by Jenna Jaxon
Her original hope had been that her guests would be so exhausted from their nighttime frolics that they would be content with a turn around her park and gardens. But Jane had assured her this was an error on her part. The ensuing discussion this morning had led to the hastily planned visit to Wrotham.
On her one trip into the village, Charlotte and Jane had visited a couple of shops looking for a cobbler to mend Charlotte’s riding boots, had peeked into St. George’s Church and been accosted by the rector, who welcomed them to the community, and had lunched in a private parlor at The Bull Inn and Posting House. Not a grand tour, but a start at least. Perhaps Mr. Micklefield, the pub owner, could suggest some other sights for their tour. Otherwise they would be returning to Lyttlefield in short order.
* * *
Nash downed his second pint, set his glass on the dark-stained plank table, and called for a third. “And another for you as well, Mr. Smith?”
The burly man in stained linens grinned and nodded quickly. “Aye, if you don’t mind, my lord. Smithing’s a hottish business come August, even with our weather these days.”
Nash nodded to Micklefield, who came at a run with more of the inn’s best ale. “I cannot imagine.” He shook his head and raised his glass. “You seem to take it in stride, however.”
Smith shrugged. “It’s in me blood, so to speak. You can’t deny what’s in yer blood.” Alfred Smith could trace his lineage all the way back to the tenth century in Wrotham, every generation producing at least one smith to carry on the family name and tradition.
It boggled Nash’s mind to think of so many hundreds of years of Smiths all in the same village. His family couldn’t be traced back half so far. And they certainly hadn’t remained in the same place nor taken the same occupation, though he had carried on in his father’s footsteps until the death of his uncle and cousin had thrown him into the business of estate management.
Nash grunted acknowledgment and sipped his ale. He’d come to like his role at Wrotham Hall more than he’d expected to. Although he’d never before planned for planting or harvesting or animal husbandry, he too had taken it all in his stride, read books and asked questions of the estate manager, and had gotten along fairly well last year. Surprisingly, he actually enjoyed the cyclical life, bound to the land. Perhaps this love of the land flowed in his blood, begun somewhere back along the line of St. Claires.
“So you’ve begun the preparations for the harvest home already, Mr. Smith? Last year’s celebration impressed me quite a lot. I’m looking forward to an even better one this year.” Nash leaned back in his chair, the memory of happy villagers clear in his mind. “Have you chosen your lord of the harvest yet?”
“Aye, we have. Michael Thorne’s the lord this year.” Smith’s smile split his face from ear to ear.
Nash winced inwardly. The lord of the harvest negotiated wages for the harvesters and Thorne had a reputation for being a sharp bargainer.
“You’ll be partin’ with a bit o’ brass this year, my lord, if I don’t miss my guess.”
“If Thorne lives up to his reputation, I’ve no doubt of it.” Nash chuckled ruefully.
The door to The Bull opened behind him, a loud chatter of many voices invading the otherwise quiet pub. Nash twisted around to see what the commotion was all about and froze as Lady John Tarkington, Lady Stephen, and Lady Cavendish, followed by the rest of the party from Lyttlefield, entered with the bright enthusiasm only ladies on a party excursion possessed.
Nash groaned. He’d not expected to meet the lady quite so soon after their tête-à-tête in her library last night. Especially while he was so hard pressed to know his mind about the woman. Just as he’d concluded he’d been mistaken about her, her obvious penchant for assignations had confirmed his fears.
Of course, if she had accepted his proposal in the heat of the moment, he wouldn’t have cared who she’d been seeking originally. Sheer folly, unless he could persuade her to marry him quickly and save her from her own baser nature. Or channel them only toward him. He closed his eyes as his blood rose at the thought of her warm, soft body pressed against him. At least he now knew she would warm his bed spectacularly. This unexpected and intense desire for her, however, might prove inconvenient while convincing her to marry him.
She turned toward the bar, and something in her graceful movement recalled the image of her lightly clad body and bare feet. Why he’d acted so rashly became perfectly clear. Thoughts of her lusting after another man had roused a jealous streak hitherto undiscovered. He’d wanted her for himself, plain and simple. And now most likely impossible if she truly meant her words last night. He turned back to Mr. Smith, who seemed to enjoy the parade of Quality.
“Have Thorne come see me on Monday, Mr. Smith. I doubt this harvest will be as good as last year’s with the cold weather we’ve had. We may need to postpone it for a bit, so I need to prepare Thorne and the harvesters for that possibility.”
“Aye, my lord. I’ll speak with Michael directly.” The smith rose, tipped his cap, and moved to the door just as Lord Brack and Georgie brought up the rear of the party.
Brack’s gaze swept the room, coming to light on Nash. “Ho, Wrotham!” He guided Georgie over to his table. “Didn’t expect to see you here after our late night.”
Nash rose immediately. “Lady Georgina. Brack.” He bowed and smiled. “How nice to see you once more.”
The young woman seemed less frightened of him than she had last night, when she could barely string two words together to greet him. “Lord Wrotham. It is a pleasure, to be sure.” She blushed, though Nash had no idea why. Perhaps a deep shyness afflicted her.
Micklefield hurried toward them. “My lord, my lady. Your party has settled in one of the private parlors. Would you care to join them?”
“Excellent,” Brack said, shepherding Georgie toward the doorway the innkeeper indicated. “Join us, Wrotham. We’d be delighted if you would.”
Every grain of sense Nash possessed screamed at him to decline. Coming face-to-face with Lady Cavendish would likely be disastrous on many fronts. A quick but respectful refusal and he could be on his way back out to the fields.
“Thank you, Brack. Much obliged.” Like a moth driven to seek the flame, he could not stay away from the woman. Hopefully, he would merely be singed and not immolated outright by her wrath.
He fell in line just behind Lady Georgina. If he walked in with another woman he could pretend interest in her was his major objective. Perhaps his lady would then think she had a rival. Women often did not perceive a man as desirable until another woman found him so.
That might be the key to his campaign to get Lady Cavendish to accept his suit. He meant to turn her head from thoughts of Alan Garrett and fix her attentions on him. And what better way to achieve that than a little harmless flirtation with another woman? He prayed Georgina could play the role. Now if only he could do his part justice, perhaps he’d win himself a wife.
Chapter 11
When Nash strolled into the largest private parlor The Bull boasted, only a step behind Lady Georgina, he sensed someone immediately to his right, almost behind the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Lady Cavendish, looking like a vision this afternoon. Her straw bonnet with a jaunty feather on the side allowed only one shiny chestnut curl to escape, a ringlet that hung to the left side of her face. Her green- and white-striped gown, with a tight-fitting Spencer in matching green, accentuated her breasts.
Nash gave an inward groan. Why did the woman insist on torturing him like this? Thank God she wore no more provocative clothing or he’d be undone in the middle of The Bull. He fought the impulse, but in the end he gave in and glanced down at her feet. They were, of course, encased in sturdy half boots. Had he expected her barefoot in public?
He must get hold of himself.
With a deep breath, he slowed and turned toward his hostess. “Lady Cavendish. Such a wonderful surprise to see you all here. I trust you passed a pleasant morning?”
“I would be delighted, my lady. How fortunate for me to have come upon your party.”
“Indeed. Fortunate.” The lady fidgeted with her reticule. “Will you take a seat—?”
“Thank you.” He turned toward Brack and his sister. “May I wait upon you, Lady Georgina?” When she nodded, he moved to the nearest end of the table and assisted her with her seat. One irresistible glance back told him his lady had not expected that maneuver.
She stood staring at him, her brows dipped in a puzzled frown. After a moment she seemed to shake herself and took a seat halfway along the table beside Lady John.
So far, so good.
“You have a splendid day for your outing, Lady Georgina.” Nash nodded encouragingly, bringing a blush to the young widow’s cheeks and a small smile to her lips. She seemed too young to have had a husband, although he’d learned the tragic circumstances of her marriage from her brother over brandy last night. The lady deserved better from her father, and under other circumstances Nash might seriously have considered courting her. She seemed sweet and companionable. Excellent qualities in a wife.
But the Earl of Grafton’s grip tightened on him the closer they drew to November. And truth to tell, after last night’s amorous entanglement, he had set his heart on conquering Lady Cavendish. Her scandalous proposition had startled him. Not the offer most ladies would make, but he shouldn’t underestimate his “wicked widow.” The game was on between them, though she didn’t know it. How long before he could persuade her to accept him? His body prayed for sooner rather than later.
“It is indeed lovely, my lord.” Lady Georgina’s merry voice broke into his thoughts. “I am quite looking forward to seeing the sights of your village. I had heard of The Bull before. It has quite a history, does it not?” She gazed around, avidly taking in the rustic half-timbered, half-whitewashed walls hung with gleaming coats of arms and ancient weaponry.
“Indeed it does, my lady.” Nash spoke in a clear voice designed to carry down the table. Lady Cavendish glanced their way and he relaxed in his seat. “In the Middle Ages Wrotham acted as a stop on the Pilgrims’ Way.”
“The Pilgrims’ Way?” Georgina’s glass-green eyes sparkled. “I’ve heard of The Pilgrim’s Progress, my lord. Are they similar?”
He chuckled. “Not exactly, my lady.” Nash searched her face but couldn’t tell if she spoke truthfully or if the young minx had decided to flirt with him. “They both had to do with a religious journey, however. The Pilgrims’ Way was the route that stretched over a hundred miles from Winchester to Canterbury that many pilgrims took when traveling to the cathedral. A perilous journey, with many a soul lost on its way there.”
“As dangerous as that?” the lady whispered and inclined her head closer.
Definitely flirting. He might well enjoy this.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Nash leaned toward her, peering intently into her eyes, which sparkled with mischief. What had brought about this change in her? What the devil was she up to? Could he believe she had developed a tendre for him overnight? He pulled himself back into the conversation. “Although I daresay Wrotham provided a safe haven for them if they made it this far.”
“I am convinced your ancestors would have made sure of it, my lord.” Her smile broadened and she laid her hand on his arm. “If they were anything like you.”
Lord, what on earth had he started? Perhaps something a bit more gruesome would cool the chit’s interest a trifle.
“Did you know Wrotham has also been the haunt of kings? In fact, the story goes that King Henry VIII was in residence here when he received word that Anne Boleyn had been executed for treason.” He intoned solemnly. “The next day he betrothed himself to Jane Seymour.”
“Oh, my!” Lady Georgina jerked upright, her eyes growing big and round. She clutched his arm. “How horrible.”
“King Henry wasted no time, apparently. He wanted an heir and one disappointed him at their peril.” Nash chuckled at Georgina’s shudder and patted her hand. “Fortunately, today men are not quite so driven, although it is their ultimate duty to their family to secure its succession.”
“Hah!” Lady Cavendish tossed a glance at him, then continued her quiet conversation with Lady John.
Had his statement drawn her disdain or something else entirely? Did she not want children? Dangerous woman indeed.
“I had no idea the village’s history was so colorful.” Georgina withdrew her hand and sat back in her chair, her face a trifle paler.
Nash shot a glance once more toward Lady Cavendish, whose ears had now turned a bright shade of pink. He’d wager she’d been listening. Good. He hoped she had also noted their earlier flirtation.
“Still, Wrotham Village is quite charming, Lady Georgina.” He smiled and settled in his seat. “What sights are you planning to visit today?”
Her fresh face lit up again. “I think after here we are to walk to St. George’s Church, which is ever so old.”
“Thirteenth century, I believe. There is a magnificent view of the village from the clock tower.”
Georgina leaned toward her hostess. “Charlotte! May we actually go up in the clock tower? Lord Wrotham says there is a lovely view of the village from there.” Her wheedling tone was not lost on Nash, although he assumed Lady Cavendish had already planned that particular excursion. That view alone often drew people to the village.
The lady in question, however, turned toward them and raised her eyebrows. “Is it indeed, Lord Wrotham? Then I suppose we should avail ourselves of that prospect.”
“Have you not climbed the clock tower, Lady Cavendish?” Given her current tone, Nash doubted it.
“No, my lord. I must confess I have only visited the village once before today.” One end of her pursed mouth turned up in a charming smile, making Nash stifle a gasp. The lady could be unpredictably enchanting.
“Therefore, may I be so bold,” Charlotte leaned toward him, deepening the décolletage of her gown, “as to impose upon you to act as guide to us? You obviously have more experience in the area than I.”
The winsome look of a maiden in distress became her very well.
Nash licked his lips. Damn. How must that look with his eyes fastened on her cleavage?
“And you will, of course, be in attendance at Lyttlefield tonight?” Lady John interrupted the conversation as she poked her head over the table, beaming seductively at Nash.
Another delightfully bold woman.
“You are part of the party, you know.”
“I will be delighted to attend, Lady John.”
“Thank you, my lord. We are devilishly short of men now that Mr. Garrett has been called away.” Lady John turned liquid blue eyes on him, half-closing them like a cat satisfied with the cream it has stolen.
He would have agreed to anything the woman asked. As she had intended. Lady John knew how to get her way, that was for certain. Had she also deliberately dropped the information that Garrett had gone? Lady Cavendish had not disclosed their encounter, then. Did that bode ill or well?
“How wonderful that we may count on you.” Lady John gestured to the party members. “I believe we are to have dancing again and cards. Men are useful in so many delightful ways.”
“Indeed we are, my lady.” A fascinating woman. But too audacious for him by half. He turned to Lady Cavendish, vividly reminded of several ways he longed to be useful to her.
“But we must not trespass too much on Lord Wrotham’s time, cousin.” Lady Cavendish smiled at him, setting off a small riot in his chest. “I have just beseeched him to show us the village. How can we expect him to donate so much of his valuable time when he may
have other pressing engagements?”
“But I will be honored to escort your guests around the town. And as I am not engaged this evening, nothing would give me more pleasure than to attend your gathering.” Nash couldn’t resist one more taunt. “Or almost nothing. Pleasure can be had in so many ways, don’t you agree?”
Lady Cavendish’s eyes widened, then narrowed. Her cheeks reddened as if by magic. “Yes, my lord, I do. I will remember that. Thank you.”
If looks could kill he’d be in the Wrotham kirkyard this minute. He chuckled, then glanced around the room, bent on putting his words into deeds immediately. The first thing to strike him as odd was the lack of beverages on the table. “Have you ordered some of The Bull’s famous ale for your guests, Lady Cavendish? It’s quite the local specialty.”
After a fleeting look of annoyance, the lady shook her head and shrugged. “I had no idea of such a thing.” For a moment her face shadowed with embarrassment. “I suppose I should have made better arrangements for the party.”
How had she learned so little of the place in the time she’s been here? Well, he would fill the breach.
“Not a’tall. But you are all in for a treat. And ladies, although I know it is highly unusual for you to drink ale, you really must indulge just this once.” He rose and went in search of the innkeeper. In moments, they were all sampling the light, nutty ale for which The Bull had gained quite a reputation.
Nash sipped his fourth pint, glad he had insisted the ladies try the beverage before moving on to the tea, which he had also ordered. Several of them seemed quite taken with the ale. Lady John and, surprisingly, little Georgina were making headway with their half-pints. Lady Cavendish too seemed to enjoy it. The others were less enthusiastic.
Mrs. Easton took one sip, sputtered, and pushed hers toward Lord Brack.
He laughed and said, “Much obliged,” before downing his own and pulling her glass toward him. He fixed his eyes on the lovely blond woman as he sipped. A conquest in the making?
