by Trisha Telep
He stared morosely out the kitchen door at the fields separating his cottage from the Briggs’ estate. He wished he understood the feminine mind. He’d thought he and Miss Briggs had reached a level where they could talk honestly. He’d hoped . . .
But she’d thought he was insulting her, when he thought he’d been showering her with fevered compliments and his genuine delight at finding a sympathetic ear. He had porridge for brains.
He’d sent round a note of apology. He’d asked the vicar to put in a word for him. He’d spoken to the Squire himself. But nothing had worked. They muttered platitudes about Miss Harriet coming around in her own time. But she was never at home when he called.
He sighed as he watched his daughter climb the back fence to gather wildflowers from the field. Verity apparently had a passion for flowers. He didn’t know one from another. A woman could help Verity grow a garden. He didn’t even know where to acquire seeds.
Perhaps he could ask Miss Briggs how one went about finding flower seeds. He could help Verity collect a bouquet, tie a ribbon about it and deliver it as a peace offering. Or gratitude for the kitten wrecking the furniture. Verity adored the creature.
He could practise a few compliments, although he felt a fool telling her she had eyes the colour of the sky and skin as soft as silk. She did, but he didn’t know how to say that.
After spending an hour in the company of the village ladies, Lucas knew of a certainty that Miss Briggs was the only local woman who met his needs, all his needs. He could hire a maid to clean cat hair. He could not hire an intelligent, desirable wife, one who could keep up with Verity and not drive him mad with inanities.
He saw no reason to give up on the woman he wanted, if all that parted them was his thickheaded pride and her damnably sensitive feelings. He would not have made major had he given up and simply obeyed orders instead of thinking for himself. Which was what Miss Briggs had been telling him – although he had difficulty applying such leadership to women. He’d learn.
The day was warm and there was no sense in making his laundry more difficult by dirtying a coat while hunting flowers. With no one about to see him, he abandoned his coat and followed Verity into the field.
Verity looked up in surprise when Lucas leaned over to pick a daffodil. She laughed in delight when he handed it to her. Together, they wandered deep into the field and a wooded area, collecting a ragged assortment of blooms that might make a lady smile. Maybe.
“Do you think we should put a ribbon around these and take them to Miss Harriet?” he asked when Verity seemed to be tiring of the game.
She nodded eagerly. Lucas was about to lift her on his shoulders and carry her back to the house, when he heard an impatient shout. He might be a thickheaded oaf, but he recognized Miss Harriet’s voice.
It was coming from the pasture where the Briggs’ tenant farmer had just loosed his bull.
He shoved the bouquet into Verity’s hands. “Take these back to the house and put them in water. I’ll bring Miss Briggs to visit shortly.”
He didn’t have time to wait and see that she obeyed. He took off at a lope around the fence, racing in the direction of the Briggs’ estate. He had a feeling Miss Harriet was much like Verity, often climbing into situations from which she could not easily be extracted.
The one he found her in caused him to stumble in horror.
The redoubtable Miss Briggs had climbed over a stile on the far side of the field, in apparent pursuit of a puppy. While she was scolding the terrified hound, a ton of beef on the hoof pawed the ground and swung its massive head back and forth behind a bush, where she could not see it. Even the puppy could sense the danger and cowered on its belly amid the grass.
Lucas would strangle the woman if he did not have failure of the heart first.
He had no weapon other than himself. Trotting alongside the fence, he sought to distract the bull from this woman in her unfashionably shortened riding skirts. He waved his arms to catch the animal’s attention and, when that was not sufficient, he climbed the fence and sat atop the rail, roaring curses.
Astonished, Miss Harriet looked up at his odd behaviour, then turned to follow his gaze. Her eyes widened as she glanced behind her to the bull pawing the ground.
Lucas nearly fell off the rail when she grabbed the pup, and the bull snorted and lowered his head at her motion.
“Don’t move!” he shouted at her. “He’s just looking for an excuse to attack.”
“I can’t very well stand here for the rest of my life,” she retorted, holding the wriggling pup.
“It will be a very short life if you move.” Too furious and terrified to be polite, Lucas leaped off the fence and began running around the bull’s rump, away from Miss Briggs.
The bull swung its head in his direction, bellowed and charged.
Running for his life, and Harriet’s, Lucas raced across the corner of the enclosed field, reaching the hedge on the other side with the bull’s hot breath on his neck. Grabbing a hawthorn branch that gave beneath his weight, he vaulted across the wizened limbs – into a mud puddle on the other side of the hedgerow.
“Major Sumner, Lucas!”
He heard Harriet’s panicked shouts as he tried to catch his breath after having lost it. Mud puddles were softer than the ground, but not by much.
Dainty ankles exposed, she climbed the stile, her expression gratifyingly concerned. He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled for being so careless, but the frightened tears streaking her cheeks dampened his temper. And in the end, she had listened to his orders and stayed still.
Thankfully, she’d used her excellent head to go against his less than clear orders and escape the field the minute it was safe to do so. Dazed, he wondered if he could appoint her to be general of his household. But that wasn’t what he wanted either.
Setting the pup on the ground, she raced to help Lucas up. “I am so sorry, Lucas. You are so brave! I had no idea . . .”
She was a mess in grubby wool and tousled curls. She was an angel of concern with tears flowing down her cheeks as she offered her bare, broken-nailed fingers to help him up.
He grabbed her hand. Admired her slender form in tawny yellow. Wanted to drive his fingers through her wild curls.
And tugged the hand she offered, yanking her into the mud wallow with him.
“You could have been killed!” he shouted. “Do you never look where you are going? Does it never occur to you that you might be more important than a damned animal?”
She spluttered, shoved her hands against his chest, and glared down at him. “What do you care? I’m just another nuisance who won’t fall in line and behave as I ought!”
He rolled her into the grass beside the mud wallow and swung over her, propping himself on his hands so he could trap her until she heard him out. “I don’t need a field sergeant! Or a decorative piece of church plaster. I need a woman, one who understands Invisible Girls and is willing to put up with Impossible Men. I need a soft woman who cuddles children and lets me pretend I’m useful. I need a woman who looks beautiful with mud in her hair and straw on her hem. And you’re the only damned one I know who fits the bill!”
She blinked, and her heavenly sky-blue eyes stared up at him in wonder. “Me? I am not beautiful. Or decorative,” she reminded him.
“Decorative is useless. Decorative sits about collecting dust. Beautiful is alive and glittering with sunshine and smelling of roses. Don’t make me speak poetry because I don’t know any.”
“I think you just did,” Harriet murmured in awe, watching the passionate play of expressions across Lucas’ strongly masculine face. She had not thought him capable of feeling anything. She had been wrong. He looked like a man in torment. In wonder, she daringly touched his jaw.
His head instantly descended to cover her lips with a kiss that heated her blood in ways she’d never known possible.
When he finally came up for air, his eyes glittered with triumph. “Marry me, Miss Briggs. Show me what
I’ve missed all these years.”
Left breathless, she could scarcely gather her thoughts. “I am outside more than I am in. I am not much at supervising the laundry and housekeeping,” she warned, even though she wished to bite her tongue. “And if you are in the habit of dripping mud, I suspect you have a great need for both.”
“I suspect between the three of us, we can use an entire village of servants,” he countered. “I can command the housemaids to clean and you can command the stable boys to muck, if that is your preference.”
“I like animals and children,” she added, heart in her throat, fearful she would drive off the one man she’d ever wanted. “I will look after them before I look after the house.”
Undeterred, he planted kisses across her face. “If you will think of me and Verity as your pets, I will come courting properly. I can buy you candy. I have a bouquet for you back at the house.”
She shook her head, put a finger to her lips, and glanced sideways.
Lucas followed her gaze.
Clutching the ragged bouquet, Verity waited in the shrubbery until they noticed her. Then, holding out the flowers, she said, “Will you marry us, Miss Harriet? We love you.”
Weeping, Harriet flung herself into Lucas’ arms and let him reassure her that finally, finally she had found someone who loved and understood her, and not her dowry.
“We love you, Miss Harriet,” Lucas repeated softly, hugging her as she had longed to be hugged. “Will you love us back?”
And she nodded fiercely, speechless for possibly the first time in her life.
The Piano Tutor
Anthea Lawson
“My Lady.” The butler tapped at Diana Waverly’s half-open door. “The piano tutor is here.” He hesitated, a furrow marring his usually placid brow.
“Well, it is Wednesday.” Diana laid her last black dress in the trunk she had been filling, then carefully closed the lid. “Tell Samantha it’s time for her lesson. I’ll be down directly.”
The butler remained in the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Forgive me, My Lady, but it . . . er, it is not the customary piano tutor. It is an altogether different gentleman.”
She blinked. “But Mr Bent is Samantha’s tutor. We have no other.”
“I tried to tell him as much, but the gentleman insists.”
Diana stood, frowning. “I’ll see to him.” They had few callers – the inevitable result of turning down a season’s worth of invitations – and never unannounced visitors.
Tucking up a stray auburn curl, she started down the hallway towards the wide second-floor landing. Mr Bent had said nothing of this. He was quite reliable – if a bit dour to be tutoring a girl still recovering from the loss of her father.
At the top of the stairs she halted, pulled from her thoughts by the sound of music pouring from the parlour below. Someone very skilled was playing the piano.
She rested her hand on the mahogany banister and listened. Note after note tumbled through the entryway, reverberating between the high ceiling and marble floors. Sunlight streamed through the landing windows, making the dust motes swirl and glitter like gilded dancers.
Her stepdaughter Samantha joined her, her wiry twelve-year old body leaning over the railing. “I didn’t know Mr Bent could actually play the piano.”
“It’s not Mr Bent.” That much was clear, though who it might be and why he was in her parlour was a mystery Diana could not fathom.
She descended the stairs, the music growing fuller and more present with every step. She paused a moment at the parlour door, then – with a fortifying breath – went in. The instant she crossed the threshold, the music ceased. The magic that had been spilling into the house folded in upon itself and disappeared.
But its source remained – a broad-shouldered man with brown hair and intelligent grey eyes. He stood when he saw her and bowed with an easy grace. “My Lady.”
She studied the stranger. Handsome, undeniably, with those compelling eyes and a smile that seemed genuine. He looked nothing like the stoop-shouldered and outmoded Mr Bent. For one thing, he was a good deal younger – he looked to be no more than a handful of years older than herself.
“Sir?” She hardly knew what to say. “Please explain yourself.”
“Viscountess Merrowstone.” The stranger’s voice was rich and complex, the syllables of her title unexpectedly smooth to her ears. “Mr Nicholas Jameson, at your service. I’ve come to substitute for Mr Bent, who has been called away unexpectedly.”
“This is most irregular. I was not informed there was to be a replacement.” She faced him squarely, ready to send him on his way. That was what she intended to do, but the words came out all wrong. “You play quite well.”
He tipped his head, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “That would be a requirement, wouldn’t it?”
“One would assume so.” Though his bearing made her think he would be more suited to leaping a stallion over hedgerows than giving piano lessons to a twelve-year old. “You’re quite certain you’re a piano tutor?”
“Let me assure you of my qualifications.” He extended an envelope. “I’ve a letter of recommendation from Lady Pembroke. You’re acquainted, I believe?”
Diana nodded. Indeed, Lucy was a good friend, possessed of a generous spirit – though she was more than a little scandalous. Henry had not approved of their friendship. Diana’s gaze slipped past Mr Jameson to the portrait of her late husband, Lord Henry Waverly, Viscount Merrowstone. His stern, formal features watched impassively, a cultivated remoteness in his expression. Solid and predictable in the portrait, just as in life. Lucy had annoyed him to no end.
Swallowing a sigh, Diana turned her attention to her friend’s curling script.
Dearest Diana – I commend Mr Nicholas Jameson to you as a piano tutor. He has provided my own Charlotte with lessons and has proven quite satisfactory. May I also point out – in case you had not noticed – that he is extremely handsome? He strikes me as a perfect diversion now that you have finally come out of mourning. I encourage you to take him on – in whatever capacities suit your needs. Pianists have such skilled hands.
Diana felt her cheeks burn as she glanced up at the gentleman in question. No doubt it had amused Lucy to have Mr Jameson deliver such an outrageous “reference” in person.
“I see that she recommends you highly, sir,” Diana said, biting her lip to avoid an embarrassed giggle. “I suppose we might consider having you.” Oh dear, that hadn’t sounded quite proper. She cleared her throat. “I mean hiring you. It wouldn’t do to neglect Samantha’s lessons while Mr Bent is away.”
“Oh, please hire him,” Samantha said, peeking out from behind the doorway. She came in and stood on tiptoe to whisper in Diana’s ear. “He seems ever so much nicer than Mr Bent.”
It was quite outside the regular course of things, yet there was no mistaking the eager note in Samantha’s voice. No mistaking that Mr Jameson was, as Lucy had mentioned, a very handsome man.
Her stepdaughter turned to him. “I heard you playing. It was marvellous! How do you do the part with your left hand? Could you show me?”
“Of course.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “It’s simple once you get the trick of it. Have you played any Mozart?”
“Oh yes!”
“Then you’ll be able to master it easily. That is . . .” He raised a questioning brow at Diana.
“Oh very well,” she said. “It appears you will be our replacement tutor until Mr Bent returns.” She ignored Samantha’s muffled squeal. “Can you begin today?”
A spark leaped into his eyes. “Immediately.”
Looking at him made heat creep into her cheeks. Despite herself, Lucy’s advice rang in her head. As if she would consider something so scandalous as commencing an affair with the piano tutor. Really, her friend had no sense of propriety.
Samantha hurried to seat herself at the piano bench. “I’m ready!”
Diana was not sure whether she herse
lf was ready, but events seemed to be carrying her along. She settled into the nearby wing-back and straightened the rich indigo skirts of her new dress. It was odd to wear colours again. She had grown so accustomed to the solid black of mourning that she felt vulnerable without it. A part of her wanted to retreat back into its safety – but that was not fair to Samantha. Diana could not deny the hopeful light in the girl’s eyes, the flash of her rare grin as she attempted to mimic Mr Jameson’s command of the keyboard.
As was customary during Samantha’s lessons, Diana picked up her newest copy of the Ladies’ Monthly, but the fashion plates held no interest for her. Her eyes kept wandering from the illustrations to steal quick glances at the new tutor – his long-fingered hands as he played a run of notes, the way his brown hair tumbled over his collar. More than once he seemed to sense her attention and she had to quickly drop her gaze back to the unseen pages.
The sound of his voice was so different from Mr Bent’s dry tones, and his praise and encouragement drew another flashing smile from Samantha. Something inside Diana uncoiled a notch, a deep tension she had not realized she had been carrying.
The shape of his muscular shoulders was barely concealed by the cut of his coat as he leaned forwards to demonstrate some point. He radiated confidence and mastery. She imagined that everything he did would benefit from that focused energy.
From this angle he was in profile. His jaw was firm, his nose straight, his mouth strong, yet sensitive. She traced her own lips with a fingertip, then caught herself and hurriedly dropped her hand before he could notice.
Mr Jameson turned to face her. “Will you?” he asked.
Diana’s breath faltered as their gazes held a heartbeat too long. Clearly she had missed an important turn in the lesson while daydreaming.
“Sing for us,” Samantha said, a touch of impatience in her voice. “Mr Jameson has been showing me a marvellous pattern for accompanying songs, but I don’t think I can sing and play at the same time.”
