An Inheritance for the Birds

by Linda Banche

  She stopped so suddenly her hat toppled to the ground.

  Mr. Winnington lay on his side in the water, his back towards her. Muttering curses, he sat up. With a hand on the shallow stream bottom for support, he vaulted to his feet, still facing away. Water cascaded down his body. He wore only breeches.

  Wet breeches.

  Any additional words died in her throat. She stared. Gracious, Mr. Winnington had muscles. In his arms and back and…lower down.

  Those glorious back muscles flexing, he raised his hands to swipe his hair back. He turned. Surprise flicked over his face. He lowered his arms to his sides, uncertainty replacing the surprise. He glanced toward her feet.

  Angela’s gaze dropped to his chest. His bare chest, sprinkled with a dusting of light brown hair. And, oh my, more ridged muscles, all the way down to those wet breeches that clung to his… Her jaw sagged.

  “Why, Miss Stratton, I had no idea you were there.” His drawl was smoother than duck down.

  She whipped her gaze upward to his grin of perfect male devilment.

  For a few seconds that lasted an eternity, they stared at each other. And then, his smile widening, he clasped his hands before his chest and pressed his palms together. Every muscle in his arms and upper torso rippled.

  Angela’s jaw sagged lower.

  After how long she didn’t know, she snapped her mouth shut and jerked her gaze to the trees, the sky, anywhere but at that fascinating expanse of glistening male skin. “I—I needed to ask you about the pond.” She looked down. Oh, drat, she stood on his shirt! Keeping her eyes averted, she backed up. Water splashed as he waded to shore, and then fabric rustled as he picked up the garment. After waiting a few interminable seconds, she darted a quick glance his way. Do not ogle the man.

  His shirt, a muddy foot print on the front, now covered that splendid masculine chest. A little pang of disappointment nipped through her.

  But that grin of pure male glee still creased his face. He held out her hat. “Can I assist you in some way?” His voice infused every sin in the world into those words.

  Curse the man! She snatched the hat and jammed it onto her head. He had displayed himself on purpose. What a wretch to enjoy her discomfort so much! Looking only at his face, she drew in a breath. Concentrate on business. “I wish to discuss the sites of the pond and my duck coop.” She explained her concerns.

  His provocative smile slid away as he considered her request. “You are correct. Fortunately, I had just started, so I can move the dam with little trouble. Shall we pick a spot?”

  They walked a short way up the bank and agreed on a location within view of the mansion.

  “Thank you, Mr. Winnington. This site fits my needs quite well.”

  “Happy to be of service.”

  She tapped her forefinger on her chin. “Now, I must buy lumber for the coop.”

  His eyebrows furled, he glanced at the wood on the far side of the stream. “Why buy lumber when a forest is nearby?”

  “But then I must pay someone to chop down the trees. I had planned my expenditures to buy timber and hire a carpenter.”

  “No need to waste your money on wood. My skills from my steward days include felling trees. Since I need some logs for the dam, I can cut a few extra for you. I can also help the carpenter plane yours into boards, if you wish.”

  “But, is that part of the rules?”

  “We can ask Mr. Holt.” He dipped his head toward her, a seductive gleam in his eyes. “Or we can keep it as our own little secret.” His voice had changed into that smooth drawl again.

  She inhaled the scent of warm male and cool stream water. Gracious, what were they talking about? “I—I think we should ask Mr. Holt.”

  He straightened. “As you wish.” He bowed, his voice back to its normal timbre, but that dangerous twinkle remained in his eyes.

  “Very well, then, I will leave you to your work.” Her mind awhirl, she dashed away before she could make a complete and utter cake of herself. She stopped in the kitchen garden, out of view of the stream. Her breath rapid, she sank down on a stone bench by the garden wall.

  Should she take him up on his offer?

  She sucked in a breath. Had he offered something else besides chopping wood?

  ****

  Kit sat beside the drawing room window, gazing out but not seeing. Rain pattered on the glass panes.

  “Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Winnington?” Miss Stratton clattered cups and saucers at the tea table. On the floor beside her, Esmeralda disgorged a small quack. Another hen—was that one Dulcibella? God help him, he had actually learned the ducks’ names—slept beside the entry. Another—Ulrick?—waddled across the center of the rug, pecking at the chairs in his path.

  “Yes, thank you.” He stood to accept the cup of fragrant Assam and then returned to his seat. Rain lashed harder, making great streaks down the pane. “I hope the storm ends soon so I can work on my dam.”

  Ah yes, the dam. Yesterday’s scene flashed across his memory, and he lifted his teacup to hide his smile. Never had he encountered a woman as flabbergasted as Miss Stratton when she saw him half-naked. He had had all he could do not to howl out his laughter.

  A wince followed the smile. Gads, what madness had overcome him? He hadn’t engaged in such idiocy since his Eton days. One could excuse the beetle-brained antics of pre-adolescent lads displaying their almost non-existent muscles to each other.

  But boyhood stupidity was an altogether different matter from his behavior the day before. He frowned. Flaunting his bare chest before a lady was not the act of a gentleman. He should have put on his shirt the instant he saw her. His frown puckered into a grin. But he’d been unable to resist tweaking her a bit. Of course, she had stood on his shirt, but he could have asked her to move.

  And, in spite of her astonishment, she had liked the view. Part of him regretted his unseemly behavior…but only a small part. Slipping in the water and landing hard on his arse had been worth the sight of her shocked and reluctant delight. After she had left, he had puffed out his chest with pride.

  He glanced back at Miss Stratton. A bright smile lit her face. Yesterday’s incident hadn’t overset her, as far as he could see. Although he wasn’t sorry, he owed her an apology. But he would humble himself when they were alone.

  Mrs. Castin, seated by the fireplace, looked up from her knitting. “Today is the Sabbath, a day of rest, sir. And the rain may stop tomorrow.”

  Mr. Holt, who sat beside her, took a sip of his tea. “In any event, you have no need to rush. You still have almost the entire two months at your disposal.” He cast Mrs. Castin an uncertain smile.

  The lady dimpled back.

  Mr. Holt’s eyes widened. With a clatter, he placed his cup and saucer on the table beside him and leaped up. “I think I will take a turn around the house.”

  Mrs. Castin stowed her knitting in her bag and rose, too. “May I accompany you?”

  Mr. Holt offered his arm, and they exited, both sporting foolish grins.

  As soon as the tapping of their footfalls died away, Miss Stratton quirked an amused eyebrow. “Do I detect a romance brewing between Mr. Holt and Sophia?”

  Kit rose to set his own cup and saucer beside Mr. Holt’s before taking the seat beside Miss Stratton. “I would not be surprised.”

  “I hope so. Sophia is a wonderful person and Mr. Holt is kind under his austere professional exterior. I would like to see them both happy.” She took a sip of her tea and cast another sunny smile his way.

  No time like the present. He cleared his throat. “I wish to apologize for my actions yesterday at the dam.”

  Miss Stratton flushed. “Yes, you should.” She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips.

  Well, so much for her not being overset. “I behaved in a most ungentlemanly manner—”

  “You did.” That severe look still hardened her face, but her lips quivered.

  Was she funning him? He cleared his throat again. “I will not—”
<
br />   She burst out laughing. “Oh, your expression is hilarious!”

  He snapped his jaw shut with a click. “Then I take it you are not really angry?”

  She wiped away tears of mirth. “No. I wanted you to squirm a bit. Like I did yesterday. But you must admit you enjoyed my reaction.”

  He threw back his head and roared out a laugh. “Indeed. But I should not have taken the jest so far.”

  “Well, I forgive you this time.” She again assumed that mock-stern expression. “I viewed yesterday’s performance in the light of…education.”

  “‘Education,’ you say?” He shifted closer to her side. “Would you like some more ‘education’?”

  Alarm spread over her features. “What do you mean, Mr. Winnington?”

  “This.” He gathered her to him, her violet scent enveloping him. Her blue eyes, swept with violet, widened. Violet eyes and violet fragrance. Her lips parted. He dipped his head to hers—

  Mrs. Castin’s voice rang from the corridor. “I did so enjoy that walk.”

  They jumped apart. Kit grabbed his cup and saucer and strode to the window. Miss Stratton hid her blush in pouring herself more tea.

  Mr. Holt, Mrs. Castin on his arm, entered. The companion’s gaze swung from Kit to Miss Stratton. Her forehead rose in a questioning furrow. “And did you two also enjoy yourselves?”

  Kit couldn’t keep a note of satisfaction out of his voice. “Yes.”

  ****

  Horses neighed. Angela looked up from the financial section of The Times to peer out the drawing room window. Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, no.”

  Sophia, ensconced in her favorite chair before the fireplace, glanced up at the mantel clock. “Ah, that time has arrived again. The first of the callers, I daresay?”

  “Unfortunately. Every day for an entire week. Will they never leave us in peace?” Angela pursed her lips as a fashionable carriage trundled up to the front entrance and halted. The horses snorted and stamped as a lady emerged. Gracious! Never in all the time she had lived here had she hosted so much company.

  With a resigned sigh, she folded the news sheet and dropped it on the table on her way to the bell pull. She yanked the cord extra hard. Rich as Lady Bridges had been, at this rate they would run out of food if they had to feed all these visitors. “And where are Mr. Winnington and Mr. Holt when you need them?”

  “Mr. Winnington is working on his dam, and Mr. Holt has returned to London for a few days to tend to his other clients.”

  Angela snorted. “‘Working on his dam,’ ‘other clients,’ my foot. The cowards have abandoned us to face the horde alone.”

  Sophia bit her lip on a smile, but said nothing.

  Angela had returned to her seat and composed herself by the time Bates led in the first guest, Miss Alice Beevor.

  Angela gave an inward groan. This visit was the lady’s third one this week. Before this competition, Miss Beevor had condescended to grace her with only the occasional word or two. Now she was her bosom bow. And neither Miss Beevor nor Angela fooled themselves that Angela was the object of the visit. Oh, no. The lady came to pursue Mr. Winnington.

  How that thought annoyed her!

  After last week’s almost-kiss, she had thought of little else besides Mr. Winnington. And his bare chest. What would his chest hair feel like? Was the hair silky or crisp? An image of her stroking his chest popped into her mind. Suddenly, the already-hot room blazed into a flaming inferno.

  Miss Beevor’s mouth opened and closed as she rattled on, but Angela didn’t hear a word.

  Gracious, what had come over her? She must deal with these fortune hunters, not spin air castles about Mr. Winnington’s chest.

  Mr. Winnington’s muscular chest.

  She cleared her throat and interrupted her guest’s one-sided discourse. Not that the lady, who reveled in the sound of her own voice, required an audience. “Miss Beevor, your dress is lovely.” Actually, the gown was a garish shade of orange and cut too low for day wear, but she couldn’t say that.

  The lady preened and fluffed out her skirts. “Yes, the dress is new, and I wanted so much to wear it.”

  “And you decided to honor me with the first showing. My very greatest thanks.”

  Miss Beevor’s eyes narrowed at the sarcasm, but she quickly layered a smile over her scowl. “Indeed.”

  To Angela’s utter relief, the maid bustled in with the tea tray and they broke off any further conversation.

  With a smile of false camaraderie, Miss Beevor settled down and accepted a cup.

  More neighing of horses and jingling of harness floated to Angela’s ears. “Gracious, who can that be now?” She finished pouring her own tea and rose to cross to the window. Not one, but three carriages crunched up the gravel drive. She stifled an irritated sigh.

  A bevy of servants hastened outdoors as the equipages disgorged their occupants. This time, gentlemen had arrived as well as ladies. As much as the ladies salivated over Mr. Winnington, the gentlemen panted over her.

  And all of them with pockets to let. Would she ever attract a man who wanted her for herself? Was Mr. Winnington really interested in her? Or was he merely another fortune hunter?

  She hastened again to the bell pull. “Is today a holiday? A veritable parade of people is outside.”

  Miss Beevor pursed her lips with annoyance. “I have no idea.”

  Angela had just dispatched the maid answering her summons to secure more refreshments when the throng descended. Four more ladies and five gentlemen entered and expressed their good wishes. She disposed of Miss Lucy Stapleton and Miss Louisa Bane, as well as Mrs. Lavinia Needham and her daughter, Phoebe, in chairs around the room.

  Mr. Palk hurried to take his usual position to the right of her seat at the tea table. With a quick side-step around Mr. Walter Turnbull, Mr. Frederick Martyn, the son of Viscount Martyn, seized possession of the left side. Mr. Ambrose Fane, Mr. Edwin Lewis, and a disgruntled Mr. Turnbull chatted until Angela returned to her place behind the teapot.

  Miss Needham, a flighty seventeen-year-old, clasped her hands at her breast. “Oh, Miss Stratton, we could not live another moment without seeing you again and wishing you well.”

  Not likely. “Thank you.” She let a less than gracious tone seep into her voice. “Gentlemen, please find seats. I have already called for more tea.”

  “Oh, the tea can wait.” Miss Stapleton, the most forward of the young ladies, patted her golden blonde hair. “We came to wish you the best, and also…Mr. Winnington.” She cast a searching glance around her, as if he had hidden under a sofa cushion. “Oh, I do not see the dear man.” She fluttered lashes so pale they almost disappeared against her fair skin. “Where can he be?”

  You know very well where he is. “He is outside working on his dam.”

  Miss Bane pressed her dainty fingers to her bosom, which, like Miss Beevor’s, threatened to topple out of her minuscule bodice. “Oh, perhaps we should see him first.” She blushed prettily. “And then we all can have tea afterwards.”

  “Very well.” Angela stood. “I shall take you out back.”

  Miss Stapleton waved as she bolted for the door, the other ladies crowding after her. “No need to trouble yourself. We can find our way.”

  Miss Beevor bounced out after Miss Stapleton. Miss Needham and Miss Bane reached the threshold at the same instant and got stuck in the doorway. Their sweet tones degenerated into screeches and hisses before they dislodged themselves from the door frame. With a long-suffering sigh, Mrs. Needham followed her daughter.

  Angela pinned a polite smile on her face, but she fumed inwardly. She did not want that flock of harpies fluttering over Mr. Winnington.

  Jealous, are we?

  Not in the least. I wish to protect Mr. Winnington.

  Mr. Winnington is a grown man. He can protect himself.

  As Mrs. Needham’s skirts vanished into the corridor, Angela turned her attention to the guests left behind—all men. “I fear your ladies have deserted
you, gentlemen.”

  Mr. Turnbull reached for her hand and opened his mouth to comment. Mr. Martyn shoved the man to the side, grabbed her fingers and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “Fear not, dear lady. We, or at least, I, have come to bask in the sunlight of your company.”

  The sunlight of my prospective money, you mean.

  Jaws dropped in disbelief at the idiotic comment. Sophia wrinkled her nose. As Mr. Martyn lowered her hand, Mr. Turnbull returned his shove and stepped in front of Angela. He also kissed her hand. “As have I.”

  Not to be outdone, the other gentlemen pressed forward. Voicing their utter devotion, they grabbed for her hands as they enclosed her in an ever-tightening circle of overly attentive men.

  “Come, come, gentlemen. Miss Stratton is most pleased to entertain you.” Masculine grunts of pain filled the air as Sophia elbowed her way none too gently to Angela’s side. “We have plenty of seats. Please select one.” Her steely gaze had the desired effect and the men fell back.

  In the confusion, Mr. Palk has regained his usual chair at Angela’s right. Mr. Martyn and Mr. Turnbull shoved each other again as they fought over the seat at her left. Mr. Martyn won. Grumbling, the three outmaneuvered gentlemen distributed themselves onto a row of stuffed chairs halfway across the room.

  “QUACK!”

  “What the deuce?” Mr. Turnbull, at one end of the row, jumped up and glared at the drake that emerged from under his chair.

  “Thaddeus, you bad boy. I keep telling you, no hiding under the furniture.” Angela patted her lap. “Come here right now.”

  As the duck waddled over to plop at Angela’s feet, another drake popped out from under Mr. Fane’s seat, the one beside Mr. Turnbull’s.

  Angela sighed. “And you, too, Theodore.”

  Mr. Martyn cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. “Thaddeus and Theodore?”

  The second bird settled at Angela’s feet. “Yes, they are brothers.”

  “QUACK!”

  Another drake emerged from under Mr. Fane’s chair.

  Mr. Turnbull jumped up again. “That duck bit me!”

  Angela gave another sigh. “Obadiah, what shall I do with you? Come here.”

  Obadiah’s avian regard swung from her to Mr. Fane. He bit Mr. Fane.