Chapter 10
“I find it astonishing that a simple silver button was enough to purchase a new dress and a shawl,” Winnifred said from behind a screen of shrubbery that did nothing to ward off the chill in the springtime air.
For the sake of modesty, she spread out the woolen shawl high on the spindly hazel branches. The coarse fabric was the color of her father’s nightly glass of port that he always drank alone in his study while reading by firelight. And thinking of that—of how she’d never be at home again—a heavy sigh escaped.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Asher asked.
Was it her imagination or was there a hard edge to his voice, like a man prepared for battle?
It was almost comical how he refused to leave her side for an instant. Even earlier, when he’d gone to the kitchen entrance at the back of the tavern, he’d made her keep his handkerchief in her hand, while holding it through a hole in the cooper’s shed. And when he’d returned to her, he’d practically carried her off the property and before she could dress, spouting some sort of nonsense about not wanting to tempt the stable lads.
She might have laughed if the circumstances were different. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”
He murmured a sound of agreement. “We’ll have to stay off the main road for now. That should keep us from encountering anyone who might be searching for us. Once we’re a safe distance away, it shouldn’t be long before we encounter a passing farmer who might offer us a lift into the next vicarage.”
Without any money, she didn’t think there was a point in heading to a nearby village, but she held her tongue. She saved her breath to wiggle into this plain bib-front dress, a homespun green the color of unripened olives with short, gathered sleeves and an ill-fitting bodice.
Of course, it might not have fit at all if her busk hadn’t snapped in two, which forced her to remove it or else have her tender skin pinched. It felt rather liberating to toss the stiff wooden pieces to the ground. Due to the thick busk’s absence, her laces weren’t as tight and she could move a bit more freely.
Even so, she frowned as she secured the fastenings, where milk-white swells strained the ruffled bodice trim. She looked like she was smuggling mounds of rising bread dough across the countryside.
“Are you certain there wasn’t enough silver to purchase a man’s suit of clothes, or to take us all the way to Yorkshire, for that matter?”
“Yes, I’m certain,” he said dryly. “No one would believe you’re a man. I fear that wearing breeches or trousers would only enhance the fact that you are, most definitely, a woman.”
Peering above the shawl line and through the branches, she saw him scrub his hand over his face and shake his head. She imagined that, should he turn around, she would see disgust in his expression.
“Of course,” she said quietly. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“And besides, that isn’t a new dress. The purchase had far more to do with human nature than with silver. The garment was left behind in a portmanteau after the owner’s wife stole away in the middle of the night.”
Winnifred felt her brow pucker in confusion. “That doesn’t explain why the scullery maid would be so eager to part with it.”
“Because the owner’s wife left with the maid’s young lover—a man who was supposed to run away with her instead. From the brief tale she told, the man must have been seduced out of his wits by the owner’s wife.”
“Really,” Winnifred breathed. In rapt fascination, she smoothed her hands down her midriff. The simple design fit her waist quite well, without being tight or modified with added reinforcements. And the length went to the edge of her petticoat hem. “This dress has lived a far more thrilling life than I have done. Imagine the stories it could tell.”
“Best not,” he murmured as if to himself.
She ignored him, too caught up in the notion that someone who wasn’t shaped too differently from her had had a lover. Two, if she counted the cuckolded husband.
“I wonder if this is what it’s like to wear a disguise at one of those illicit masquerades. I’ve read about those in the society column, you know. Apparently, a great number of debutantes who’ve attended are either quickly married afterward or sent away by their families,” she said through the branches, plucking the shawl free. It was scratchy against the bare flesh of her shoulders, but it was warm and that was all that mattered. “Have you ever attended one?”
He cleared his throat. “My great-aunt Lolly once disguised herself as a boy to board a ship.”
“Lolly?” she asked with a grin, not missing the way he avoided answering.
A scoundrel such as he had probably been to a great number of masquerades. Perhaps she might convince him to tell her about them. For the purpose of the primer, of course. Well, that and her own curiosity, which was doubtless brought on by the illicit trysts woven into the fibers of this two-lover frock.
“Her actual name is Liliandra, but my mother always called her Aunt Lolly. And even though I haven’t had the chance to meet her, that is the moniker I use when I pen letters . . . to . . . her . . .”
His words trailed off as she stepped out from behind the makeshift screen. She had her arms raised to sink the remaining pins into the thick twisted coiffure she’d attempted without a mirror.
But when she saw the way his gaze roamed over her figure, she lowered them quickly and took hold of the pointed ends of her folded shawl.
“Frightful, I know,” she said in a rush before he could. The heat of embarrassment climbed to her cheeks. “Mother always has my dresses designed with panels to conceal my plump figure, and additional fabric added to my sleeves. According to the modiste, broader shoulders give the illusion that I have a small waist. Father doesn’t say much of anything, but Mr. Woodbine frequently offers not-so-subtle advice about how I should learn to decline cake when offered. In other words, I’ve heard plenty of opinions already.”
Asher’s gaze suddenly collided with hers. Beneath his dark scowl, his eyes were the color of smoldering cinders. “Mr. Woodbine is an idiot and, forgive me for saying this, but so is your mother. Winn, there isn’t a single thing wrong with your figure. And believe me, I wish to hell there were.”
He practically growled those last words as he turned away.
Her heart gave an excited leap at the gruff compliment. No man had ever paid her notice, or given her any indication that she was pleasing to look upon.
She was too plump. She’d been told as much for years, her wardrobe fussed over with panels and flounces so much that she nearly hated to attend balls and parties. Mr. Woodbine wouldn’t dance with her, even after their betrothal was announced, and there was no line of men ready to stand in his place. So she’d lingered near the potted palms and refreshment table with her friends.
In her experience, gentlemen did not pursue fat, freckled heiresses. Because of this, Winnifred’s inner voice reasoned that Asher Holt was simply trying to be kind, out of pity over the ordeal she’d suffered with those horrible women.
The buoyant feeling beneath her breast abruptly sank. After all, on her body, this two-lover frock was merely a faded green dress.
Walking beside her, Asher reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a sleeve of brown paper. He handed it to her.
Warily, she gripped the oddly shaped, somewhat cylindrical package that was heavier on one end than the other. She wasn’t sure she was up for another surprise. “And this is . . . ?”
His shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. “I managed to procure something else with your button as well.”
Carefully, she parted the paper and a spontaneous smile erupted. “Bread and cheese! Oh, what a marvel you are with a single silver button! I’m so happy that I could . . .”
She didn’t finish. Her words trailed off as she glanced over at him and saw his gaze dip to her lips. His own curled in a grin, and she remembered at once how laughably undesirable she was. A kiss from her would hardly be a reward.
Refusing to give him any fodder to chuckle over, she forced herself to finish, keeping her tone purposely light. “Why, I could marry you this instant and happily give you the fortune of my dowry. In fact, if it were in my control, I’d make you rich as a king.”
“And all for bread and cheese? For a flagon of wine, I could rule the world.”
“Perhaps not. But I’d throw rose petals at your feet for a hot cup of tea,” she said absently, her focus on the warm, crusty bread.
She tore off a hunk. A fresh, yeasty aroma rose from the pale, lacy interior. It must have been baked just this morning. She was salivating by the time she sank her teeth into the dense loaf, tasting the salty essence of butter that clearly had been brushed on the outside. A moan escaped her.
Chewing slowly, she closed her eyes. Lost in a moment of food bliss, she imagined herself as one of the hedonists in a Bacchus painting, draped in silks and lounging on cushions while a loincloth-clad servant dangled grapes over her mouth.
When she opened her eyes, she found Asher watching her intently.
Instantly, her cheeks flooded with color. Waiting for his look of disgust, the partially masticated bread turned into a stone in her mouth and went down her throat in a painful swallow.
“My apologies,” she said. “I seem to have no manners whatsoever. I normally don’t eat with such unabashed . . . um . . . enthusiasm, so to speak.”
Hastily, she shoved the package back to him, the paper crinkling against the hard wall of his chest.
Taking hold of it, he blinked in confusion. “Surely you’ll need more to sate your appetite.”
“It’s obvious that I’ve eaten enough bread in my life.”
His dark brow dropped to a flattened line. “Eat the damned bread.”
“Thank you, no,” she insisted, her ire simmering. “That one bite shall prove sufficient for the remainder of our journey.”
“Then you leave me no choice but to feed it to you.”
“I’ll bite your fingers if you try.”
And yet, he did try. He tore off another piece and lifted it to her mouth.
She wanted to snap at him. But—heaven help her—the aroma made her weak. Her salivating tongue and mewling stomach conspired against her. Even so, she hid her lips, stubbornly pressing them closed as she crossed her arms beneath her breasts.
“I know you want this. I can see the hunger darken your eyes.”
She squeezed her eyes closed, too, shutting him out.
Unfortunately, he took advantage of the opportunity and skated temptation over the sensitive seam of her lips. Her flesh tingled.
Then he leaned in, close enough that she felt the heat releasing from his body. A pleasing aromatic mélange of the bread, the rain, the earth, and . . . him . . . filled her lungs, eliciting a warm shiver that fluttered low in her stomach.
“If you don’t eat it,” he warned, his warm breath drifting across her cheek, “I’ll be forced to kiss you into submission.”
Her eyes popped open. “You wouldn’t da—”
He slid the bread into her mouth.
The flavor dissolved on her tongue before she could object. And a traitorous murmur of appreciation escaped her throat.
“That’s better,” he said smugly. “Now, some cheese.”
The offering was sharp and delicious, tingling at the corners of her jaw, the firm texture turning creamy as it melted in the heat of her mouth. She chewed and swallowed, studying his expression the whole time.
He fed her another bite, and then another, not looking at all as though he were disgusted by her. Instead, he looked . . . hungry, too. Then he dragged his thumb across her bottom lip, his eyes impossibly dark under the shadows of his lashes as he followed the motion.
“Only a scoundrel would make such an outrageous threat,” she said when she could catch her breath.
“No. Only a scoundrel would have made good on his promise.”
He grinned wickedly as he put the pad of his thumb to his own lips, tasting whatever might have been lingering there. A crumb of cheese? A scrap of bread? Her?
Her stomach clenched at the thought, feeling full and pleasurably weighted. The sensation was foreign to her, thrumming deep inside. And when he offered more, she declined with a shake of her head, a hand resting over her midriff. She liked the feeling too much to risk lessening its effect by overindulgence.
He ate the bite himself, then ripped off a large hunk of bread and cheese before wrapping the remainder in the paper and slipping it back into his coat.
“We’ll save this for later, when we stop again. Although”—he hesitated, casting a look over his shoulder—“we could walk back to London. It isn’t too late.”
“But it is too late. We’ve already spent too much time together without a chaperone. Society would imagine the worst, regardless.”
“Mmm,” he murmured with a contemplative nod. “They’d expect marriage.”
“I’d rather be labeled a fallen woman than to marry without love. No offense to you, of course,” she added quickly. “I’m certain that aside from the kidnapping and the rakish tendencies in your character, you’re a fine gentleman. But I already decided that I would never marry a man who needed my dowry. Even if he claimed to love me, I couldn’t be certain.”
He exhaled deeply, leaving her to wonder if it was from relief or resignation. Perhaps a bit of both.
“Sometimes you must do whatever it takes to have the life you want,” he said with a nod. “No matter the cost.”
She was glad he understood. Until today, she’d never have thought she was capable of doing this. In truth, she was a bit shocked with this new Winnifred emerging into the world.
She contemplated this as they walked northward for a time, along a serpentine path worn through a pasture. A hidden chorus of crickets and thrushes hushed for their approach, then continued their tune after they passed. His sure and steady footfalls were muffled by the soft-packed earth. Beside him, her skirts swished against the border of damp grasses where water droplets glittered like diamonds whenever the sun peered out from behind the swift tumble of clouds overhead.
And if it weren’t for the fact that she’d run away from her own wedding, severed ties with her parents, fled from blunderbuss-toting ruffians, lost any means of currency, and felt a rise of guilt over the fact that she was now being escorted to her aunt’s by the very man her friends had essentially imprisoned for research, she might have considered it one of the most splendid days of her life.
She smiled at the idiocy of such a thought. Under the circumstances, it would be wrong to enjoy herself as if she were merely walking in the park with Asher Holt.
With a sideways glance, Winnifred studied her companion’s profile, trying to discern his current mood. Looking off in the distance, he absently brushed back a hank of hair from his forehead. The wind ruffled the dark layers where it curled at the ends, then tapered down to rest against the top edge of his white collar and black cravat. A stubble of soot-colored whiskers accentuated the edge of his jaw and outlined the somewhat pensive appearance of his mouth. If she could hazard a guess, he appeared to be lost in thought.
Anyone would admit that he was handsome. Glorious, even. And yet, there was something more—an aloof, almost wounded quality to his manner that compelled her to look deeper. To uncover the mystery that was Asher Holt.
“What made you desperate enough to kidnap an heiress?” she asked. “Because I don’t believe that it was all about having your money returned to you.”
He gave her an alert glance as if assessing a potential threat.
Then he faced the path again. Bending down, he picked up a stone and threw it into the distance. The single, lithe motion parted his coat to reveal his trim torso and, far off, sent a flurry of brown speckled birds into flight.
“My father,” he answered, surprising her. “The money I had collected was funding a plan to be fr
ee of the burden of his debts for the first time in my life.”
She understood the desire for an unfettered life quite well. The need to remove the influence of money from every interaction. And yet, that was the true reason behind his willingness to escort her—because he would be paid at the end of the journey.
It was almost comical to think that she’d left the church this morning, only to end up in a similar situation. Everywhere she looked there was a man needing to gain a fortune through an association with her.
Winnifred expelled the deep disappointment that came from thinking overmuch about money, and turned their conversation to a less depressing topic. “Was your aunt running away, too? Was that her reason for being disguised as a boy on a ship?”
“Something far more scandalous. She wanted to have an adventure.” He lifted his brows at her in accusation. Then he walked a few steps ahead to clear a long stick from their path, testing its weight against the ground before continuing onward with it.
“My great-aunt was the youngest of eight,” he continued. “My grandmother, on the other hand, was the eldest, and there were sixteen years between them. So, when my grandmother married and bore a child, this left only three years separating my mother and Aunt Lolly. Consequently, the two of them grew up like sisters. Inseparable. Their temperaments, however, were vastly different. Where my mother was quiet and obedient, Lolly was wild. Left without the strict instruction of a firstborn, she was spoiled with freedom and pursued many of her unrestricted fancies.”
“That must have been lovely,” Winnifred said wistfully.
“Even so, when it came to taking a grand tour by sea, my great-grandparents refused.”
Winnifred knew all too well the unfairness of having hopes for traveling abroad dashed in a heartbeat. “But Lolly didn’t let that stop her.”
“Indeed.” He chuckled. “My mother would often laugh and say that Lolly was so accustomed to getting her way that she didn’t understand the definition of the word no.”
“Do you think your mother might have been a bit jealous of her?” Winnifred already felt envious and she’d never even met Lolly.
Lord Holt Takes a Bride Page 9
