He winked and slapped the pony on the rump. “Go on. Have a bit of fun, Mrs. Graham. I’ll look after this little baggage.”
“I’m not a baggage,” Sophia said. She kicked her little heels. “Go, Fairy.”
Lucinda bit her lip. She would like to see the contest of strength. But surely Hugo hadn’t really entered because of her teasing. Not with his bad leg.
“I’ll just take a quick look,” she said to Albert’s retreating back. “To make sure he is all right.”
She left the mugs with Mrs. Peddle and hurried to join the back of the crowd gathered on the stream’s bank.
She worked her way forward until she had a view between two strapping farmhands. Her breath caught in her throat. On the far bank, with jacket discarded, throat bare, and shirtsleeves rolled up, Hugo was a mouthwatering sight. His broad brow glistened with a sheen of sweat as he straightened the thick piece of rope alongside the other men. The sight of rippling muscles beneath fine linen dried her mouth, and she didn’t dare think about the speed of her heart.
He should not be doing this. It was utter foolishness when his injury wasn’t healed.
One of the men moved aside. “Here you go, ma’am. Stand here.” He pointed to a spot in front of him. “I can see over your shoulder.”
She hadn’t planned to get so close, but if something happened to Hugo, it might help if she was near. She glanced at the watching faces, all laughing and cheering the men, with no one observing her. Hugo spat in his palms and picked up the rope. The other men in his team did the same. Ribald and good-natured insults flew back and forth across the stream from one team to the other.
Trent joined the Grange team. He spoke to Hugo in low tones, as if remonstrating with him. Of course, Trent would know about Hugo’s leg. She willed Hugo to listen to reason, but Hugo shrugged him off.
Her worries eased when Trent slipped in behind his master, forcing the man behind to back up a few steps. Trent would make sure Hugo came to no harm. She hoped.
She unclenched her aching fists. Hugo knew the risks; she should not worry so much.
“Are you ready?” shouted the squire, mopping at his brow with a spotted blue handkerchief.
The men nodded and leaned back on the cable. The two men at the back of each team wrapped the free end of the rope around their waists and dug a hole with their heels in the soft earth.
The rope, which up until that moment had been hanging in the water, pulled taut. A white handkerchief tied at its center dripped and then fluttered in the breeze. If the handkerchief went too far one way or the other, one team would end up in the water.
“Heave,” the squire yelled.
Each man dug in his heels and hauled back. The strain made Hugo’s thighs bulge beneath the skintight fabric of his buckskins. Lucinda could only imagine his pain. Stupid, prideful man. Hand pressed to her mouth, she edged closer.
“Heave,” Hugo roared at his team. They all pulled together.
The other team gave an inch.
“Heave,” the other leader cried. Great heavens, it was Arthur Dawson. Who would have expected such a languid dandy to join in the fray? Mind you, he looked quite different stripped of his finery. Not a giant of a man like Hugo, but trim and well-muscled and grimly determined.
The yells of the crowd drowned out the cries of the men. The handkerchief wavered back and forth across the water, first one team taking control, then the other. The ground beneath their feet turned into a muddy swamp until they were slipping and sliding.
Faces red with effort, neck sinews corded, they pulled with all their might. The agony in Hugo’s expression tore at Lucinda’s heart. Couldn’t they see his pain? She couldn’t bear to watch any longer. She had to stop it. She started forward.
Then something happened. Somehow Hugo heaved, Trent gathered up the slack, and the Grange team jerked backward. On the Hall’s team, the anchorman, the blacksmith, lost his footing and started to slide.
Hugo’s team hit dry ground and gripped. They fought their way back. One inch. Then another. Muscles in backs, arms, and legs strained with pure animal strength. Sweat poured from their agonized faces, their bodies parallel with the ground. Lucinda held her breath, certain that Hugo’s leg would give out at any moment.
Then it was over. Dawson’s team fell like skittles. A rout. They tumbled down the shallow bank into the water. Hugo’s team landed flat on their backs.
Arthur Dawson lay in the water laughing so hard he took in a mouthful of water and came spluttering to his feet. Covered in mud, Hugo’s team picked themselves up and jumped into the stream, splashing and whooping their victory. The men shook hands, slapping each other’s backs and ducking one another.
Men. No better than overgrown children.
Laughing, his arm around Trent’s shoulders, Hugo looked up and saw her. He grinned. He looked happy and alive, like a man who’d come home. Her heart expanded with joy. She smiled at him and shook her head.
He turned to shake Arthur Dawson’s hand, but Dawson was staring at her, not at Hugo, a look of comprehension in his narrowed eyes.
Her heart stilled. What did he see? A pair of ill-suited lovers or a runaway countess? Her stomach churned. She wanted to run, but a fascinated horror kept her gaze riveted on the two men.
Dawson muttered something and jabbed an elbow in Hugo’s ribs with a sly glance at Lucinda.
She had seen and heard enough of her brothers’ lewd comments to guess at the tenor of Dawson’s remark—it was not related to her name. Hugo’s flush confirmed her suspicion. She felt ashamed.
Her heart slowing to normal, Lucinda eased out of the crowd. Idiot. What did she think she was doing staring at him like some lovelorn maiden? How low would she sink before she came to her senses? She had let herself be swept away by unattainable dreams. Wasn’t it better to end their affair before she sank beyond redemption?
Suddenly, the sun did not feel quite so warm or the blue of the sky quite so bright. If she hadn’t known the truth from the limp flags, she might have thought a chill wind had got up. She turned and wriggled through the crowd in search of Sophia. As she had promised, she would give Hugo her answer on Wednesday. The expression on Arthur Dawson’s face had been the sign she needed.
At the paddock, Annie stood beside Albert with a flushed Sophia in her arms. “Poor little lass, she is tired and hot. I think we’ve all had enough fun for one day.”
“I think you are right. I have never seen her look so exhausted.”
“Why don’t you stay for the supper and the dance as you planned? You know Miss Crotchet is relying on your help. I’ll take this little one home with me.” Annie rubbed her belly and laughed. “To be honest, I’m mortal tired. More so with this one than any of the others.”
“Oh, Annie, I should never have left you to care for Sophia all day. She can be such a handful.”
Annie ruffled Sophia’s hair. “Now then. She’s no trouble and besides, she’s spent most of the time with old Albert here. Plumb wore her out, he has.”
Albert paused in helping a cherubic little boy with a helmet of black curls up onto the pony. He gave Lucinda a wink. “No trouble, that little one,” he said and shambled off.
Sophia looked far from a handful at the moment. Her eyelids were heavy, and the day’s excitement had left a scarlet flush on her cheeks. Yet Lucinda was sorely tempted to stay. Keeping busy would take her mind off the upcoming meeting with Hugo. And Annie was right; she had promised to help.
She glanced at the weary Annie, who looked almost as flushed as Sophia. “If you are sure?”
“I told you so,” Annie said. “I’ll just collect Janey and the boys from the Punch and Judy show and be on my way.”
Lucinda watched Annie lumber through the crowds with Sophia’s head on her shoulder. How lucky she and Sophia were to have such good friends. She’d almost lost the happy place she’d found for herself and her daughter by letting herself be talked into something she knew wasn’t right. And not for the first time.<
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She and Hugo would return to being acquaintances. Nothing more. All she had to do was break the news.
Chapter Fourteen
Hugo put the finishing touches to his cravat, and Trent held up his coat with a knowing grin. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this cheerful, Captain. Not since I’ve known you.”
“Not Captain anymore, Trent, remember? And what the hell do you mean?”
“You were whistling.”
“I was?” He hadn’t noticed.
Trent eased the tight-fitting black evening coat over Hugo’s shoulders with a grunt. “Yes.”
His mood was light. Carefree. Coming to such a momentous decision ought to give him pause, yet he felt only the excitement of anticipation. He’d found the perfect answer to the mistakes of the past. He stared at himself in the mirror. He looked different, younger. He smoothed his hair. He’d get a haircut in London.
“Looking forward to this ball, then, sir? It’s about time you did more than worry about the estate.”
Hugo groaned. He was so focused on the future that he’d almost forgotten why he was getting all dressed up. “It should be a pleasant enough evening.” He noticed his voice lacked the enthusiasm of moments before. Damn Trent and his poking and prying.
Trent picked up two ruined neckcloths from the floor and headed for the pile of wet towels and dirty linens by the tub. “It’s the widow-woman, isn’t it? Mrs. Graham?”
Tucking a small square of fine lawn into his tailcoat pocket, Hugo couldn’t resist a small smirk. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Trent bundled the dirty laundry in a towel, his usually lighthearted expression turning somber. “You want to be careful with that one. She’s probably got family somewhere waiting to pounce.”
The niggling doubts he’d harbored scurried from a dark corner of Hugo’s mind out into the light. He really knew very little about Lucinda’s family. He shoved it back into the shadows, unwilling to examine it too closely. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Something strange about her,” Trent said with a flick of the washcloth. “Albert closes up as tight as an oyster round a pearl if I so much as ask a simple question.”
Pretty much as Lucinda did. Hugo knew as much about her background now as he had after their first chess game. He didn’t need to know about her past. He knew her. It was enough.
At his lack of response, Trent shrugged and carried the bundle of laundry to the door. “Will you need me any more tonight?”
“No. Where are you off to?”
“I thought I’d call in at the village dance. The miller’s daughter is reputed to have a roving eye.”
The thought of Trent cavorting with a willing wench while Hugo did the pretty to the coy young ladies at the Hall dampened his spirits.
“Just watch your step, Trent. These are my people. My responsibility. Get a lass into trouble, and you’ll find yourself wed before the froth is off the ale.”
Trent paused in the doorway, a taunting grin lighting his fair face. “Afraid I’ll cut you out with Mrs. Graham?”
He shut the door before Hugo could lob the hairbrush at his head.
A faint buzzing sound filled Hugo’s ears. He wasn’t afraid that Trent would cut him out. He had proved his loyalty in blood, but there would be other men at the village dance. Brown and the local farmers. One of them might tempt Lucinda with an offer of marriage before Hugo had a chance to firm up his own proposition. Why the hell she had refused the invitation to the squire’s ball, preferring instead to remain at the fête, he didn’t understand. She seemed happier rubbing shoulders with the villagers than mixing with the Dawsons and their guests. Stubborn do-good woman.
A wry little smile crossed his lips. He wouldn’t have minded avoiding the Dawsons’ ball himself. He should have said no as he wished, instead of doing his noble duty.
• • •
Supper over and the remains of the meal cleared away by the village ladies under Miss Crotchet’s watchful eye, the men moved the trestles and benches to the perimeter of the tent.
As one of the few single ladies present, Miss Crotchet had latched on to Lucinda at supper. Now they chose a table in the shadows farthest from the ruffians at the bar. Lucinda forced herself to lean back and watch the fun. Mr. Peddle was doing a roaring trade at the other end of the tent, while couples in their Sunday best and some of the older generation took their ease at tables. Beside her, a farmer with a nasal voice jabbed a pipe at the air for emphasis as he expounded on the attributes of his bull to his neighbor.
The orchestra had arrived as supper was ending and now played a merry country dance. Lucinda’s foot tapped in time to the music. She’d forgotten how much she liked to dance, repressed it really, because the Duke of Vale despised dancing, and therefore so did Denbigh. And besides, the last time she had joined a set, her elegant husband had likened her to a heifer in a fit. She almost laughed. In this company, she’d look right at home.
Despite her smile, she could not help but recall how hurt she’d been at the time, how mortified and small inside she’d felt. A horrid sensation. Only now did she recognize how far she had retreated from public life after that day. A fortunate thing, apparently, or she might have met Miss Dawson, or one of her friends, in London. She had been right to flee, to take back her life, even if she had caused a scandal. And besides, a scandal only lasted until the next one came along. The only thing needed to make her happiness complete was to be able to see her family occasionally. A hopeless dream.
Miss Crotchet leaned close to make herself heard. “We were lucky with the weather today, Mrs. Graham.” The lined face beamed and nodded, the little feather in her hair looking surprisingly jaunty. “And the vicar was so gracious in his thanks to the committee at supper.”
Lucinda smiled. “Yes, he truly is a gentleman.” Her gaze wandered to the lanky vicar chatting with a group of parishioners.
“I’m going to miss all the planning,” Miss Crotchet said
In those wistful faded eyes, Lucinda glimpsed her future. Seemingly a widow, but not free to wed, she would also be required to view other couples’ enjoyment from a distance, like an outsider peering through a window. Once Sophia grew up and left home, Lucinda would be on her own. After growing up in such a large family, it seemed odd. Feeling kinship for the frail elderly lady, Lucinda reached over and gave her papery hand a squeeze. “I am sure the vicar will have lots more fund-raising ideas.”
Miss Crotchet cheered instantly. “It was fortunate you managed to convince his lordship to let us use his land.”
“He really didn’t take much convincing.” At least, not of the kind Miss Crotchet had in mind. A little burst of heat trickled up from Lucinda’s abdomen. To cover her discomfort, she drummed her fingers on the tabletop in time to the Roger de Coverley now in full swing.
“Good thing he’s more like his grandfather than his father, I’d say,” Miss Crotchet continued in a conspiratorial voice. “Mind you, the old earl had his troubles, poor man.”
Hugo had never spoken of his father. “Troubles?”
The elderly spinster lowered her voice and put her lips close to Lucinda’s ear. “Women troubles. The countess. A prettier lady you couldn’t hope for, but so delicate. According to her maid, he made her cry every time he went nigh her, the brute. She used to drive about the estate, bringing comfort to the poor and the sick, a regular saint.” She nodded sagely. “After her death, I heard the old earl was thinking of marrying again.”
Gossip. Lucinda put it down to fiction based on very little fact. It had been the same at home, the tenants always watching the inhabitants of the big house, putting their lives under a microscope and drawing their own, often wrong, conclusions.
“I am sure there are two sides to every story,” Lucinda said firmly.
Mr. Brown, looking serious and just a little diffident, approached their table. He offered an awkward bow. “Will you do me the honor of a dance, Mrs. Graham?”
; Miss Crotchet trilled a laugh. “Go on, Mrs. Graham. It’ll be Christmastide before we see another celebration.”
Wishing neither to hurt Mr. Brown’s feelings nor give him untoward encouragement, Lucinda hesitated. She had gone into half-mourning, but would the villagers be shocked if she danced?
His serious brown eyes pleaded his case.
The band struck up a cotillion. “Very well,” she said, rising to her feet and taking his warm, moist hand. She towered above the steward and made two of his slight frame, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looked rather pleased with himself. He led her to the bottom of the first set. The numbers being even, they waited for the first couples to complete their steps, and then it was their turn.
Brown proved to be an accomplished if ponderous dancer and a little too enthusiastic in the turns. Still, not once did he tread on her toes or go the wrong way, as happened with a couple of the men further up the set.
Breathless and laughing, she let him return her to her seat. “Thank you, sir, that was most enjoyable.”
He bowed. “Thank you, Mrs. Graham.” His neck flushed brick red.
“It is warm, isn’t it?” Miss Crotchet said with a sly little smile.
Brown swallowed. “Yes indeed. Thank you again, Mrs. Graham.” He turned and strode off, clearly laboring under some strong emotion. Oh, dear. Perhaps she should not have danced after all.
“My, oh, my,” Miss Crotchet said. “You are charming them out of the trees today. First his lordship, now Mr. Brown.”
A flush as hot as Mr. Brown’s flooded Lucinda’s face. Some of the delight seeped out of the moment. Did Hugo boast of the conquest of his widowed tenant? She didn’t want to believe it. She cast around for a distraction. “Look, there is Trent, his lordship’s valet, at the bar. I wonder if he enjoyed the day? He certainly worked hard enough.”
The handsome scoundrel had one booted foot on a bench and a flagon of ale in his hand. He leaned forward to whisper something in a pretty village girl’s ear. Trip’s daughter. A young lady with a less-than-spotless reputation.
The Lady Flees Her Lord Page 22
