“No, Mr. Whitmore!” she shouted. “Lord Warefield! Duck!”
At her alarmed tone, Quin threw himself forward into the muddy grass without hesitation. Before he’d hit the ground, he remembered her tendency to disregard his best interests, though, and cursed at his continued stupidity. An instant later, a musket thundered and a ball whistled over his head.
Breathing hard, Quin lurched to his feet and whipped around to see Miss Willits forcefully wrench a musket out of an older man’s hands—one of the angry farmers he’d seen in pursuit of Miss Marguerite just the day before.
“Are you all right, Miss Willits?” he called, running back to the cabbage garden.
She quickly turned in his direction. “Yes, quite. And you, my lord?”
“No holes, thanks to you.” At least she appeared not to want him dead, which was a relief. He stopped in front of the red-faced farmer. “You would be Mr. Whitmore, I presume?”
Maddie cleared her throat and returned the musket to its owner. “My lord, may I present Mr. Whitmore, one of your uncle’s tenants? Mr. Whitmore, the Marquis of Warefield.”
“The Mar—oh, good holy God, I’m sorry, my lord.” Mr. Whitmore stumbled, blanching. “Terribly sorry.”
He jabbed his free hand out at Quin, who lifted an eyebrow as he shook it. “Mr. Whitmore.”
“I wasn’t aiming for you, my lord, oh, no. It’s just that blasted devil-spawned pig! That’s the third time this month the beast has gotten into my vegetables!”
The marquis slapped at the mud and vegetation which continued to cling to him. “I’m none too fond of the animal, myself. What say we help ourselves to a side of pork, eh?”
The farmer grinned and hefted the musket. “Aye, my lord.”
Miss Willits stepped forward and put her hand on the farmer’s shoulder. “If I might make an alternate suggestion, my lord,” she said hurriedly, “there will be piglets by May, and I’m certain no one would object if Mr. Whitmore chose the pick of Miss Marguerite’s litter for himself.”
The farmer scowled. “And what’s to keep her from taking the rest of my crop before then?”
“The new fence Mr. Bancroft will see that the Hartleburys put up, to keep her where she belongs.”
Mr. Whitmore eyed Maddie pleadingly, while Quin watched her with a great deal of interest. Langley didn’t at all look like a holding in dire need of aid and repair, and he’d already begun to have a very strong suspicion why. Miss Willits spoke for his uncle readily enough, and the fanner accepted it as a matter of fact. And when, in frustration, Quin had skimmed ahead in the ledgers yesterday, the last few pages hadn’t been in his uncle’s indecipherable scrawl, but in a much neater, distinctly feminine hand. Maddie Willits was turning out to be quite an unusual mistress indeed.
“All right, Miss Maddie. I’ll agree—if there ain’t any more escapes.”
Maddie smiled. “There won’t be.”
Considering that Miss Marguerite still wandered about in the wilds somewhere, it was an exceedingly bold statement. But the farmer bowed to Quin and turned away to examine the damage done to his cabbages.
She looked up at Quin. “Shall we continue your inspection, my lord?”
“Yes, of course. Though I’d like to return to Langley for a change of clothes first.”
“I thought you might, my lord,” she said mildly, perusing his water-, mud-, and grass-covered form with amusement, then turned to find Blossom.
Before she could ask the farmer for assistance in mounting, Quin stepped up behind her. Remembering her previous reaction to his touch, he cleared his throat. “If I may, Miss Willits.”
She faced him, and then, with an exaggerated sigh of annoyance that didn’t quite hide her discomfort, she nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”
Quin slowly reached out to place his hands on her slender waist. Though his gloves were as dirty as the rest of him, for once Miss Willits had nothing disparaging to say. He looked down into her eyes and slowly lifted her up into the saddle. As she met his gaze evenly, he caught himself wishing she would smile just once at him.
Reluctantly he released her and retrieved Aristotle. As he swung up onto the hunter, he glanced in her direction. She was watching him, but swiftly turned her face away as he met her gaze.
“That was well done, Miss Willits,” he complimented her, as they headed back down the road toward Langley. “You’ve granted Miss Marguerite a stay of execution.”
“She is the Hartleburys’ prize sow,” she replied. “Without the income from her offspring, they’d not be able to make a go of it.”
He waited for the omnipresent “my lord” to make an appearance. When it didn’t, he smiled at her back. Apparently she’d made enough of a fool of him this morning that she felt them to be on more even ground—which Quin somehow didn’t find insulting at all.
Chapter 4
Maddie shook her head and glared at her employer. “I had nothing to do with it,” she protested.
“He’s been here for one day, Maddie,” Mr. Bancroft returned, his expression equally exasperated. “Whatever you might think of the nobility, he is from a well-respected family. In addition, I happen to be rather fond of him. I cannot—I will not—have him drowned or shot! Is that clear?”
“How was I to know that Miss Marguerite had escaped again? Lord Warefield was the one who wanted to continue the pursuit, not me. And I didn’t fire the musket, either!”
He eyed her. “I’d not wager on any of that, girl.”
“I—”
“Under the circumstances, I won’t ask you to apologize. But I do think you might exert yourself to be polite tonight at dinner and when you call on the Fowlers tomorrow!”
Maddie halted her sharp retort. In the four years she’d lived at Langley, this was the first time he’d vented anything more than good-humored frustration on her. And she was abruptly worried that he might bring another attack upon himself if he continued shouting at her, or that he might just decide he’d been charitable enough with her and ask her to leave. It had happened before, in other households, and for much less cause.
“I apologize to you, then, Mr. Bancroft,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster, and turned to leave. She’d never liked losing, though, especially to a spoiled marquis, so she stopped in the doorway. “But I still think he was just trying to show off and ended up looking foolish. And that is certainly not my fault.”
“Perhaps not,” he sighed. “But do try not to kill him, won’t you, my dear? Please?”
She turned and curtsied, immensely relieved at the reluctant amusement returning to his voice. “I shall try,” she agreed solemnly, and headed downstairs.
Lord Warefield, accompanied by Walter, the groom, had left better than two hours ago to continue the Grand Tour of the surrounding fields. He hadn’t asked her to continue as his guide, thank goodness, and in fact had barely said a word to her on the ride back to the manor, despite her solicitous concern. His jade eyes, the only part of him that didn’t seem to be covered with grass and mud and water, had looked in her direction more than once, but she’d pretended not to notice. It really wasn’t her fault, for heaven’s sake—though she couldn’t have asked for a more perfect way to reintroduce him to Langley.
Maddie chuckled. If she were the Marquis of Warefield, she would be packing by now to leave. After an afternoon spent with Walter, she doubted he’d even want to stay the night.
Mr. Bancroft typically napped in the early afternoon, so she slipped downstairs into the library to read for an hour or so. Far from being its usual quiet haven, though, the room reverberated with excited rattlings from the nearby kitchen and dining room. With the determination of a conquering army, Mrs. Iddings, Garrett, and the other servants went about preparing dinner and polishing the contents of the silver closet. They’d already done that, and only four days ago, but no doubt Warefield had found a spot on some utensil or other.
Maddie glared at the wall, then sighed and settled deeper into the comfor
table chair. Entirely too much fuss and upheaval and upset, for no blasted reason. For heaven’s sake, covered in mud, the Marquis of Warefield looked just as ridiculous as any commoner, if not more so.
Still, the rest of the staff insisted on looking upon him as though he were Apollo himself. If only he’d thrown some sort of tantrum, her morning would have been complete. But she supposed that becoming hysterical in front of social inferiors would be beneath his dignity. Perhaps he’d wept in private when he’d gone to change his clothes.
She smiled at the image, though given how calmly Warefield had accepted both the dunking and being shot at, she had to admit that his distress was more likely fantasy than fact. But if he thought he’d survived the worst Langley and Maddie Willits had to offer, he was in for a surprise. Several, in fact. As the American John Paul Jones had said some forty years ago during the war with the Colonies, she had not yet begun to fight.
“I’ll take care of it myself.”
Maddie started at the marquis’s voice. Immediately following that, the library door opened, and the man himself strolled into the library.
“My thanks, Garrett,” he continued, looking back over his shoulder. “And please let me know when the post comes.”
“With pleasure, my lord.”
Warefield closed the door and turned around. And froze. “Miss Willits,” he said, clearly surprised to see her there. Jade eyes took her in as she sat curled up in Mr. Bancroft’s favorite chair, the unopened book still sitting across her lap.
“My lord,” she answered, straightening self-consciously and annoyed at the interruption. Of course he was surprised to see her. Servants did not drape themselves all over their employer’s furniture. No doubt he expected her to be in the kitchen or assisting with the silver polishing, or mopping some floor before his boots could tread upon it.
He nodded and turned back for the door. “My apologies. I didn’t realize the library was occupied.”
Quickly she stood and set the book aside. “Oh, please, my lord. Do not let me keep you from your literary pursuits. Your uncle must be awake by now; I’ll take him his tea.”
“It’s not necess—”
“Don’t trouble yourself, my lord, I beg of you.” Pasting another smile on her face, Maddie stepped past him. Dash it, she’d thought to be free of him until dinner, at least.
“Miss Willits, stop!”
Reaching for any remaining restraint, she stopped and turned to face him again. “Yes, my lord?” she ground out, though quite a few more colorful epithets came readily to mind.
“Do not leave the library on my account,” he said slowly, enunciating each word. “I came only to find some paper. I neglected to bring any with me, and I need to catch up on my correspondence.”
Of course he intended to report immediately to the Duke of Highbarrow on the poor state of Langley. “Oh, my lord!” she said, hurrying over to the small writing desk. “You should have told me! Allow me to fetch it for you. Pray do not exert yourself any further after the horror of this morning.”
The marquis narrowed his eyes. “I would hardly describe being outwitted by a pig as a horror,” he said dryly. “An embarrassment, perhaps.” He paused. “And a tale my brother would be delighted to hear. I shall have to determine whom to bribe to prevent that from happening.”
Of course, pompous peer that he was, he would think he could solve all his troubles—such as they were—with money. No doubt he always had. Maddie pulled a stack of paper from a drawer. As attractive as he looked, she knew what lay beneath his skin. And she would never like him—devilish captivating smile and pseudo-compassion or not.
“That was a joke, Miss Willits,” he prompted.
Surprised, she looked up as she approached him with the paper. His eyes met hers, his expression amused.
“Yes, my lord.”
“You may laugh if you wish, but I leave that wholly to your discretion.”
“Thank you, my lord.” So now he thought himself amusing and charming, as well. She might laugh at him, but she would never laugh with him. Ever. “I trust your tour of the fields went well?”
He lifted an eyebrow, his humor deepening. “Yes, quite. You know, I’d meant to ask you about that. My uncle’s groom is…rather unique.”
She nodded coolly. “Yes, we find him so, my lord.”
“Quite knowledgeable about southern Somerset County, but I admit I hadn’t anticipated his singular perspective on the nobility.”
Maddie pinched her lips together and looked out the window. “Yes, my lord.” She could feel his gaze on her, warm and discomfiting and unwelcome. Don’t laugh, she reminded herself sternly. He’s not amusing. “Apparently Walter was kicked in the head by a horse several years ago, and now believes himself to be a prince in hiding.”
“So I gathered.” The marquis took a step closer. “A son of the mad king, no less.” He reached out and took the paper gently from her fingers. “And I thought the residents of Somerset were unused to nobles.”
“Yes, we….” She trailed off. Now she was prolonging conversations with him for absolutely no good reason. “May I go now, my lord?”
“I said you needn’t leave, Miss Willits.”
“Yes, my lord, but I wish to go.”
His searching gaze made her want to turn away, or better yet, to spit in his eye. Or kiss him.
“Then go,” he said finally.
She blinked, stunned that she would think such a thing. “Thank you, my lord.”
Quin checked his appearance in the mirror one last time, while Bernard put away his day coat. No trace of the morning’s fiasco remained, other than the filthy pile of clothes Bernard had sent down to be washed, or failing that, destroyed. Even so, Quin couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that something was out of place.
“Is there anything else, my lord?” Bernard asked, closing the portmanteau.
“Hm?” Quin shook himself and turned to find his valet. “Beg pardon?”
“Was there anything else you required, my lord?”
“No. Thank you.” Quin scowled back at his reflection. “Bernard?”
The valet stopped his retreat. “My lord?”
“Do I have that beige coat with me? The one with the brown buttons?”
“No, my lord. My apologies. As your initial reaction to it was not entirely favorable, I did not realize you wished it packed. I shall send for it at once.”
The marquis nodded absently. “Very good. And another pair of boots, while you’re at it. I’m not convinced my riding boots are salvageable.”
“Of course, my lord.”
The valet slipped out of the room, and Quin took one last look at himself. Perhaps all the swimming and mucking about in the mud had addled his brain. All of his buttons were fastened correctly; he looked fine. Not too ostentatious, not too plain. Quin scowled at his reflection and turned away. He was acting like a damned dandy.
He headed for the west wing and his uncle’s bedchamber. Voices came from the half-open door, and he paused in mid-knock, his attention snared.
“Mr. Bancroft,” Maddie was saying, “I ordered it all the way from Surrey.”
Quin leaned against the wail, unused to hearing the genuine and infectious amusement in Miss Willits’s voice.
“It looks ridiculous.”
“It does not. It’s modern. If you just try it, you’ll see how much easier a time you’ll—”
“I’ll break my neck!”
Maddie laughed. “I’ll show you how easy it is.”
Intrigued, Quin peered around the doorway. Miss Willits sat in a wheeled wooden chair, which she moved back and forward erratically by pulling two overly large wheels on either side.
“A wheelchair,” he said, strolling into the room. “Mrs. Balfour uses one to get about now.”
Miss Willits stopped rolling and shot to her feet. The good humor in her gray eyes vanished as she glared up at him and took several quick breaths, the bosom of her green muslin dress rising and fallin
g enticingly in response. “Good evening, my lord.”
“Uncle, Miss Willits.” He nodded, disappointed. Maddie still hated him, apparently.
“Did someone die, my lord?” she asked politely.
He furrowed his brow. “Die?”
“Yes. Your coat, and….” She stopped and put one hand over her full, sensuous mouth. “Oh, my! My apologies. I have done it again, I fear. Black evening wear is quite the thing in London, no doubt.”
Quin realized what had been nagging at him earlier. Miss Willits’s sharp tongue. He glanced down at his garb and then met her eyes again. “It is, as a matter of fact.”
“And you look splendid in it, my boy.” Uncle Malcolm motioned for Quin to take one of the seats at the small table set beside the bed. “We may not be formal here, but there’s no reason to ignore custom.”
Quin caught his frown in time to force it into a smile. “Thank you, Uncle.”
He made his way to the table. At that moment, however, Miss Willits found an urgent need to rearrange the vase of flowers by the window. Patiently he stood, waiting for her to take her seat first. With the same apparent patience, Maddie turned a red rose this way and that, pausing between adjustments to lean back and view her work. Out of the corner of her eye she sneaked a look at him, then continued with her arranging.
Then he realized he’d been correct all along. Maddie Willits was purposely taunting him, teasing him, and attempting to embarrass, frustrate, and humiliate him. And so far, she’d done a sterling job of it. Why, he had no idea, but he intended to find out.
With a glance at his uncle, who pretended to be absorbed in studying the plate of roast game hen set across his lap, Quin moved around the table and pulled out her chair. “Miss Willits?”
She turned around. “Oh, dear. Were you waiting for me, my lord?”
He smiled. “I was admiring two of the fairest blooms in Somerset,” he corrected softly. “Waiting is my pleasure, I assure you.”
By Love Undone Page 5
