Lydia’s hazel eyes sprang to mind.
He couldn’t even marry the woman who’d enchanted him last spring. Lydia had returned to Scotland, and no doubt, some glib-tongued, unfettered, wealthy Highlander in a kilt with great, hairy legs and no drawers courted her.
His Grace slapped his palms on the chair’s arms and dropped his leg to the floor. “Of course you can. I have everything arranged.”
I’ll bet you do, you manipulating bugger.
The duke scrutinized the dogs watching him suspiciously. As he angled to his feet, both spaniels jumped off the sofa and stood at the ready.
“I shall expect you at Wingfield at four today for tea. You’ll have an opportunity to become acquainted with my niece before dinner, which of course, you will stay for.”
He strode to the door. Gripping the handle, Waterford turned and offered his first genuine smile. “She really is quite lovely.”
Chapter 6
Angelina cast a quick peek at the house as she rushed along the path. Bonnetless and gloveless, she breathed a sigh of relief. She raised her black parasol in order to see Wingfield Court better.
Good. No one in the family had noticed her leave.
It wasn’t forbidden, but she didn’t want to explain her destination. And she needed some time alone. Not to brood. That was a useless waste of energy and emotion.
No, she wanted to think further on how she might support herself after the babe came. The modiste idea merited further consideration, as did the lace making. She did have a talent for tatting.
Right after a light luncheon, which Angelina declined to eat, Aunt Camille withdrew to her chamber for a nap.
Her aunt unknowingly provided Angelina the opportunity she needed to escape the house. She hadn’t meant to be rude by skipping the meal, but the forced cabbage, cold meats, including headcheese, along with tongue and pickled eggs had sent her stomach cartwheeling once more.
She’d made do with a piece of dark, dry bread.
According to Murphy, Uncle left well before breakfast this morning. He’d yet to return. Felicia played with a litter of month-old kittens, and Pembrose had ridden off with a couple of chums to do whatever it was young men his age did.
Eyes raised to the cloudless sky, Angelina grimaced. As she’d predicted the day was indeed warming to an unpleasant temperature.
An old, craggy stone structure, the ground floor of Wingfield Court stayed quite comfortable. However, after a sweltering day, the third story sleeping chambers became unbearably warm.
She ought not to sneak out, yet Brooke Tweadle tempted beyond resistance. Wading for a short while sounded so refreshing. Afterward, Angelina would return to the house to rest in the cool parlor before teatime.
In Salem, they’d never fussed with afternoon tea unless a rout or ball portended for the evening, which meant supper wasn’t served until midnight. Most silly to have a light repast when one just ate and would dine again in another few hours.
How many times did a person need to eat in a day?
She already grew round with child. She didn’t need chubby cheeks and thighs too.
Such a ridiculous practice. Drinking a warm beverage on a hot day. A cool lemonade, oh, that would be most welcome. Or better yet, one of those delicious fruit ices she’d tasted once when visiting Boston with her parents.
The grass brushed her skirts, making a soft rustling sound as she hurried along the overgrown path.
Beyond the orchard lay a fenced meadow where a sizable herd of strange black cattle milled beneath the shade of a single oak tree. A chorus of bees buzzed among the bright wildflower dotting the grounds. Nary a hint of a breeze stirred the leaves or meadow grasses.
As she approached the grove of oaks lining the stream bed, a startled rabbit bounded from the underbrush.
Angelina yelped in surprise.
Another panic-stricken rabbit darted after the first.
Laughing, she folded her parasol, and turned to the stream. The brook proved every bit as charming as she’d hoped. The shallow water gurgled over and between time-worn rocks. A pair of brilliant turquoise dragonflies flitted above the stream, and an unfamiliar songbird’s warble filled the air.
She scanned the treetops seeking the bird. A tiny yellow-green chested warbler hopped on a branch.
Angelina considered the magnificent oaks. They must be at least a hundred years old. Many of their sprawling branches too weighty to reach heavenward any longer, grew atop the ground, forming a giant gnarled web.
If she wasn’t increasing, she would indulge in the temptation and climb one of the twisted monstrosities. Resting her parasol against a smallish boulder, she sat upon the stone and untied her half-boots. After pulling them off and setting the shoes aside, she scanned the banks.
Yes, she was alone.
Shoving her skirts knee high, she reached beneath the hem. Once she removed her garters, she unrolled her stockings, then draped them carefully on the stone beside her before standing.
She flexed her toes around the pebble-sized river rock blanketing the shore. How wonderful to be shoeless. Lifting her gown, she picked her way to the water.
It wouldn’t do to fall.
Angelina already cherished the child nestled in her womb. She might be angry at Charles’s deception and the gross unfairness of her circumstances, but she wanted the babe she carried. Children were a gift from God, and she would do everything within her power to be a good mother.
Tiptoeing into the water, she sucked in her breath.
My, it’s cold.
She hoisted her hem above her knees and waded deeper, until the water swished around her calves. Farther downstream lay a log straddling the banks. Another giant oak angled from the embankment, providing a shady nook and a perfect place to sit and swing her feet in the water.
Angelina balanced on the log, gently kicking her legs and enjoying the sensation of the water swishing between her toes and lapping around her ankles.
Irate chattering caught her attention. A pair of red squirrels scampered atop a branch. A wave of nostalgia swept her, and she blew out a sigh. Even the birds, rabbits, and squirrels had mates.
She wasn’t likely to ever have one.
Her heart twinged at the painful truth. Women in her position were hard-pressed to find husbands. Even more so if the ruse of her widowhood became known. She would be labeled immoral and fast.
See what love cost me.
Before meeting Charles, she never understood why anyone would wed for convenience or consent to an arranged marriage. Hopeless romantic that she’d been, her heart had yearned for a love match. And where had that landed her?
In the family way without a husband.
She gave an angry kick, splashing her gown. Perhaps those choosing convenience rather than love had the right of it. At least they understood precisely where they stood. Weren’t all the sordid details in the marriage settlement?
Yes, pen the terms and seal it with a cold, impersonal signature.
No expectations. No disappointment. No heartbreak.
A nice tidy, emotionless package. Safe and secure. With an aching void inside the couple, never to be fulfilled.
Angelina pressed her hand to her stomach and shifted her position on the log, being cautious not to catch her gown on the coarse bark.
She hadn’t written Mama about the babe. She begged Uncle Ambrose and Aunt Camille not to as well. They reluctantly agreed.
Angelina would tell her mother, in time. Just not quite yet. A grandchild resulting from her eldest daughter’s ruination would shatter Mama.
Uncle Ambrose, in particular, seemed obsessed with Angelina’s increasing. More than once since he’d arrived at Wingfield Court, usually when deep in his cups, he had patted her shoulder in passing and muttered, “
I’ll see that you’re taken care of.”
She didn’t wish to be unkind, but he appeared half-foxed more often than not.
Lips pressed together, Aunt Camille watched him, worry and something else in her eyes.
Trepidation?
How absurd.
Lately, Angelina’s imagination flourished too much. She’d never heard Uncle Ambrose so much as raise his voice to Aunt Camille or the children.
Glimpsing the house through the tree trunks, Angelina sighed. She ought to return. It wouldn’t do for her aunt to awaken from her nap and finding Angelina missing.
Always anxious and fearing the worst, the dear woman possessed an overprotective, suffocating nature. In that way, she was wholly different than Mama. Wisdom and cautiousness were one thing, but Aunt Camille’s obsession with dark thoughts was something else entirely.
Edging off the log, Angelina made her way to where she’d entered the stream. A loud snort caused her to whirl toward the sound, and she slipped. To keep her balance, she dropped her skirts.
A cow, her eyes huge and suspicious, stood between the trees eyeing Angelina. The pasture fence must be broken somewhere nearby. The animal lazily swished her tail, chasing away a hoard of flies while chewing her cud. She didn’t appear hostile.
Angelina’s pulse quickened all the same. She’d never been this close to a cow. And this one was like no other she’d ever seen. Covered with thick, long hair, the poor thing must be sweltering. No wonder she sought the creek.
One eye trained on the animal, Angelina slogged as rapidly as she was able the remaining few feet to her belongings. Her skirts, soaked to above her knees, hindered her movements. So much for sneaking into the house unnoticed. She would have to confess her excursion.
She retrieved her parasol and stockings. She’d put some distance between herself and the cow before donning them. As she bent to grab her boots, more snorts and thudding hooves echoed on the other side of the embankment.
Jerking upright, her breath caught.
Hounds’ teeth.
Five more cows, four accompanied by chocolate-eyed calves, lumbered to the stream. The bull leading them tossed his mammoth head back and forth.
In warning?
The first cow mooed a soft greeting.
Good Lord. What was one supposed to do?
Angelina edged away. The blood whooshed in her ears. She always thought that depiction an exaggeration by cowardly ninnies.
She was wrong.
The bull advanced a step, pawing the ground.
Gads, that couldn’t be good.
The beast glared at her. She was sure of it.
He lowered his shaggy head and growled.
Good God above!
A screech of terror ripped from Angelina’s throat. She tossed her possessions and sprinted for the nearest tree. Jumping onto a branch hugging the ground, she darted up its thick length, then leapt into the vee of an adjoining branch.
The bull, the devil dancing in his eyes, bellowed and stamped the exposed roots beneath her. Bits of dirt and bark flew from his mashing hooves.
She crawled farther up the limb, grateful the old tree sported nice, wide branches she easily scaled. She craned her neck as she gripped the oak and awkwardly twisted to peer over her shoulder.
The manor loomed a good distance away. It hadn’t seemed nearly as far when walking here.
Sweat trickled the length of her spine and between her breasts as well as soaked the fabric of her gown beneath each arm.
Charging up the tree, she’d caught her hair on a thin branch. The twig yanked loose the ribbon entwined in the neat knot atop her head. A few curls teased her face while the rest of her hair hung in a blob at her nape.
Her cheek stung.
Angelina touched the area, not surprised when her fingertips came away smeared with a trace of blood. Even without a mirror, she knew she was a sight, thanks to the cantankerous beast snorting and stomping below.
“This is a fine kettle of fish you have gotten yourself into.” Closing her eyes, she pressed her head against the scratchy trunk.
More pounding hooves and low moos announced additional uninvited guests.
God’s toenails.
The cattle tromped into the stream, muddying the water in their quest for a cool drink. What fool hadn’t maintained his fences?
Likely Uncle Ambrose’s negligence.
How long would the creatures loiter until they returned home? Before she finished the thought, six cows and two calves folded to their knees and lay down.
Well, that was perfect. Now what was she to do?
Her stomach cramped at her crouched position. After shifting to alleviate the tightness, Angelina peered through the leaves.
If she waved an arm, could anyone at the house see her? It would be helpful to have something colorful to flap. At this distance, the black of her dress probably blended into the tree’s dark trunk and rendered her undetectable.
She rose a bit, snagging her big toe on a rough piece of bark. Tears sprang to her eyes.
Maintaining her grip on a nearby limb, Angelina examined her throbbing toe. Scarlet droplets trickled off the side. Why had she ever defied Aunt Camille and ventured to the stream alone? She might be trapped in this tree for hours.
The splashing, soft moos, and rustling of the cattle milling about below rose to her ears.
Perhaps if she called out someone might hear her, although with the ruckus the animals were making, that was doubtful.
Still, she drew a deep breath and released a most unladylike shout. “Help. I’m stuck in a tree. Help, someone, please.”
“Are you in need of assistance?” A man’s voice, a deep baritone, floated up to her.
Angelina started and swung her head to gawk at the much too attractive gentleman squinting at her atop a light dun gelding. Why couldn’t a groom or a tenant have found her?
“I’d think that was obvious. That foul-tempered brute chased me up here.” She pointed to the bull, now affecting a completely docile demeanor as he rubbed his head against a contented cow.
The gentleman stared at her, an odd glint in his eye. His rugged good looks made Charles seem almost effeminate.
Heavens, where did that come from?
“You’re American.”
The way the man spoke bordered on accusatory. Did he have something against Americans? Perhaps. The war hadn’t ended so very long ago.
She shook her head, never releasing her death grip on the branch beside her. “Not exactly. I was born in Scotland. My parents, both Scottish, settled in Salem when I was an infant. I recently arrived, um, for a holiday and to visit my family.”
“In Scotland?” He appeared a trifle confused.
“No, in England. My uncle is English.”
She surveyed the area. Where had the gentleman come from?
As if he heard her unspoken question, he pointed to the meadow. “A length of fencing is in need of attention where a gate has fallen on the other side.”
He surveyed the cattle. “These are mine. I’ll send word for some of my stable hands to retrieve them and make the repair.”
“What kind are they?” Angelina leaned over a fraction. “I’ve never seen cattle with such long hair. They’re enormous.”
“Indeed. They are Galloways, a Scottish breed. Very hale and hearty.” Though polite, his tone held a distinct coolness.
She angled her head, fully observing him for the first time.
Quality for certain. His seat was excellent, his attire first rate, from his black coat to his gleaming boots. Not more than thirty, he possessed an angular, rather chiseled face and his nose sported a distinct bump.
A most handsome man. Truth to tell, sinfully handsome, and young a
nd virile as well.
A tremor of awareness skittered across her skin.
Cease this instance.
She’d yielded to that temptation once before, and the outcome had been wretched.
An aura of sorrow lingered about the gentleman, evident in the set of his finely molded mouth, the shadows beneath dark jade eyes, and the haunted glint in their depths.
Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 7
