A small chuckle escaped Alys Weston. Hastily arranging her face to sobriety, she was about to signal the workers to their places when one of the sheepdogs came galloping up with a stick and laid it at Reggie’s feet. The animal was a rough-coated female, mostly black with white paws and band around the ribs, plus a white face marked with a clownish black mask.
Reggie regarded the young dog in bemusement as she wagged her tail hopefully. “What kind of sheepdog wants to play fetch?”
Gabriel Mitford waved a disgusted hand at the animal. “A bad one. Been trying to train her. Only collie I ever had who wasn’t born knowing how to herd. Couldn’t even work ducks.” He looked glumly at the dog, who rolled over and waved her white paws playfully in the air. “Going to have to put her down.”
As if understanding that she was under sentence of death, the collie jumped to her feet and hopefully licked Reggie’s hand. He scratched the shaggy head and received a lolling-tongued grin of pleasure in return. “Any chance someone might want her for a pet? She’s a friendly beast.”
“Hill folk don’t want an animal that can’t work.” The shepherd waved the dog away. Floppy ears drooping, the collie headed back to the milling group of herd dogs.
Alys raised her arm and signaled the men to their positions so work could begin. Reggie pulled off his coat and boots and tossed them aside before joining Gabriel Mitford and a shepherd named Simms in the icy, thigh-deep water.
Aided by dogs, a lad drifted sheep out of the fold two or three at a time. Alys and an ancient, wizened shepherd did a quick check on heads, mouths, and ears, sending animals to a smaller fold if they needed medical attention.
Sheep that passed inspection were wrestled into the water by three muscular young fellows. It was a process the sheep much resented, and they protested long and loud as they kicked and fought their fate.
Once forced into the water, they floated easily. Reggie pulled the first one over to him. Despite their staggering stupidity, he’d always liked sheep, though it had been a grave disappointment when he first hugged one as a child and learned that the soft-looking fleece was dense and dirty.
There was a trick to flipping a sheep onto its back and scrubbing its belly without being kicked by a flailing hoof. Reggie watched Gabriel for a moment before he tried it himself. The outraged ewe managed to catch him in the ribs with a kick; he’d have a ferocious bruise there later. Still, he managed to clean her filthy underside without drowning either of them. Then he turned the animal upright and squeezed the thick wool in large handfuls, forcing out most of the dirt and grease.
When he was done, he pointed his indignant victim toward the other side of the stream and released her. The fleece got a good rinse as the ewe swam across the pool.
On the far bank she scrambled out of the water and was rewarded with a handful of hay. Then she was guided into another fold to dry in the late spring sunshine. By the end of the day, most of the lambs would be weaned by the simple fact that they could no longer identify their mothers’ scents.
A good washer could clean a hundred sheep an hour, and clearly Gabriel and Simms were first-rate. It took time for Reggie to pick up the technique, but soon he was working at a creditable speed.
Within minutes of starting, he was as wet as any of the sheep. He wondered with an inward chuckle if any of his London acquaintances would recognize him. No matter—he was enjoying himself. The work was satisfyingly physical, and the result—a clean sheep—was something that could be immediately appreciated.
The workers settled into a steady rhythm with little conversation. Every half hour or so, a pewter tankard of hot water liberally mixed with whiskey was passed to the washers to help them keep warm in the bone-chilling water. All three of them partook liberally.
The second time the whiskey came around, Reggie accepted it from Simms and took a deep pull, clasping the tankard with both hands so it could warm his numb fingers. Handing it on to Gabriel, he asked, “What do you think of Miss Weston as a steward?”
“Does well enough.” The burly shepherd tilted his head back, draining the last of the tankard, then tossed it up on the bank. “Likes sheep.”
Coming from Gabriel, that was high praise. But then, if the shepherds didn’t trust her judgment, they wouldn’t let her work with their flocks.
Reggie glanced up at the bank. Alys expertly checked over a well-grown lamb, expression intent, then urged it on and reached for another. Amazing that she could do such thoroughly masculine work, yet manage to look so fetchingly female. Those pantaloons really did the most remarkable job of outlining her shapely backside ...
With a grin Reggie grasped the next bleating ewe, grateful that he was standing in cold water.
It was a long, hard afternoon for all concerned, but Alys still found time to be impressed at how well her employer took to sheep washing. Even when an ornery ewe reared up, planted both hooves on his chest, and shoved him backward into the water, he had emerged smiling as the rest of the work crew roared with laughter.
His willingness to do a hard job on the same terms as his employees had won him instant respect and acceptance. Had Davenport planned that, or was he genuinely indulging a childhood ambition? Either way, the results were worthwhile.
Toward the end of the afternoon, Simms, who was smaller than the other two washers and could absorb less alcohol, subsided into the water with a peaceful smile. Davenport and Mitford fished the drunken shepherd out and laid him by the small fire, where he snored contentedly. One of the young sheep wrestlers joined them in the stream to finish the last of the flock.
Traditionally the washing ended with a meal for the workers, and Alys had arranged for a small mountain of hearty fare to be brought to the site. They shared ham, boiled new potatoes, and warm bread, washed down by generous quantities of ale. By the time they finished eating, all the men were very merry.
Even Alys drank enough ale to feel a warm glow of satisfaction at a job well done. She always enjoyed the communal activities of farming, like sheep washing and harvesting, and today there was a particularly friendly spirit in the air. Doubtless the new owner was responsible for that. By this time he had made the acquaintance of every worker, and they were relaxed in his presence.
She and Davenport were the only ones who had ridden to the site. As dusk fell, they headed for their horses so they could ride back to the manor together. Her employer must have been freezing in his wet clothes, but he showed no signs of discomfort. Probably that was because of the amazing quantity of alcohol he had put away. Alys was impressed at how well he carried his drink.
The long ride home began in companionable silence. Then Alys glanced back and saw the playful, incompetent sheepdog following behind, her waving black tail held high. “Don’t look now,” she said with a laugh, “but I think you’ve made a conquest.”
Davenport glanced back. “More likely Gabe sent the worthless beast after us to get rid of her.”
A canine smile on the clownish face, the dog loped up and fell into step by Davenport’s horse. Alys barely restrained herself from commenting that Davenport was irresistible to almost any female creature. Such a remark would have been most unsuitable. But true, alas, too true.
Hastily attempting to rein in her ale-lightened spirits before she embarrassed them both, she said, “I gather you and Mitford knew each other as boys?”
“We used to swim and wrestle and stalk through the hills. He was never much of a talker, but he knew the downs and the woods like the back of his hand. Chief shepherd is perfect for him. A good life for a man with a contemplative nature.”
They finished the ride in comfortable silence. As they dismounted and led their horses into the stables, the dog stayed as close to Davenport as possible. She seemed determined to prove how well behaved she could be.
The grooms had finished for the night, leaving the stables quiet except for the shuffle of hooves and an occasional equine whicker. The scents of hay and leather and healthy horses lay soft in the air. Alys
unsaddled her mount, noting again how her clothing affected the way her employer treated her. When she dressed like a lady, he treated her as one. Now that she was in boots and breeches, he let her groom and bed down her own horse. She enjoyed his casual assumption that she was competent to do what any male took for granted.
After brushing down her horse, Alys emerged from the box stall and almost fell over the collie, which made a sudden dash in front of her to rear up and plant its paws on Davenport. The dog’s sudden weight jarred him backward, almost tipping him into a pile of loose hay that would be transferred to racks the next day. “Down!” he ordered.
The dog obeyed instantly, settling on her haunches and wagging her tail across the well-swept plank floor. Davenport said ruefully, “Why do I get the feeling that this beast wants to move in with me?”
Alys chuckled. “Because she undoubtedly does. Are you hard-hearted enough to turn your back on those brown eyes?” She bent to scratch behind the collie’s ears. As the dog wiggled happily under her hand, she briefly considered taking it home, but discarded the notion. Attila would not like sharing the house with a dog.
Straightening, Alys realized how close she was to Davenport, only a yard away. She was struck once more by how tall he was, and how intensely masculine.
She was also close enough to see that he was much drunker than she had thought. There was a kind of haziness about him, a rakish, unsteady air that he had not shown before. He must be drunk indeed to look at her like that, with such warmth in his eyes.
She yearned to close the distance between them, to discover if that was really desire she saw on his face. Instead she started to step back, determined to put distance between them.
Then the collie, which had been sniffing curiously at the hay, struck an unexpected quarry. An enraged Attila exploded from the mound like a furry lightning bolt, claws slashing.
The dog leaped into the air with a terrified yelp, then made a mad dash for escape as the cat followed, yowling like seven demons from hell. Alys stood between the collie and the door, and the dog’s solid body cannoned into her, knocking her into Davenport.
He could have steadied her easily enough if he’d been sober, but his balance was not at its best. As the hissing cat chased the dog into the night, Alys and Reggie went crashing into the hay. She landed hard on top of him, the wind knocked out of her.
She stared down, horrified by the realization that she was sprawled full-length along his lean, muscular frame. Their bodies were pressed together with shocking intimacy, and the harsh planes of his face were mere inches away.
After the first instant of surprise, his expressive lips curved into a mesmerizing smile. He was the most irresistible sight she’d ever seen in her life. She struggled to catch her breath, knowing that she must scramble up and apologize, but she was momentarily paralyzed by proximity.
Before she could lift herself away, Davenport said huskily, “What a splendid idea.” Then he slid one hand behind her head and pulled her face down for a kiss.
All thought of escape or apology fled. Alys had been kissed by Randolph when they were betrothed, but her fiancé had acted with gentlemanly restraint, not wishing to offend her delicate sensibilities. Too shy to tell him that passion would not offend her, she had been left with the frustrated feeling that there was a great deal more to kissing than she was being taught.
Now Reggie was filling in the gaps in her education. She might be an aging spinster, but he allowed no quarter for her inexperience. His kiss was deep, intense, and utterly enthralling. She shivered as he explored her mouth with slow, rich sensuality. Knowing hands slid under her coat to caress her back and hips as his damp clothing warmed with the heat between them.
Though she might lack skill, Alys did her best to compensate with enthusiasm, kissing him back with all the abandon she had never dared show Randolph. Desire surged through her, searing like liquid flame.
There was a moment of shock when he wrapped strong arms around her waist and rolled over, reversing their positions. Then his long powerful frame pinned her into the yielding depths of the hay. The sweet green scents of crushed vegetation surrounded them, drenching her heightened senses with sensation.
She gasped when he pressed his warm mouth to her ear, then trailed kisses down her throat. Her hands moved frantically over his back, hungry for the tense masculine feel of his body.
He cupped her breast with one large hand, teasing the nipple to taut response with this thumb. “You’ve a rare talent for this, Allie,” he whispered.
In a remote part of her mind, Alys knew that she was about to abandon a dozen years of blameless respectability, and she didn’t care. Nothing mattered but this, the passion that promised to fulfill the dreams of her restless nights. She licked his throat, tasting the salt of his warm skin against her tongue.
He was fumbling with the buttons of her shirt when the sound of a throat being cleared struck like a blast of icy water. Alys froze, torn between pure horror at being caught writhing in the hay like a dairymaid, and raging fury that they had been interrupted.
Reggie went rigid. Then he gave a sigh of regret and rolled away, leaving her cold and bereft. The warm hand he offered to help her to her feet was poor compensation for what she had lost.
As she stood, wavering from the force of what she had just experienced, Alys saw that the intruder was a wiry fellow dressed in London style. Though his expression was carefully blank, she sensed the disapproval radiating from him. Her face burned with shame that a stranger had seen her wanton behavior.
Totally unabashed, Reggie steadied her with a light grip on her elbow. “Lady Alys, this is Mac Cooper, who came down from town yesterday. Mac, this is Miss Weston, more familiarly known as Lady Alys.” After a quick, perceptive glance at her face, he added, “Don’t worry, Mac never sees anything he shouldn’t.”
He released her arm and swiftly brushed the hay from her back and legs, his hands impersonal where they had been so intimate. Alys supposed that his words were meant as reassurance that everyone at Strickland would not know that she was a slut by breakfast the next day. But she would know, and so would Davenport and his servant. That was two people too many.
Barely managing a nod at Cooper, she turned and fled the stable, into the safety of the night. She was halfway back to Rose Hall before her pace slowed. Not yet ready to face her household, she halted under a tree. She had the irrational feeling that the marks of Reggie’s hands and lips were blazoned across her in streaks of scarlet.
The night air cool on her flushed skin, she folded down under a tree and wrapped her arms around herself, shuddering with humiliation. Yes, Davenport had briefly desired her, but drunks were notoriously undiscriminating. Any female would have suited him equally well. He and his servant were probably laughing over how susceptible she had been, amused that she was desperate for any man’s attention.
Of course, Reginald Davenport was not just any man. The blasted fellow was so diabolically attractive that all he had to do was stand and wait for females to hurl themselves into his arms. She made a choked sound and buried her face in her hands.
For a handful of astounding moments, she had forgotten propriety, reputation, and obligations. Now, alone in the night, Alys wondered with despair how she was going to face Davenport in the morning.
As Reggie brushed sprigs of hay from his coat, Mac said, “Miss Weston is an unusual female, to be sure,” his voice frosted with disapproval.
A smile still lingering on his lips, Reggie said, “She most certainly is.”
“I see you’re proud of yourself,” Mac said sharply.
“Not exactly that, but certainly in charity with the world,” Reggie said lazily. “What are you so Friday-faced about?”
Mac scowled. “Miss Weston is highly regarded here. ’Twould be a pity to see her ruined because you have nothing better to do.”
Reggie’s face stiffened. “I doubt that she would consider it ruination. If you were spying for any length of time, you�
�ll have noticed that she was entirely willing.”
His valet spat on the floor. “Did you see her face when she left? She may have succumbed to a moment’s temptation, but now she hates herself. She must be thanking her lucky stars that you were interrupted.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” Reggie snapped. “If I have ever met a woman eager for ruination, it’s Alys Weston.”
“Why don’t you just discharge her and get it over with quickly?” Mac asked caustically. “She’d still be out of work, but at least she’d have her reputation.”
“She does her job superlatively well, and I have no intention of discharging her,” Reggie growled, his temper dangerously near the explosion point.
“How long do you think she would be able to do her work if the locals found out she was your mistress?” Max frowned. “She’d be forced out in a fortnight. Besides, since when have you taken to seducing respectable virgins? You’ve always said that they were nothing but trouble.”
His temper well and truly lost, Reggie roared, “Bloody hell, Mac, who are you to tell me what to do?” He turned to storm out of the stable.
Mac’s quiet voice followed him. “Your conscience.”
Reggie swung to face him, eyes glinting with fury. “You should know that I haven’t got a conscience.”
“You will in the morning when you’re sober.”
Reggie swore viciously and spun away into the night, but Mac’s words pursued him. Knowing that he would be dangerous to anyone whose path he crossed, he turned away from the house and into the park, needing to work his anger off. Bloody-minded little cockney prig. How dare he lecture his employer, who had taken him from the gutter? Reggie was a trifle foxed, but hardly roaring drunk. And if there was any seduction going on with Lady Alys, it had been entirely mutual.
Entirely mutual, and entirely pleasurable ...
Reggie had suspected that his steward might have an ardent nature under her controlled exterior, but he hadn’t realized how dangerously close to the surface it lay. Though her response might have lacked polish, he would lay odds that her capacity for passion equaled that of any woman he had ever known.
The Rake Page 12
