The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

  At the gate, she looked back.

  • • •

  Hugo raised a hand in farewell and watched her glide up the front path. The porch light cast her Rubenesque figure into delicious relief, a shadow painting in graceful motion, a feminine sway to curvy hips. The sight held his gaze far longer than it ought.

  A fascinating mixture of opposites, Mrs. Thomas Graham. Sharp-witted and softhearted. Outwardly subdued yet strong in her passions, direct of gaze yet secretive. Unremarkable in repose, her face glowed with an inner beauty when she spoke of matters close to her heart, like the fête or her child. While there was nothing wrong with her answers to his questions about her history, she weighed each word carefully as if she feared to trip over her tongue, unless the heat of her argument caused her to forget. The army had taught him enough about men who lied and cheated to recognize avoidance, if not downright bouncers. He found he didn’t like to think of her as deceitful.

  Mentally he shrugged, urging old Bob into motion. So the curvaceous widow had secrets. Provided they caused no harm to his friends and neighbors, they were none of his business. A woman with a child had little chance to damage anyone, unless, he thought unwillingly, this desire of hers to raise money masked an attempt to line her pockets. She certainly bore watching. Unfortunately, he feared his interest lay not in her past but in the alluring sway of her skirts and the thought of the warm soft flesh beneath.

  Damnation. Had he lost his mind? He needed a drink. A nightcap of brandy would reduce the ache in his leg along with the other ache he thought he’d learned to quell.

  • • •

  The rooms on each side of the front door were in darkness, Lucinda noticed as she stepped into the house. A chink of light under the door at the end of the passage steered her steps in the direction of the kitchen. The sound of a male voice gave her pause. Annie was entertaining? She pushed open the door.

  Two worried pairs of eyes stared at her, Albert on one side of the table, a mug of tea clenched in his gnarled fist, and Annie on the other. The normal coziness of the small stone kitchen with its gleaming copper pots, old-fashioned stove, and scrubbed wooden furniture seemed lacking.

  Albert hauled himself up to his feet. “Good evening, Mrs. Graham.”

  “Mrs. Graham,” Annie said, her voice full of relief. “Thank goodness.”

  Lucinda’s stomach dropped away. “What has happened? Where is Sophia?”

  “The lass is fine,” Annie said in comforting tones. “Tucked up in her bed. It is not her that has us in a pelter.”

  Relief weakening her knees, Lucinda plunked onto a chair. “Then what?”

  “Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea,” Annie said, pushing to her feet with a grunt and rubbing at her lower back. She reached down a cup and saucer from the dresser shelf. “While Pa tells you all about it.”

  Lucinda bit back her impatience. A show of anxiety might lead to questions she dare not answer.

  Annie poured the milk, then the tea. Lucinda accepted her cup with a smile pasted on stiff lips. “Now, tell me what has happened? What is so important it could not wait until morning?”

  “It’s Pa,” Annie said, her round cheerful face clenching in a rare frown. “He’s brought news from the inn.”

  Lucinda held her breath, her heart too loud in her ears, her fingers tightening around the cup handle.

  Albert’s corrugated lips pursed as if to contain his excitement. “Remember when you asked our Annie to let you know if any strangers came asking for you?”

  Lucinda’s stomach churned. Surely too much time had passed for anyone to track her to this small corner of Kent? She set her face into an expression of polite enquiry. “Did someone ask?”

  Albert nodded. “There was a Bow Street Runner at the Red Lion this evening, asking Old Peddle if he’d seen a heavyset woman traveling through here or staying nearby.”

  The blood seemed to drain from Lucinda’s head, leaving her weak and dizzy. She sipped her tea to disguise her panic, her thoughts refusing to form any order. “What did Mr. Peddle say?”

  “I pipes up that the widder Mrs. Graham and her little girl came to Blendon three months or more gone.”

  “What I wants to know, Mrs. Graham,” Annie said, “is why he said anything at all?” She glared at her father. “People coming here, asking all manner of questions. What right have they got?”

  “Women,” he muttered under his breath. “Stands to reason, don’t it? If I hadn’t mentioned Mrs. Graham, Peddle would’ve. An’ he might forget that she wasn’t traveling alone, see? He mightn’t think to mention Miss Sophia at all. ’Cause, if he was looking for a lone woman, he wasn’t looking for Mrs. Graham, here, was he? Even if she is . . .” His weathered face flushed as he turned his bright gaze on Lucinda. “But it do seem a bit odd, you mentioning that someone might come looking?”

  Despite his advanced years, Albert was far too clever for his own good. Lucinda kept her face calm. “What did the Bow Street Runner say after that?”

  Albert slurped a mouthful of tea. “Makes a good cuppa, my lass. He don’t say nuffin’. He looked mighty disappointed. He finished his heavy wet, called for his horse, and off he went.”

  Fighting to remain upright, Lucinda nodded as if it all meant nothing at all. But if this man had really been sent by Denbigh, would he be satisfied? “He said nothing more?”

  “No.” Albert scowled. “That fool Peddle did mention as how you was on the big side. To my mind, the Runner lost interest the moment I mentioned your daughter.”

  Lucinda curled her hand around her cup. Damn Denbigh, if it was him, for continuing the hunt. “You are sure he left?” she asked Albert.

  “Aye, Mrs. Graham.” The old man hesitated. “Are ye in some kind of trouble with the law?”

  Lucinda swallowed. “I have done nothing wrong. As I told Annie when I first came here, my husband owed money. To some very bad men.” She couldn’t help how breathless she sounded. Just the thought of someone sent by Denbigh invading her new life sent bone-deep shudders through her body. “I gave them everything belonging to his estate. What I took belonged to me.” At least that was the truth.

  “You should go to the authorities,” Annie said.

  “How would I ever prove what is mine and what was his? It isn’t possible.”

  “She’s right, lass.” Albert swigged the rest of his tea. “Looks like I said the right thing. I’ll keep a sharp eye out for that there redbreast. But I don’t think he’ll be back.”

  If Denbigh had eliminated Blendon from his search, then it might even be the safest place to stay. All she could do was hope Albert was right. If she wasn’t safe buried in the depths of the English countryside, she couldn’t imagine where she could hide.

  Chapter Five

  Daylight dribbled through the study window onto a ledger covered in what to Hugo looked like hieroglyphics. Numbers mingled with lists of items in crabbed handwriting. He lifted his gaze to his tearful cook’s face, and horror pitched his stomach to the floor, a sensation not unlike the one he’d experienced when faced with a battalion of French. In fact, right now, he’d prefer the French.

  He pointed to a particularly disturbing entry. “What is this? Three pots of poison?”

  Mrs. Hobb’s head with its frizzle of gray curls leaned closer to the page. She scrunched her face. “I think it’s raisins, sir. Raisin jelly, that would be. His lordship, your father, liked a bit of raisin jam with his game.”

  “Well, that is a relief.”

  She cracked a watery smile. “It’s a mess, my lord. And no mistake. I’m sorry. I did me best. It’s just that the Missus always did it.” She meant Hugo’s mother. “After that, Mrs. Huxtable took it on. I never learned how. When she left, the old earl didn’t seem to care much so I . . .” She waved helplessly at the ledger. “I didn’t dare tell young Mr. Brown it had gone all wrong in case he turned me off.”

  Damn young Mr. Brown and his organized mind. Hugo sighed inwardly. No. That was unfair. Mr. Brown ha
d done his best. Just as Mrs. Hobb had tried to do hers. This was Father’s fault for not hiring a competent housekeeper.

  He patted her shoulder. “Never mind, Mrs. Hobb.”

  “I suppose you’re going to get someone to replace me,” the old woman said.

  He really should. He gazed at her worried face, its color high from years working over a hot oven. “Not at all. I’ll sort this lot out, and then we’ll start from scratch.”

  Her tears dried in an instant. “You’re a good man, your lordship. Like your mother, you are.”

  Look what goodness had got his mother. An early grave.

  Damn it. If he didn’t get a handle on the household accounts, more money would slip through his fingers. They’d already had an extra delivery of coal they didn’t need and could ill afford. It was piled behind the stables waiting for space in the coal cellar. “Run along now, Mrs. Hobb. Leave it me.”

  The old woman hobbled out, a hand to her furrowed brow. She really ought to retire, which meant Hugo ought to provide her the means to do so. He just couldn’t afford to pay her off and hire both a cook and a housekeeper. Not until he sorted out his finances.

  He pulled the ledger in front of him, turned it upside down and discovered that indeed some of the entries had been written that way, too.

  Bugger. This was such a waste of his time. There were myriad things on the estate demanding his attention. Important things like deciding what to plant and where, and raising the capital to buy seed and animals. If young Mr. Brown caught him doing Mrs. Hobb’s accounts, there’d be hell to pay.

  The pain in his thigh rode muscle and bone all the way to his back teeth. He massaged his leg in an attempt to deny the call of the brandy decanter at his elbow. If he drank before lunch, he’d be finished by supper. He stared at a patch of blue sky through the small clear space left by the ivy. He needed to get beyond the four walls pressing in on him. For clarity of thought, he needed exercise and the wind on his skin. He’d ride out, take a look at the hay in the top fields, and see if it was ready for cutting before having another go at these wretched accounts.

  • • •

  Hugo galloped Grif home through Brackley Wood, the earthy smell of warm forest reminding him of the better days in Spain. Grif tossed his head playfully, and Hugo let him run, keeping a sharp eye out for low branches.

  The trees stopped short at a clearing. Somehow, he felt as if some sixth sense had drawn him to this place. Utter rot. Yet he reined Grif to a walk.

  On the clearing’s far side, nestled against a thicket of hazel and fronting onto the lane, lay the Dower House, recently renamed the Briars. A picturesque blaze of color filled the flowerbeds within the low privet hedge. He hauled in a quick breath at the sight of a statuesque figure in a straw sunbonnet and high-necked gray gown strolling down the path to the back gate: Mrs. Graham.

  She halted and looked at him over the hedge, her gaze coolly assessing.

  Why would she not stare? Atop Grif, he was as obvious as a moving mountain. He touched his crop to his hat and walked the stallion closer. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Graham.”

  A small face peeked out from behind her hip-skimming skirts—the daughter he’d scared half to death the first day they’d met. He frowned, and the face disappeared.

  “Good afternoon, my lord.” Mrs. Graham sketched a curtsey. The inherently regal grace of her movements struck him anew.

  “Lovely day,” he said. Tongue-tied dolt. Surely he could say something more original.

  “Indeed,” she replied with the flicker of a smile he might have missed if he hadn’t been looking for some softening in her expression. “It is wonderful to be out of doors at this time of year.”

  That dealt with the weather. Now what?

  They gazed at each other across a gulf bridged by birdsong and the rustle of a breeze in the nearby forest. The translucence of her skin begged his touch. Awareness of the milky skin of her throat and the soft slope of her shoulders leading to the rise of bountiful breasts thickened his blood until he was sure he heard it pumping through his veins. The plain bonnet, banded in black ribbon, and the dove-colored gown couldn’t disguise her generous proportions, but they did seem designed to keep all comers at bay. He found it fascinating, alluring, almost . . . virginal. His cock gave a happy little pulse at the thought. Hellfire.

  Grif whinnied dangerously.

  Hugo cursed under his breath. What the hell was wrong with him? He might not have eased himself with a woman for months, but he was no adolescent boy with out-of-control urges. Since the death of his poor benighted wife, he’d thought there wasn’t a woman on earth who could tempt him down the path of lust. Two innocents’ deaths on his conscience were more than enough for any man. His ardor cooled with satisfying speed.

  The little girl shot forward and held out her arms, saying, “Up.”

  Grif showed the whites of his eyes. “Steady,” Hugo said to the horse.

  Mrs. Graham scooped the child into her arms. “I’m so sorry, my lord. Sophia, no.”

  “Up,” the child said again, waving her little hands.

  “What does she want?” Hugo asked, working Grif’s bit.

  A smile transformed Mrs. Graham’s face from plain to glowing. “Albert Farrow put her up on old Bob the time she visited your stables.” A worried frown chased the smile away. “Not that she goes there often.”

  Hugo the ogre. He clenched his fists at the unexpected pang of regret. The stallion danced sideways. He dismounted before the animal did some real damage. “Are you going out?” Another doltish question.

  “I am going to the vicarage for tea. I really should not delay.” She settled the child on her hip.

  “Allow me to accompany you. Even in daylight it is dangerous for a woman to walk alone in the woods.”

  “Mr. Brown assured me the shortcut to the village was quite safe.”

  Brown would. “Nevertheless, one never knows what might occur.” He fell into step beside her.

  “I suppose you are right. There may be riders galloping hell-for-leather down any one of these paths.”

  Spirits unaccountably soaring, he smiled at the faint flush on her high cheekbones and the nervous flicker of her tongue over the curve of her full lower lip. “Indeed. Therefore I must insist.”

  She sighed, a faint expulsion of resignation, but made no further attempt at demurral. Apparently this female had no intention of plying her wiles to keep him at her side. Something tightened in his chest. Pleasant surprise? Or pique? He didn’t care to investigate.

  They strolled along the cool path winding through the trees. A dove cooed softly somewhere in the pale green canopy. A thrush warbled. A bee blundered by in a hum of wings. With some surprise, Hugo recognized his mood as contented. Had he at last acknowledged the Grange as his home, despite his youthful declaration of hatred? Or was it the deep calm of the woman at his side that stilled his restless spirit? Neither seemed a likely explanation.

  “And what is the purpose of your visit to the vicar?” he asked, hoping he did not hear a note of envy in his tone.

  “A meeting regarding the village fête.”

  Her low voice strummed at a chord deep in his belly. “I see,” he said, struggling to command himself into some sort of attention to her words and not her voice. “A worthy cause, I am sure.”

  The ivory cheek on his side bloomed roses. She lowered her head, the brim of her bonnet obstructing his view of her expression.

  A life force thrummed in his veins. The air smelled of green things and new life tinged with her lavender perfume and unique female scent. He’d forgotten the heady pleasure of making a woman blush and the excitement of the chase. It never occurred in the sort of commercial transactions to which he had become accustomed.

  “I like to think I can help,” she said. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Dawson is completely opposed to the idea.” She glanced up at him, barely disguised hope in her gaze.

  Her eyes were dark blue, not black, and edged in gray. He’d nev
er seen eyes of that hue before, though the haunting pain in their depths was as familiar as his own face. His stomach clenched at the memory of the pain he’d caused and of his cowardice in its face.

  Dammit. When would he learn that he couldn’t ride in on his charger and solve people’s problems? He’d be just as likely to make them worse.

  The child lifted her arms. “Up.”

  “Determined little thing, isn’t she?” he said, seeking distraction from his sour thoughts. “Come on then, missy.” He whisked the child out of Mrs. Graham’s loose hold and tossed her into the saddle.

  “Is the horse safe?” Fear tinged Mrs. Graham’s voice, her eyes huge as she reached for the child.

  Real fear. Justified fear. The kind of fear any woman would feel around him if they knew the truth. He tasted bile.

  “Grif is fine all the while I have his bridle.” He sounded gruff and defensive when he had intended to reassure. It seemed to work, though, because she let her hands drop to her sides.

  He gripped the back of the child’s coat. “How’s that?”

  She kicked her little feet with all the bravado of a Household Cavalryman. “Go.”

  A chuckle forced its way up from his chest. It felt good as it scraped his throat. “Great heavens, Albert has been teaching her tricks.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord.”

  He hated how uncomfortable she sounded. “Don’t apologize, Mrs. Graham. The child is a credit to you. Lots of bottom.”

  “He really is a fine animal.” She reached up and ran her hand down the stallion’s cheek.

  To Hugo’s surprise, Grif accepted her touch, much as Hugo would have accepted her fingers caressing his own face. God. He’d let her touch him anywhere she wanted. Her hands would be cool and gentle, light as a butterfly. And they would be firm and strong when—

  He glowered. Had he been without a woman so long he would project his lust onto a widow who deserved nothing but respect? He stamped down hard on the flicker of fire in his veins. It died to a slow burn.