumbnail and linked them into a chain.

  “Find a big one,” she said the next time Sophia arrived.

  “Big one,” Sophia repeated, opening her arms wide like an angler describing his catch.

  Lucinda chuckled. “Not that big.”

  The child trundled off, carefully inspecting for bigness until at last one met her requirement. She skipped back, her little black shoes twinkling from beneath the edge of her pale blue skirts.

  “This?” she asked with a baby lisp.

  Lucinda tickled her tummy. “Let me see.”

  Sophia giggled and hopped out of reach.

  The stem looked sturdy enough. If it tore, they’d have to find another one to complete the daisy crown.

  While Lucinda worked, Sophia wandered off. “Don’t go too far,” Lucinda called out.

  A few moments later Sophia returned. “This?” She poked a yellow flower under Lucinda’s nose.

  “Oh, no, that is a buttercup. Look, it is yellow, not white. Can you say buttercup.”

  “Budderup,” Sophia repeated solemnly.

  Lucinda smiled at the serious elfin face. Still far too thin, her child, for all that people seemed to accept the story. “Clever girl. Lift your chin.”

  Sophia obliged.

  Lucinda guided the buttercup against the baby-soft throat. “My, my, you do like butter.”

  The little head nodded emphatically. “Bread.”

  “Yes, bread and butter.”

  Sophia held out the yellow flower. “You do?”

  Lucinda tipped her head back. “Is it yellow under there?”

  Sophia peered closely, her baby breath warm on Lucinda’s throat. “Lellow,” she said, although Lucinda wasn’t sure she knew what the word actually meant.

  “Then I like butter, too.” Lucinda pulled Sophia close for a hug. The sweet, honest feel of the child’s little arms around her neck reminded her of all Denbigh had forced her to leave behind—her younger sisters, her parent’s love and respect. Don’t think of that now. She had made a new life for her and Sophia. But what if her investments in the Funds lost money? Even a small loss could render her destitute, and then where would they be?

  “Oh, little one, how can I take care of you when I can scarcely manage to look after myself?” Her voice cracked.

  “Mama cry?” Sophia looked anxious.

  “No,” she said with a sniff. “Just something in my eye. Look, sweet, here is your crown.” She plopped the little wreath on the sun-bright curls. “You are a princess.”

  Sophia jumped up and down. “Pincess,” she shouted. She twirled around, skirts flying with a smile like sunshine after gray skies and laughter so infectious that Lucinda jumped to her feet and swung the child in a circle, her own laughter spilling forth.

  How lucky she was to find this child and to end up here in this perfectly idyllic backwater. She would not let a grumpy old earl spoil her day.

  • • •

  Hugo glanced around his father’s chamber. No. Not his father’s any longer. His. Thank God it looked clean enough, as well as dreadfully imposing with the large four-poster bed dab smack in the middle and the boar-and-roses coat of arms emblazoned on everything from the royal blue bed hangings to the carved chest of drawers. He couldn’t recall ever setting foot in this room.

  With a strange guilty feeling, he approached the connecting door to the countess’s apartments, a suite of rooms he would never need to enter. The
polished brass handle moved smoothly under his fingers. With his fingertip, he nudged the oak door open. He hesitated on the threshold of a chamber as familiar as his own. Nothing had changed, he realized with a savage sadness.

  Had his father intended it as a shrine to its last inhabitant? It seemed unlikely. Or had he simply never set foot in here again? At least Father had the sense to never remarry. No. He had imposed that unpleasant duty on his son. And having tried it, Hugo would never attempt it again. He didn’t care about an heir. He certainly didn’t want any more deaths on his conscience.

  Dust powdered the filmy fabric on the Louis the Fourteenth canopy. Hugo remembered burying his face in the delicate folds and his mother’s soft command to take care.

  He’d been such a clumsy lout. Carefully, he lowered himself to perch on the edge of the bed the way he had as a boy. He’d tell his mother what he’d learned with his tutor each day, while she lay in her bed in her lacy cap and frilled gown with a wan smile. God. How ill she’d looked, even on good days.

  Two Wanstead women sacrificed on the altar of genealogy in his lifetime. No more.

  His gut twisted as his mind peered through doors he’d bolted shut. He stumbled around the bed and out into the corridor, searching for happier memories.

  His steps turned east. The earl’s suite of apartments lay in the west wing and looked out over the tree-lined drive. In the opposite direction lay the room he’d chosen for his own when he left the nursery.

  He strolled along the connecting gallery, nodding to the grim ancestral portraits ranged along the wall and then ducked into a narrow passage dark with ancient panels and blackened beams. He must have had a reason for selecting this side of the house, the oldest remnant of the original Tudor mansion. Perhaps his dreams of knights in shining armor had led him here. He sighed. More likely a need to be as far as possible from his parents and their misery.