Thornbrook Park
Page 30
“Yes?” He turned to face her again. She released the breath that she’d been holding.
“Do I really vex you?” She didn’t attempt to hide the concern in her voice.
He sighed. “No, Lady Alice. You do not. I’m sorry to have upset you.”
“Oh, I’m not upset.” She hazarded a step closer to him, and another one. “I was simply making sure before I tell you that I actually know quite a bit about the care of citrus trees. Mother kept oranges in our conservatory back home. I might be of some assistance to you when they arrive, if you’ll allow me.”
He quirked a dark brow. “Oranges? Lady Averford didn’t mention it.”
Alice nibbled her lip, desperate not to be exposed as a fraud. Certainly she would have time to read up on the subject and try to appear knowledgeable. “She wouldn’t. She didn’t notice. My sister is so often in her own world.”
“I see.” He stroked his jaw as if considering. “And how do you know about the fruit trees, seeing as the news only came at breakfast and I don’t recall you at the table when Lord Averford opened the letter in front of me?”
“You’ve got me there.” Alice wasn’t well-versed in the art of lying, but she guessed that a bit of candor might help when nearly being caught in a complete fabrication. “I was listening at the door. Eavesdropping, can you imagine? What a terrible habit. I didn’t mean to, of course. I was about to join my sister for breakfast and then I heard—”
“The mention of Lord Brumley?” He nodded, and his lips curved up in a smile. “The countess enjoys a bit of matchmaking. Before you came along, she tried to pair me with her maid.”
“Mrs. Jenks?” She wrinkled her nose at the idea. Jenks was a mousy slip of a woman, no match for a robust, vigorous man like Winthrop.
“No, the one before her. Mrs. Bowles.”
“Dear me, no.” Worse than Jenks, Bowles was a snip-nosed shrew and certainly far too old for Mr. Winthrop. “I’m sorry. Despite her penchant for it, Sophia clearly has no talent for making matches.”
“Perhaps not. You were wise to run away instead of sitting through another conversation about yet another bachelor. I don’t blame you a bit.”
“You—you don’t?” Ah, a man of sense. She knew she could rely on his sound judgment, at least. And she appreciated it, though it would make seducing him more of a challenge.
“Any pretty girl in her right mind dreams of a dashing suitor to sweep her away, doesn’t she? Alas, Lady Averford’s only suitable choice for you so far had eyes for another.”
“Captain Thorne.” Alice rolled her eyes. “He’s better off with Eve Kendal. They’re perfectly suited. I didn’t care for him much myself, if you must know.”
“I mustn’t.” He shrugged. “It’s none of my affair.”
Alice bit the inside of her cheek. How she wanted it to be his affair. “There isn’t a suitable choice. I’ll never marry.”
“Don’t despair, Lady Alice. There’s someone out there for you. Your sister simply hasn’t found him yet.”
“It’s not despair.” Defensive, she crossed her arms. “I’ve no interest in marriage. None.”
His eyes narrowed as if he were trying to peer inside her soul. “I shouldn’t have said anything. You might like Lord Brumley. I must go.”
“No.” She reached out, eager to stop him, and ended up with her hand on his sleeve, over the thick muscles of his upper arm that she had seen in full daylight, bared to the sun, when he’d removed his coat and shirt while out raking the early autumn leaves. “Please, tell me about Brumley. You know him?”
His gaze went to her hand, and trailed back to her face. “We were at Harrow together. I believe he made Lord Averford’s acquaintance later, at Oxford. He might have changed considerably in so many years.”
“Fourteen years?” She did the math. “If you’re the same age as the earl, then it has been fourteen years since you were at Harrow.”
“In fourteen years, a man can go through remarkable changes in his life.” His full lips drew to a grim line. “In our youth, Brumley was a bit of an oaf. To be fair, I’ve no idea what kind of man he has become.”
“I suppose we’re about to find out. Sophia is probably already making out the invitation. But just in case, our mission should be to see the lemon trees replanted and thriving as soon as possible to send him on his way.” Our mission. She liked the idea of them sharing in something. It was a start.
“Agreed, Lady Alice, on that point. I’m not looking forward to seeing the man any more than you are, I suspect. Perhaps much less.”
“No sign of gloves, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Hoyle interrupted. Alice had no idea how long the woman had been standing there watching them together. Not long, most likely. Mrs. Hoyle wasn’t the sort to wait to be heard. “Will that be all, Lady Alice? There’s still time to join your sister at breakfast, I believe.”
“I suppose I will take a moment to say hello. Thank you, Mrs. Hoyle. Mr. Winthrop.” As much as she hated to pull herself away from him, it wouldn’t do to stand in conversation with the estate manager now that Mrs. Hoyle had reappeared. “I look forward to the arrival of the lemon trees. Good day.” She delivered a brief nod in parting and willed her feet to walk away.
***
He’d made a new life for himself at Thornbrook Park. No longer was he a gentleman’s son, free to court gentlemen’s daughters. Lady Alice made him want to forget, but it wouldn’t do to allow himself the liberties he wanted to take with her, a breath of fresh air in his otherwise dreary life. He’d failed to grasp happiness when fate might have allowed it, and now it was beyond his reach.
Alice deserved a young man of fortune and good standing, someone who could give her the kind of life befitting her station, not an estate manager with a tarnished past. But sometimes, when she stood close and studied him with that look of awe in her eyes, he wanted to take her in his arms and remember what it was to be young and in love. He was entirely wrong for her, and he dreaded the day he would have to make it clear to her by behaving in a manner that would frighten her away from him for good.
For now, he sensed she needed a friend, and it didn’t hurt to lend an ear. How she did prattle on sometimes, drifting from one topic to the next. It made his work go by faster when she was around, like a symphony playing on the wind. And when he had a chance to stop and really listen to her, she had some remarkable things to say. The girl had good sense. Perhaps he needn’t have worried that she seemed to be developing an inadvisable interest in him.
It was entirely possible that he flattered himself, imagining that a strong-willed young beauty could be falling in love with him. Likely, her real interest was horticulture, just as she’d often claimed when she appeared at his side as he supervised the trimming of roses, the planting of seedlings, or tilling of the soil. An estate manager needn’t dirty his hands, but working the land helped Logan feel some little bit of hope restored, that he could control what grew from the earth, what flourished, and what faded, after so much time spent out of control in his own world. His old world. The life that came before, which he’d struggled to put behind him.
“Are you all right, Mr. Winthrop? You look a little pale.” Mrs. Hoyle appeared with a cup and saucer in her hand. He’d been standing in the kitchen where Alice had left him, frozen in place after watching her walk away. “Something to refresh you?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hoyle. I am a little tired.” He didn’t want the tea, but he accepted it, drank it down in one gulp, and handed her the empty cup. That he’d been up since dawn without stopping for a meal might have been the real reason for his mental ramblings. “You’re very kind to think of me.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Winthrop.” A blush? From Mrs. Hoyle? “We must look out for one another. If one of us falls ill, who is to look after our family?”
“Our family? Oh yes.” She meant Lord and Lady Averford of Thornbrook Park. Their �
�family.” “Must keep up our strength. I’m off to get some keys from Mr. Finch. Good morning, Mrs. Hoyle.”
“And a good one to you, Mr. Winthrop.” She turned to bring his cup to the sink.
With family on his mind, he set off to find the butler, Finch. Logan had a family, and they were not the Averfords. Logan’s father had been the Baron Emsbury, as his older brother had become upon their father’s death. Logan hadn’t seen his brother since what they all referred to as “the incident,” but he exchanged letters with him and his wife Ellen, and with Mrs. Lenders, Grace’s governess, who assured him that the girl was happy and thriving in the care of Logan’s brother and his wife. Grace would be nearly a young woman now, twelve years old, the same age her mother had been when Logan had first kissed her.
“Mr. Finch.” He turned the corner, glad to find the butler at his desk going over an inventory list so that Logan could put thoughts of family behind him and delve back into his work.
Acknowledgments
My thanks to everyone on the Sourcebooks team for making me feel welcome and helping me to be at my best, especially Deb Werksman and Eliza Smith for their brilliant suggestions, Susie Benton for her patience, and Danielle Dresser for her enthusiasm. As always, I’m grateful to Stephany Evans for believing in me. And to my friends Julia London, Dee Davis, and Julie Kenner for always telling me what I need to hear and for the peach vodka; I love you, man.
About the Author
Sherri Browning writes historical and contemporary romance fiction, sometimes with a paranormal twist. A graduate of Mount Holyoke College, Sherri has lived in western Massachusetts and greater Detroit, Michigan, but is now settled with her family in Simsbury, Connecticut. www.sherribrowningerwin.com.