The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

  The vicar clapped his hands. “Ladies, please, back to the task at hand. If we are to have all these games, someone has to organize them.”

  “I can look after the pony rides,” Miss Dawson said with a bright smile at Lord Wanstead. “Fairy is a bit long in the tooth, but she is fine for small children.”

  “You still have that fat old thing?” Lord Wanstead asked.

  “She is not fat,” Miss Dawson said, then laughed. “You always were rude about poor old Fairy.”

  “You always gave her too many treats.”

  While they bantered back and forth with the ease of long-standing friends, Lucinda wanted to slink away unnoticed and leave them to it. Instead, she straightened her spine and fixed a calm expression on her face. Miss Dawson would make a beautiful countess. Elegant, charming, and ravishingly beautiful. And he would be a kind and respectful husband. A perfectly happy ending.

  Then why did she feel as if a canyon had opened in her chest?

  “I will look after the archery,” Mrs. Trip said. “Trip will help.”

  “I’ll be too busy making sure Peddle doesn’t give the beer away to be of much help on the day,” the innkeeper’s wife said.

  The conversation flowed around Lucinda like a river passing a boulder. She tried to maintain an expression of interest.

  “I’ll put up a notice about the baking contest,” the reverend said. “I will send it to all the nearby parishes.”

  “And preserves,” added Mrs. Dawson.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Preserves.” The vicar scratched busily on his paper.

  “I’ll arrange for the pig and the grease,” Hugo said. “Trent can help organize the men for the event.”

  There. Now he was joining in, just as she guessed he might if something caught his interest.

  “And I will ask a couple of ladies I know to help with the stalls,” Miss Crotchet said.

  “Excellent,” the vicar said. “It looks as if we will need one or two more meetings and everything can be finalized.”

  “Well, miss,” Mrs. Dawson said, turning to her daughter. “If the house is to be ready for our guests, we must go and prepare.”

  “Guests?” Lord Wanstead inquired with a raised brow.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Dawson said. “Arthur is bringing friends from town for the ball. The fête seemed like a perfect addition to the entertainment.”

  People coming from London? Lucinda’s pulse picked up speed. Stupidly, she had expected only members of the local society to attend the squire’s ball.

  “Ah, yes,” Lord Wanstead said. “I recall you mentioned something of the sort.” He looked as horrified as Lucinda felt.

  “I have your promise to attend, Wanstead.” Mrs. Dawson patted her daughter’s knee. “Very popular with the gentlemen, my Catherine. You will have to claim your dance early if you do not wish to be left out in the cold.”

  Miss Dawson cast Lord Wanstead a pained smile. He grimaced in sympathy. The canyon in Lucinda’s chest seemed to deepen.

  “If you wanted to make yourself useful, Wanstead,” Mrs. Dawson was saying, “you could invite some of the gentlemen to stay with you. Otherwise they will have to stay at the inn.”

  Lord Wanstead stiffened, no doubt thinking about the dreadful state of his housekeeping arrangements.

  “Nothing wrong with the inn,” Mrs. Peddle snapped. “My accommodations are perfectly fit for the gentry. Not that I want a bunch of rackety young gentlemen staying, I’m sure.”

  “They don’t have to stay in the village,” Miss Dawson said gently. “Maidstone is only a half hour away by carriage.”

  “The Grange is less than ten minutes away,” Mrs. Dawson said. “It would be most obliging of you, Wanstead.”

  Lord Wanstead’s complexion darkened, his gaze becoming unreadable. “I have absolutely no interest in obliging anyone,” he drawled, changing from fellow well-met to arrogant nobleman in the blink of an eye. Lucinda couldn’t help but admire his strength faced with such a daunting adversary.

  Mrs. Dawson glowered. “As your father learned to his cost.”

  A shocked silence fell on the group.

  “Don’t bother to deny it, Wanstead,” Mrs. Dawson charged on. “Your duty was here. You put your father through a dreadful time going off like that.” She shot a sharp glance at her daughter. “Not to mention the rest of us.”

  Lucinda’s jaw dropped. Hugo had jilted Miss Dawson and married another?

  Miss Dawson’s face turned red and then white. She shot Lord Wanstead an apologetic glance and rose to her feet. “Mother, it really is time we left.”

  Was it guilt Lucinda saw in Lord Wanstead eyes, or anger? She tried to focus her gaze anywhere but on him.

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Dawson agreed with a sniff and a rustle of skirts as she stood.

  The Reverend Postlethwaite rose with her, as did Lord Wanstead. Both men looked ready for murder.

  “Don’t bother to see us out, Vicar,” Mrs. Dawson pronounced, twirling her parasol. “Call in at the Hall tomorrow. I want to discuss your idea for a church organ.”

  Lord Wanstead and the reverend remained on their feet as the two ladies trotted across the lawn. Suppressed fury glittered in Lord Wanstead’s eyes as he glanced at the circle of faces gone suddenly blank. When his gaze reached Lucinda, it speared her with a silent accusation. She refused to look away. If he had somehow wronged Miss Dawson, it was up to him to set things right. Perhaps this ball of Mrs. Dawson’s would be the perfect opportunity.

  “Well, really,” Miss Crotchet finally whispered.

  “I think I must be going, too,” Lucinda said. She managed a smile. “I promised to return home long before now. Good day, everyone.”

  She fled for the safety of her cottage, her mind a fragmented whirl.

  • • •

  “Oh, no.” Lucinda moaned as smoke poured from the stove. Coughing, throat and eyes stinging, she snatched up a cloth, grabbed the tray of biscuits, and pulled it clear. The hot baking tray hit the metal rack she’d placed ready on the table with a clang. She flapped her towel to clear the air.

  Sophia tugged at her skirts. The sky-blue bow, a match to her dress, flopped amid her soft yellow curls. “Biscuit?”

  “Wait a minute, sweet,” Lucinda said, lifting the shortbread onto a plate before it got any worse.

  “Mummy burn?” Sophia said.

  Head on one side, Lucinda regarded the charcoal edges with a flicker of amusement. Annie had given her detailed instructions before she left for her day off, but it was years since Lucinda had spent any time in the kitchen. The Armitage cook had let her and her siblings play with the dough, but Lucinda couldn’t recall making anything edible. “Actually, they are not too bad if I cut off the singed edges.”

  The little girl held out her hand and wiggled her fingers. “Biscuit?”

  Lucinda caught the hot little hand in hers and dropped a kiss in the palm. “You cannot be hungry; we had lunch only an hour ago.” The longing glance Sophia cast at the biscuits cut Lucinda’s heart to ribbons. Perhaps the child remembered her hungry days in London “Soon. I promise. We have to let them cool or you will burn your tongue. By the time I have made the tea, they will be ready.”

  Sophia tilted her head on one side, her chin starting to quiver.

  “No crying, sweet. I promise they won’t be long. Now, be a good girl and play with Marmalade for a while. I don’t want either of you under my feet while I boil the water.”

  Sophia trotted around the kitchen table and hunkered beside the kitten stretched out on the hearth rug.

  While she waited for the kettle to boil, Lucinda scraped the charcoal off the biscuits. “I was right not to go to the vicarage today,” she said, placing a ragged-looking finger of biscuit on a clean plate. She picked up another burnt offering. “Miss Catherine Dawson will be perfect for his lordship.” A hot lump seemed to fill her throat. She swallowed it and forced a shaky laugh. “She is having guests come down from London for the fête, you know. If he
doesn’t choose her, there is sure to be someone suitable at the ball.”

  Sophia looked up from tickling the kitten’s tummy. “Mummy cry?”

  Lucinda wiped the stinging drop of moisture from the corner of her eye. “It is the smoke.” She crossed to the window and opened it wider, gulping down a lungful of fresh air along with a measure of calm before returning to the table.

  She shouldn’t be thinking about Lord Wanstead. Her decision to resign from the fête committee was the right one. She had quite enough to do taking care of Sophia without involving herself in the vicar’s projects. He had agreed with her decision. Too readily, Lucinda thought with a glower at the steam emerging from the kettle. She filled the pot and set it on the tray.

  Sophia looked up from the cat. “Walk?”

  “Maybe later.” Lucinda set out the plates and cups. “If it stops raining.” She carried the tray into the parlor and set it on the piecrust table in front of the hearth.

  Trotting behind her, Sophia climbed up on the sofa and leaned over the back, staring out at the rain. “Man coming.”

  “What man?” Lucinda’s stomach dipped. Not the Bow Street Runner? She rushed to see for herself.

  “Horsy,” Sophia said, pointing.

  At the sight of the burly figure tying his horse to her gate in the pouring rain, a thrill shot through her. Lord Wanstead.

  She watched him stride up the path between the borders of purple heart’s ease. Why was he here? He should be at the vicarage, meeting with Miss Catherine Dawson.

  “Oh, Lord.” What if he wanted to come in? A mixture of panic and hope left her unable to move. The house reeked of burnt biscuits, and she hadn’t a decent piece of cake to offer until Annie returned from the market in the morning. Perhaps she shouldn’t answer the door? If only her heart wasn’t beating so hard, she might be able to think.

  And that was another thing. If she was as cold as Denbigh had said, why did she glow like a furnace every time his lordship entered her line of sight? Dash it. What should she do?

  Sophia stared at her. “Man coming.”

  “It is Lord Wanstead. Come away from the window, Sophia dear. It is rude to stare at people.”

  She removed her apron and ran back to the kitchen to hang it up. Standing in the passage, she smoothed her hair and adjusted her cap while she waited breathlessly for his knock.

  Sophia’s hand crept into hers, and the child looked up in puzzlement.

  “Be a good girl, Sophia. He’s a very important man.” Their landlord. That must be the reason for the disconcerting tremble behind her breastbone.

  The loud rap made her jump.

  She took a deep breath, wiped her damp palms on her skirts, and opened the door. “Lord Wanstead. How can I be of service?” Her voice sounded breathy and hoarse from the smoke.

  He looked taken aback, no doubt expecting a servant to answer the door. Then eyes the color of a storm-tossed ocean and equally as angry pinned on her face. “I want to know why you weren’t at the meeting this morning?”

  “I didn’t have anyone to care for Sophia,” she said as calmly as she could around the thudding of her heart.

  “Postlethwaite said you resigned.”

  She tried for a light bantering tone. “My presence isn’t that important, my lord.”

  His frown deepened. “Not important?” His voice growled as if he had swallowed grit, or a bear. “After you pressed me into attending these wretched meetings with your talk of serving the community, your lectures on civic duty?”

  She blinked. “Nothing is left undone. Miss Dawson is to take my place organizing the children’s games. She has more resources at her disposal. A pony, money for prizes . . . eggs.”

  One shoulder against the doorjamb, his head lowered to avoid the lintel, he looked like a puzzled bull ready to charge. “There are eggs at the Grange.”

  She glared back. “They are your eggs.”

  “And that is a problem?”

  His anger buffeted her like a gale. She held her ground in the face of its fury. “There is no problem. You donated your land. Miss Dawson is in charge of the children’s games. Everything is arranged.”

  “You were the only reason I agreed to the use of my land.”

  A strange melting weakened her limbs. She stiffened against it. “I am sure you will be just as generous with Miss Dawson.” Oh, God, was that bitterness she heard in her voice? Briefly, she squeezed her eyes closed in mortification.

  He frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Tears, stupid hot and wet, emerged from nowhere to choke her throat. “I mean for the sake of the villagers.”

  Sophia popped up in front of her. “Mama cry?” Her lower lip trembled.

  “By thunder, madam,” Lord Wanstead said. “I simply came to ask you why you were not at the meeting. Can we not discuss this like civilized people?”

  Civilized didn’t seem to fit Lord Wanstead right at this moment. But she had been rude keeping him standing on the doorstep. She managed a stiff smile. “It is my housekeeper’s day off, but Sophia and I were just about to take tea if you would care to join us?”

  He visibly relaxed. “Tea would be most welcome.” He peered over her shoulder. “Someone is baking?”

  “Not very successfully, I’m afraid.”

  Sophia hopped on her toes. “Biscuits, Mama?”

  “Please, my lord, step in out of the rain.”

  As he ducked beneath the lintel, water sluiced from the brim of his hat onto the floor. “Damn,” he said under his breath.

  She pretended not to hear and glanced past him out the door. “I don’t have a stable for your horse, I’m afraid.”

  “I can assure you Grif and I have suffered worse conditions.”

  A pang of sympathy invaded her heart. “I can well imagine.” She gestured him into the parlor and closed the front door behind him. “Please, won’t you sit down?”

  He chose the more solid-looking sofa. Even seated, he seemed to fill the room, not so much because of his size but because of his virility. He belonged outdoors, not in the confines of a lady’s drawing room. And if it weren’t for the shadows in his eyes, she might well have believed his mask of invincibility.

  Chapter Nine

  Oblivious to everything except the coming treat, Sophia hopped up beside him and smoothed her skirts over her legs. The sight of the enormous Lord Wanstead seated next to the delicate, fragile child who showed not a whisper of fear brought a smile to Lucinda’s lips.

  “Tea and biscuits,” Sophia said and nodded for emphasis.

  “Excellent,” he said.

  Lucinda winced. “The biscuits are a little charred.”

  “Oh, that’s a relief,” he said. “I thought the chimney was smoking and I’d have to poke around up there.” Crinkles fanned from the corners of eyes dancing with mischief.

  “I wouldn’t ask you to do so before you had your tea.”

  “Very kind of you, I’m sure.” A faint smile curved his lips.

  The tension in Lucinda’s shoulders eased. The worst of the storm seemed to be over. Not that she’d been fearful, she realized with surprise. For all his size and strength, she didn’t think he’d hurt her. Not physically or with cruel barbs. His anger flashed like a summer storm, all noise and bluster, but with little damage.

  “I’ll fetch another cup,” she said and hurried down the passage.

  On her return, she was surprised to find Wanstead and Sophia staring straight ahead like soldiers on parade. She sat down beside the tray. “Milk, my lord?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Milk please,” Sophia said and folded her arms across her chest.

  Lord Wanstead folded his arms.

  Sophia crossed her ankles. Lord Wanstead crossed his.

  He must find the small sofa terribly uncomfortable for his large frame.

  Lucinda added a small amount of milk to two cups, half filled the third, and then poured the tea. The rising steam filled her nostrils with fr
agrance.

  Spoon paused above the sugar bowl, Lucinda watched in fascination as Sophia’s actions became more and more outlandish, and her smile grew and grew, while his lordship seemed completely oblivious to the huge blue eyes fixed on his face.

  Sophia wrinkled her nose. He wrinkled his right back. Sophia frowned. He frowned. She uncrossed her ankles; he uncrossed his. Sophia let out a trill of laughter, something Lucinda had never heard from the child in the presence of strangers. Twisting in his seat, Lord Wanstead tickled her ribs until she collapsed in a heap of giggles on his knee.

  Why had Lucinda ever thought him a bear? He was more like a naughty boy.

  “Enough, you two,” she said, not bothering to hide her smile. “Sit up straight, Sophia, or you will spill your tea.”

  Lord Wanstead wagged a finger. “Be a good girl.”

  “You be good,” Sophia retorted.

  Lucinda held her breath, waiting for a gruff reply, but Lord Wanstead stiffened his body, put his hand on his knees, and assumed an angelic expression. “I am being good.”

  Sophia copied him.

  The child liked him. A great deal. A sweet pang invaded Lucinda’s breast. She liked him, too. Far too much. She carried two cups to the sofa and handed Sophia her tea.

  “Hot?” the little girl asked.

  “No, it has lots of milk. It won’t burn you.”

  She handed a cup to Lord Wanstead and then offered the plate of biscuits. Sophia eyed the golden fingers with their sadly ragged edges, her hand hovering over the plate.

  “They are all the same size, sweet,” Lucinda said. “Come, choose the one closest or his lordship will think you have no manners.”

  Sophia peeped at him from under her lashes and then grabbed one from the bottom of the pile.

  Lord Wanstead caught another as it fell. “Thank you, young lady,” he said. “Very kind of you, I’m sure.”

  Sophia giggled and then took a huge bite of hers, crumbs scattering far and wide. Lord Wanstead took no notice. He popped the whole of his biscuit into his mouth. Sophia’s eyes widened in fascination.