The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

“Your duty was here, learning to take care of the estate, raising the next heir.” The accusation hung like a bad smell beneath their noses.

  Hugo steeled himself to bear the elderly man’s recriminations in silence. Mrs. Dawson’s ambitions with respect to her daughter and Hugo were well known in the county, if totally out of the question on several fronts. He hoped to God she’d fixed her eagle eye on some other far more worthy and available prospect. He’d never harbored romantic feelings for Catherine, regarding her more as a very young sister. And as Father had so aptly said, far too delicate for a man of Hugo’s size. It was as close as Father ever came to revealing the truth.

  The squire pursed his lips. “No need to poker up, my boy. I’ve known you all your life. What is done is past, and I’m not one to cry over the might-have-beens. If I was, I’d be weeping over that wastrel son of mine.”

  Hugo refrained from comment.

  The squire settled his hat more firmly on his head. “Come to dinner next Saturday. The ladies will be back from town. Mrs. Dawson would never forgive me if I didn’t issue the invitation.” He clapped Hugo on the shoulder.

  The thought of engaging in futile small talk, of hours spent in the company of Mrs. Dawson, robbed some of the brightness from the morning.

  A frown gathered on the squire’s florid face. “At least you and I can have a sensible conversation. No doubt Mrs. Dawson will invite the pesky vicar and Mrs. Graham to make up the numbers.”

  The prospect of another battle of words with Mrs. Graham glowed like a lighthouse on a foggy night. He suffered a slight pang of guilt at his change of heart, but nodded. “I shall look forward to it.”

  “Good man. I have a new hunter I want you to take a look at. I wish you good day, my lord.”

  The old squire stumped off to his waiting mount. Hugo climbed aboard the gig drawn by an old gelding who went by the name of Bob. Trent’s arrival with the horses from his hunting box would be most welcome. It would not do for a Wanstead to be seen driving such a disgraceful equipage for any length of time. Some of his creditors might indeed start to wonder about his financial stability. Pasty, no Peter, gave him a nod of farewell over the heads of the crowd, which included Mrs. Graham. One of a knot of women milling at the bottom of the church steps, she was conversing with an elderly lady while her daughter clutched her gray skirts. Unlike himself, the buxom Mrs. Graham seemed very much at home in the village of Blendon. A red-headed boy dashed to her side, jumping up and down to get her attention. Would it work for him, Hugo mused, if he also jumped up and down in her face?

  After listening, head bent, to the boy for a moment, Mrs. Graham glanced up and caught Hugo’s eye. She looked surprised and pleased.

  Ah. The lad must be a Drabet. The Drabets always tended to have red hair.

  Hugo felt a flush rise up his neck. So now Mrs. Graham would think him a weak-willed ninny, a man she could wrap around her interfering thumb. He wouldn’t mind her wrapping those strong shapely legs around his waist. He imagined their creamy flesh, their generous plumpness, and almost snarled. One little encouragement and he’d have her continually tinkering in his affairs. A very bad idea. The meeting in his library had made it perfectly plain that he did not have the power to resist her allure. He’d been so fascinated that he’d let her make her demands without a single word of protest.

  The gig creaked into motion at his crack of the whip. He needed to make his disinterest in the widow very clear. He could not let her believe she held any attraction. Dinner at the Dawsons would be the perfect opportunity.

  • • •

  A sense of anticipation lingered in the Dawsons’ azure and gold drawing room. Seated beside Miss Dawson, a diminutive brunette with a peaches and cream complexion and lips a rosebud would envy, Lucinda kept her gaze fixed on her hands clasped in her lap. Mrs. Dawson, gowned in chartreuse silk with a matronly cap on her gray coiffure, chattered like a magpie, while the rotund squire paced among the Louis the Fourteenth furniture.

  A stage set for the arrival of the conquering hero. Or a prospective bridegroom. The wry thought did little to soothe Lucinda’s nerves about renewing Lord Wanstead’s disturbing acquaintance. Each time she remembered their brief encounter, her stomach completed another round of somersaults. Seeing him in church, the autocratic nobleman with no more than a stiff nod for his lowly neighbors, had done nothing to still her flutters. If anything, they were worse after seeing the way he towered over the vicar, his virility and size displayed to a dreadful effect on her pulse.

  Then, as she heard from Tom about the repairs to the leaking roof, she’d caught Wanstead watching her. Thinking about that brooding glance sent heat rushing up her neck all the way to her hairline.

  She fanned a hand in front of her face. “What hot weather we are having for June.” Lucinda almost groaned at the fatuous-sounding remark.

  “Yes, indeed,” uttered Miss Dawson with a gentle smile. “Between the rain.”

  The squire pulled out his watch, shook it, and then trundled to the carved armchair beside his wife. It was the only solid-looking chair in the room. He lowered his bulk onto the dark blue cushion. “Too much rain, if you ask me. The wheat is rotting on the stalk.”

  A knock sounded beyond the drawing room door. Mrs. Dawson raised her head, like a hound at the halloo. “Who can that be?”

  “Mother, it can only be one of two people, Lord Wanstead or Reverend Postlethwaite.” Miss Dawson’s voice lacked any of the irritation that jangled Lucinda’s nerves.

  “Yes, but which of them is it?” Mrs. Dawson said.

  “We will soon find out, wife,” Mr. Dawson said, lumbering to his feet. “You may be sure of that.”

  “Lord Wanstead and Reverend Postlethwaite,” the butler announced.

  The newcomers couldn’t have looked more different. The pallid vicar had the look of a monk who spent his days cloistered with books. Broad-shouldered and athletic, the sun-bronzed Lord Wanstead reeked of hours spent in strong sunshine. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes spoke of a man used to gazing at distant horizons. The set of his mouth above a square-cut jaw indicated he rarely liked what he saw in those far-off reaches.

  “You came together?” Mrs. Dawson asked as the two men entered the room.

  The vicar gave a deprecating wave of his hand. “We met on the doorstep.”

  Squire Dawson rushed forward, hand outstretched. “I’m grateful for it, gentlemen. Now we’ll have some decent conversation.”

  Outdoors, Wanstead’s magnificence had inspired Lucinda’s admiration. In the confines of the room, among the gilt chairs and spindle-legged tables, he overwhelmed. She repressed a shiver. Fear? Or something far more dangerous—like attraction? Surely not.

  “Come in, gentlemen. Welcome,” Dawson said. “Wanstead, you know my wife, of course, and my daughter.”

  “Indeed.” He bowed over Mrs. Dawson’s hand. “It is good to see you again.” The earl’s voice rumbled in the depths of his wide chest.

  Lucinda felt a strange vibration in the pit of her stomach, as if his baritone had the power to strum some chord deep inside her body. She steeled herself against its unsettling effect.

  Miss Dawson seemed similarly afflicted, since a rosy hue infused the young woman’s cheeks as she held out her hand. “Welcome home, Hugo.”

  “I can see you are well,” he murmured.

  “Let me introduce Mrs. Thomas Graham,” Dawson said.

  A stride brought Lord Wanstead to her chair.

  The man positively loomed over her. Her fingers disappeared within his palm, and though he held them lightly, she felt his warmth through her cotton gloves, felt the physical manifestation of his strength, and felt oddly delicate, a most unnerving sensation full of melting and weakness. She stiffened her spine. “My lord.”

  His gaze remained distant, much as it had when she cornered him in his study, as if he neither knew her nor wanted to make her acquaintance. “How do you do.”

  She hadn’t exactly expected him to be effu
sive after their last conversation, but his chill reserve acted like a dash of cold water. And yet beneath that stiff reserve, she sensed a deep loneliness, like a man cut off from the world to which he wished he belonged.

  Behind him, the vicar was greeting the Dawson ladies.

  “Mrs. Graham has only recently come to the village,” the squire said.

  “Mrs. Graham and I already have a passing acquaintance,” Lord Wanstead said. “She is my tenant.”

  “You have met Mrs. Graham already?” Mrs. Dawson called out, her gaze narrowing in on him and then flicking to Lucinda.

  “I wasn’t sure you wished to recall our brief meeting, my lord,” Lucinda murmured.

  Lord Wanstead’s eyes darkened. “I could hardly forget. I believe I owe you an apology, Mrs. Graham. I was not the politest of landlords.”

  To her mortification, Lucinda’s heartbeat quickened, making her sound breathless when she replied, “I believe neither of us were particularly polite, my lord.”

  “What is this?” Mrs. Dawson said. “Sit beside me, Wanstead. I cannot hear with you blocking the middle of the room.”

  Lord Wanstead inclined his head and strolled to take the fragile seat beside his hostess as ordered, while the Reverend Postlethwaite made his bow to Lucinda with a smile and a murmured greeting. He claimed the empty chair between Lucinda and Miss Dawson.

  “How are you, Mrs. Graham?” The Reverend’s pale face seemed flushed, his voice hoarse, as if he suffered some sort of fever. While he did not glance Miss Dawson’s way, his nerves in the presence of the beautiful woman on his other side were painfully obvious.

  Lucinda managed a smile. “I am well, sir. But you seem a little out of sorts.”

  His flush deepened. “No, indeed. Just a trifle warm from the walk.”

  “Come now, Wanstead. How did you meet Mrs. Graham?” Squire Dawson boomed from his place at the hearth.

  In trepidation, Lucinda waited for a tale of her interference in his private affairs. It would take little more than a word on his part to set the Dawsons against her.

  “We met in Brackley Woods,” Lord Wanstead said. “I almost ran down Mrs. Graham’s child.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” Miss Dawson said.

  “You exaggerate, my lord,” Lucinda said, gratitude warring with surprise. “Sophia startled his lordship’s horse. He is too fine a horseman to come close to riding anyone down.”

  “Your confidence in my abilities is flattering,” Wanstead said with a narrow smile.

  Apparently he was not going to mention her foray into his private domain. Lucinda crossed her feet at the ankles and toyed with the strings of her reticule, like some sort of nervous debutante.

  Mrs. Dawson rapped him playfully on the knee with her fan. “Now you are back, sir, I hope we will see more of you here at the Hall. Catherine is certainly looking forward to your company, aren’t you, my dear?” She arched a brow in her daughter’s direction. “You should ride together, as you did in the old days.”

  A brief pang tightened Lucinda’s heart. Not because she envied the young woman her riding companion, definitely not that, but because her own finances did not stretch to keeping a horse.

  “Mama, it was Arthur, not me, who rode with Hugo. I was still in the schoolroom.”

  “Well, my love,” the squire’s lady said with a bright smile, “you are in the schoolroom no longer.”

  Miss Dawson colored. “Mother, please. What must Hugo think?”

  Lord Wanstead clearly sensed a noose closing around his neck because he unconsciously tugged at his collar. “I regret that I will have neither time nor inclination for pleasurable pursuits. The estate demands all my attention.”

  “Glad to hear it, my boy,” the squire said. “I can’t think what your father was about letting things arrive at such a pass.”

  “Really, Mr. Dawson,” Mrs. Dawson said. “Surely you are not going to start talking business in my drawing room.”

  The squire scowled. “All I said was—”

  “Hugo, we heard you were wounded,” Miss Dawson said. “Are you quite recovered?”

  Lord Wanstead shifted in his chair, faint color staining his cheekbones. “It was nothing. Merely a scratch.”

  “At Badajoz, wasn’t it?” the vicar asked. “My brother wrote it was a dreadful affair.”

  Lord Wanstead nodded. “Indeed.”

  A man of annoyingly few words. Although longing for news of her brother’s regiment, Lucinda remained silent, not wishing to arouse questions about her eagerness for information.

  “Dinner is served, sir,” the butler said from the threshold.

  “Wanstead, you will take Catherine’s arm,” Mrs. Dawson proclaimed. “Postlethwaite, be good enough to escort Mrs. Graham.”

  The couples organized to her liking, Mrs. Dawson sailed into the dining room on her husband’s arm. Catherine and Lord Wanstead exchanged grimaces like old friends and followed suit.

  Old friends? Or something more? They certainly made a striking couple, the tall hero soldier and the petite English rose. Another pang? What could she be thinking? Mrs. Dawson had every reason to set her ambitions high with such a beautiful daughter. Lucinda would not begrudge the sweet Miss Dawson her prize.

  The vicar proffered his arm, and they brought up the rear.

  A monstrous table ran the length of the paneled dining room, and the meal proceeded much as Lucinda expected. The guests were forced to converse with their immediate neighbors, if they did not want to shout to those opposite across an epergne laden with pink roses flanked by branched candelabra the size of ponies. Clearly Mrs. Dawson had set out to impress her noble guest.

  The vicar engaged Lucinda and Mrs. Dawson in conversation regarding the parish and mutual acquaintances at the hostess’s end of the table, while the squire entertained Lord Wanstead and Miss Dawson. And yet Lucinda had the strangest sensation the earl was paying more attention to the chatter at her end of the table.

  The first course consisted of jugged hare and a roast of pork from the squire’s own stock, accompanied by fresh peas. It reminded Lucinda of meals at home, when the table seemed to bow beneath the weight of the platters distributed from end to end.

  Family meals with the Armitages were serious affairs. Mother would take offense if so much as a potato or a scrap of roast went uneaten. Father’s hearty command to eat up echoed in her ears.

  A surreptitious glance at his lordship, a man she expected to enjoy his dinner, found him filling his wineglass, a deep furrow between his brows. For such a large man, his preference seemed neither wise nor healthy. Dash it. His well-being was none of her concern.

  After a remove of aspics and jelly, a second course of game pie, a calf’s foot, and a side of beef arrived, accompanied by spring greens and a dish of assorted vegetables. Lucinda accepted a serving of beef and buttered parsnips from the vicar and passed the platter to the squire. She sampled the meat. Cooked to perfection, it melted on her tongue. Delicious. Her appetite sharpened. She forced herself to eat slowly, instead of like a pig at a trough, as Denbigh had always described her at mealtime. Not that she lacked for manners. Mother would never have allowed any lack of etiquette. She just had a hearty appetite, which, as Denbigh had been swift to point out, stuck to her bones. An unfortunate Armitage family trait, according to her husband.

  During a lull in the conversation, the vicar raised his voice to reach the far end of the table. “Lord Wanstead, what do you hear from the Peninsular?”

  Lucinda could not prevent herself from leaning forward.

  Wanstead’s dark gaze focused on her face before moving to the vicar. “Very little.”

  Lucinda tried to contain her disappointment at his repressive tone and the brevity of his answer.

  “Wellington is outmatched when it comes to Napoleon,” the squire declared. “That is what they are saying in the newspapers. Mark my words, Bonaparte has his measure. The country is going to the dogs, sir.”

  “I think you will find that Old Ho
oky knows what he is doing,” Lord Wanstead replied.

  “Old Hooky?” Miss Dawson said with a laugh. “Surely you are not referring to Viscount Wellington?”

  “It is a term of the greatest respect, I assure you,” Lord Wanstead said.

  “I hear it refers to his nose,” Mrs. Dawson said. “Not respectful at all, if you ask me. Not that the Wellesleys can hold a candle to some of England’s far more noble families.” She glanced pointedly at Lord Wanstead.

  “The Wellesleys have earned their honors, Mrs. Dawson. Not had them served up on a platter,” Lord Wanstead replied calmly.

  It seemed he had not entirely entered into the spirit of Mrs. Dawson’s matrimonial game. At least, not yet. The thought unaccountably lightened Lucinda’s spirits.

  “Who is taking care of your child this evening, Mrs. Graham?” the vicar asked.

  Once more Lord Wanstead’s gaze turned her way.

  “Annie Dunning, my housekeeper, agreed to stay with her this evening.”

  “A good woman, Mrs. Dunning,” the vicar said. “She will be another sad loss to the community.”

  “Is she leaving?” Miss Dawson asked in her soft voice. “You know her, Hugo. She is Albert Farrow’s daughter, married to the blacksmith’s youngest son, Samuel Dunning. The Farrow family has lived in Blendon and worked at the Grange all their lives. The Dunnings, too.”

  “She will go if her husband can find work in the north,” Lucinda answered. “She has no choice.”

  Postlethwaite frowned. “Everyone is leaving the countryside, lured to the cities by the promise of work.”

  “Rubbish, sir,” the squire said from the head of the table. “This country runs on its farms. Always has.”

  “I beg to differ, sir,” the vicar said. “The war brings great profit to the manufacturers in the north. Their wages are higher than anything offered by the landowners.”

  “Unfortunately,” Lucinda said, “without skills, country people often fall into bad company rather than employment.”

  “Many men get taken up by the recruiters to serve in the army,” Lord Wanstead said. “Lord knows we need them.”