Quin pushed away from the wall to perform a rescue.
Maddie shoved harder against the back of the chair, and with a sucking sound it came free of the mud. “See?” she said, moving him toward the roses at the far end of the garden. “Now, where were we?”
Malcolm produced a small book from the mountain of blankets surrounding him and opened it. “Let’s see. Beatrice was telling Benedick that scratching up his face wouldn’t make it look any worse.”
She smiled. “Ah. And Benedick says, ‘Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.’” She released the chair and pranced in front of Malcolm, putting her hands on her hips. “And Beatrice rightly replies, ‘A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.’” As Malcolm awkwardly applauded, she turned about again and assumed a more masculine stance and voice. “‘I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and…’”
Quin cursed as she caught sight of him. Immediately she ceased her recitation and went back to pushing his uncle toward the rosebushes. Quin strode after them. “‘I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer,’” he finished.
“Ah, Quinlan. Good afternoon.” Malcolm twisted around to greet his nephew.
“Miss Willits, I didn’t know you enjoyed Shakespeare.” He wanted to ask her where in blazes she’d learned to quote the bard by heart.
She turned to face him, her face flushed. “Of course you didn’t know, my lord,” she snapped, obviously embarrassed. “No doubt you also were unaware that your uncle enjoys it as well, or that he was quite looking forward to seeing you after four years—or you might have spent more than two hours speaking with him over the past three days.”
“Maddie, that’s enough,” Malcolm said sharply. “I can fend for myself, thank you very much. You should not speak to Quinlan in that manner.”
“Well, obviously no one else does.” She turned to Quin. “Will you see your uncle safely back to his bedchamber?”
“Yes.” He wondered why her words made him feel so completely…inadequate.
“Thank you. Mr. Bancroft, I’m going to see Squire John.” With a flounce of her skirts, she stalked off around the side of the manor.
Quin looked down at Malcolm, who had an expression of mixed amusement and exasperation on his face. “I hadn’t realized I’d been slighting you,” he said quietly, crouching at his uncle’s side.
Malcolm glanced at him, then smiled and patted his nephew on the cheek. “You didn’t come here to be my nursemaid. You came to see that Langley remains a profitable holding.”
“Yes, we must keep up appearances.” He stood again and gripped the handles of the chair. “Do you wish to go inside, or see the roses?”
“I thought you’d be headed out to the fields to oversee the plowing.”
“I changed my mind. Which direction?”
Malcolm’s shoulders relaxed a little. “The roses, then, if you don’t mind. I haven’t been out of doors in nearly two months. And Maddie seems to have a unique understanding of the plants.”
Quin resumed their trek. “Must be all the thorns.”
His uncle laughed. “You may be right.” He sobered and turned his head to look up at Quin. “Just remember how beautiful is the flower they protect.”
“You don’t mind her going off to visit this squire?”
“John Ramsey? No, he’s a good fellow. I’ve known him and his sister since they were born.” They stopped beside the nearest bush. “In fact, you used to play with him when you came to visit, as I recall.”
Quin closed one eye, searching his memory. “John Ramsey…wasn’t he the one who liked frogs?”
“No, that was Rafe. John was the one always building boats.”
“Oh, I remember. Quiet little fellow.”
“Yes, that’s him. He’s got a new irrigation system. He and some mathematician from Edinburgh came up with it. Maddie’s been itching to try it on our north field.”
“Why didn’t she say anything to me about it?”
“I assume she didn’t think you’d be interested. It’d add at least another week to your stay. We’ll put it in next year. I should be up and about by then.”
There it was again, that criticism, the assumption that he’d rather be elsewhere. The assumption that he was only doing his duty. “Perhaps I’ll invite this squire up to the far field in the morning.”
Malcolm smiled in pleased surprise. “Splendid.”
In the morning, when Lord Warefield invited her to accompany him out to the fields again, Maddie wasn’t certain she’d be able to keep her temper even for the short carriage ride to the crossroads. He must realize by now how much she detested him, yet it hadn’t discouraged him one bit. That he’d sat with his uncle for most of the evening, playing piquet and being generally agreeable, didn’t mean anything.
She hadn’t mentioned his visit to Squire John or Lucy when she’d gone visiting, and though they must have known of his presence at Langley, they had been tactful enough not to bring it up. As she and the marquis came in view of the crossroads, she was therefore surprised to see the squire seated on his gelding, Dullard, apparently waiting for them.
“Good morning,” Warefield said brightly, leaning from the curricle and holding out his hand. “John Ramsey. I believe I owe you an apology for sinking a boat several years ago.”
“No apology necessary—though as I recall, it was nearly an entire fleet.” The squire shook the marquis’s hand. “Thank you for asking me out here. I was beginning to believe Maddie was the only one interested in modernizing hereabouts.”
They rode over to John’s holding to view the new irrigation system, and despite her skepticism, Maddie had to concede that the marquis’s interest seemed genuine. Even more surprising, when she tried to make an escape into Harthgrove later, Lord Warefield volunteered to accompany her.
“I’d like to put in an order immediately for the planking we’ll need to go about putting that system in at Langley,” he said.
“But I’m only going to bring bread and vegetables to some of the tenants,” she protested, as Walter helped her lift baskets into the back of the curricle.
“I’ll go with you as my uncle’s representative,” he offered, loading another basket.
“I am your uncle’s representative,” she snapped.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Very well, Miss Willits. May I accompany you to Harthgrove as no one at all?”
She clenched her jaw. “As you wish, my lord.”
Maddie clambered onto the seat first and took the reins, clucking to the team as soon as she was settled. Still climbing up on the other side, the marquis nearly ended on his backside in the stable yard, but he managed to hang on and make his way onto the seat beside her. “Remind me not to turn my back on you, Maddie,” he said.
She stifled an unexpected smile and concentrated on picking the most rutted part of the road all the way into Harthgrove. The vegetables no doubt got a little bruised, and so did her backside, but at least the marquis was too occupied with hanging on to try to converse.
When they reached the village, she pulled up the carriage. “The mercantile shop is over there,” she said, pointing, “and the cottages I visit are further down the lane. Shall we meet here in an hour, my lord?”
He hopped to the ground and stepped around to offer her his hand. “I’m in no hurry, Miss Willits. And I’d like to meet more of Langley’s tenants.”
Reluctantly she gripped his fingers, and he helped her to the ground. “Why?”
Warefield shrugged. “I thought that by carrying a few baskets I might be of some use to you.”
“Why would a marquis wish to be of use to me, of all people?” she asked, trying to ignore his tall, compelling warmth beside her as she gathered up baskets.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he replied, taking the rest of the load himself.
She strode off down the lane, her green muslin skirts raising a light dust. A moment later, the marquis appeared beside her, his long legs taking th
e fast pace much more easily than her own. “Don’t you have better things to do, my lord?” she suggested desperately. “The planting? The irrigation construction?”
He looked down at her and grinned. “Trying to get rid of me?”
Maddie sniffed and continued on her way. The other pedestrians stopped and stared as the Marquis of Warefield strolled down their dusty avenue. The bowing and curtseying that followed in their wake made Maddie feel as if she were leading some sort of parade, though of course everyone ignored her. At the Simmonds cottage she stopped and rapped on the door.
Usually one of the children rushed to the door and pulled it open. This morning, though, all she received was a muffled, “Come in, if ye please.”
With a slight frown Maddie pulled the latch and pushed the door open—and stopped. With the exception of Mr. Simmonds, who was in Dorsetshire tending his sick mother, the entire Simmonds clan stood in a line along one wall of the cottage. The seven children, with Mrs. Simmonds in the middle, all bowed in ragged unison as the marquis stepped into the dark room beside her.
“My lord,” they mumbled.
With renewed glee, Maddie set about introducing each of them to Lord Warefield as she set the basket on the small stone hearth and retrieved the emptied one from the week before. The children, especially the youngest of them, regarded the marquis with complete awe. He looked like a lean, tawny lion in a cage filled with squeaking mice as they leapt around him. Even after the performance was repeated twelve more times as they went from cottage to cottage, though, Warefield appeared only slightly embarrassed by the whole worshipful crowd, and not at all out of sorts.
“What shall I do with all the flowers they’ve given me?” he asked, as they returned to the curricle.
“I always make them up into a bouquet for your uncle’s room,” she said, dumping the empty baskets back into the carriage.
He examined the substantial handful of spring wildflowers for a moment, then met her eyes. “These are usually meant for you, then,” he said, and held them out to her.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, embarrassed, and turned for the mercantile shop. No man had ever given her flowers before. Not even Charles. And she certainly had no intention of accepting a gift from the Marquis of Warefield. “We’d best put in an order for those planks.”
“But I want you to have them,” he insisted, not moving.
Maddie sighed heavily to cover her sudden discomfiture. Damn him for unsettling her so. Making a show of annoyance, she turned back around and took the bouquet from his fingers. “Thank you.” She placed them in one of the baskets and faced him again. “May we go now?”
He smiled at her, though she couldn’t see what in the world he was so pleased about. She’d only give them to Mr. Bancroft once they returned to Langley.
“By all means,” he said, gesturing her to precede him. “Let’s order those planks.”
The next morning Malcolm had fresh roses in his bedchamber, which meant that Maddie either had kept the wildflowers for herself, or thrown them away. But she had accepted them from him, and without a negative comment.
Considering the opposition she’d been putting up, Quin felt a bit like Wellington at Waterloo. Perhaps the victory wasn’t as definitive, nor as spectacular, but nevertheless he whistled as he rode out to the fields. She’d been in hiding all morning and had failed to appear for breakfast altogether. Most likely she was licking her wounds and readying for another attack—but Quin had been doing some battle planning of his own.
There was something about her—something he needed to pursue. He didn’t quite know whether it was out of curiosity, or because he was, after all, a male and she was lovely. But the more skeptically she viewed him, the more determined he became to erase that look from her face.
He dismounted, leaving Aristotle to graze in the meadow while he headed for the group of farmers. Better yet, he wanted the opportunity to show Maddie Willits that not all of the nobility were as pompous as she apparently thought. And he knew just where he’d like to prove that to her, as well. In his bed, with her long auburn hair swept out across the white pillows, and….
“Look out, my lord!”
Quin blinked and stepped back just in time to avoid being run down by a very large plow horse. The nearest of the fanners eyed him, but immediately went back to clearing the field when he looked in their direction. He shook himself and bent down to clear a few of the last stones out of the plowed earth.
He was helping unload sacks of seed when he realized he’d forgotten about Eloise’s correspondence. Rarely did he answer her letters on the same day he received them; he was often extremely busy, and besides, it seemed somewhat weak-kneed of him to do so. After all, he was not a dewy-eyed romantic, and he had had an understanding with Eloise since they were children. But forgetting completely was entirely uncharacteristic.
Remembering Maddie’s harsh words about his concern over his uncle, Quin made a point of returning to the manor for luncheon with Malcolm. Again Maddie was nowhere in sight. “Where is Miss Willits this afternoon?” he asked offhandedly.
“Potting.”
Quin looked up. “Beg pardon?”
“In the garden shed,” Malcolm explained. “Maddie’s roses have become quite popular in Somerset. They’re in great demand in the spring, so she roots cuttings and sends them to the neighbors.”
So she didn’t hate everyone, then. Just marquises—or just the Marquis of Warefield. Quin pursed his lips, trying to decide how much he could ask Malcolm without giving away his own growing interest. “Malcolm, might I ask you a question?”
“Certainly.”
“Why does Miss Willits seem to…dislike me so intensely? I haven’t done anything to offend her, have I?”
Malcolm grinned. “You’ll have to ask her. It’s not for me to say.”
Quin sighed and climbed to his feet. “You warned me to be careful with her. You might have warned me to bring a suit of armor along, as well.”
His uncle only laughed.
Seeing Eloise’s letter propped up on his dressing table reminded him once more that he hadn’t written since he’d set out for Langley. With an impatient glance out the window toward the garden, he sat and pulled out a pen and some ink.
Dearest Eloise,
Uncle Malcolm is doing well. Unfortunately, it appears that I’ll be staying here longer than we’d planned—in addition to the crops and accounts, a new irrigation system is needed at Langley. No real adventures to speak of….
Quin sat back. That last part wasn’t exactly true, but he didn’t wish to relate the near-drowning or near-shooting incidents, and he doubted Eloise would find his war with Miss Marguerite amusing. Nor was she likely to appreciate his odd battle of wits with Miss Willits.
He dipped the pen again.
…but Langley is rather rustic. I still plan to visit you at Stafford Green before the Season. Please give my regards to your father.
Yours,
Quinlan
It wasn’t very long, but it would have to do for now. He’d give her more details in the next missive, when he knew how much longer he’d be staying. He sealed the letter, scrawled Eloise’s address on the outside, and left it for Garrett to send out with the post.
He restlessly wandered about the house for a while, hoping Maddie would return from her seclusion before he had to return to the fields. Exasperated, he looked through the morning room window just in time to see her green skirt disappearing into the garden shed. Quin started outside, then stopped. If he appeared, she’d only accuse him of following her and neglecting his duty to Malcolm, and to Langley—and he’d damned well heard enough of that rubbish. So he’d have to be certain he wasn’t neglecting anything.
Inspiration hit. “Aha,” he muttered, grinning, and headed into the office at the far end of the hallway. Lifting the last ledger book out of its drawer, he flipped to the page where the handwriting changed.
With the book tucked under his arm, he marched into bat
tle. “Miss Willits?” he called, making a show of looking about the grounds for her. “Miss Willits, are you here?”
For several moments she neglected to answer, but just as he was beginning to think he’d have to “accidentally” discover her in the potting shed, she emerged.
“Yes, my lord?” she said, brushing a stray lock of auburn hair back behind her ear.
“Ah, Miss Willits. I’ve a question for you.”
Distrust entered her gray eyes as she watched him open the ledger. He stepped over next to her, holding the book so she could see it, too. She smelled of earth and lavender, and dirt smudged her fingers and one cheek. And the heat that began coursing along his veins had absolutely nothing to do with simple curiosity.
Attempting to return his attention to the accounts, Quin pointed at one of the last entries, dated only two days before. She’d been sneaking in and doing the accounts while he was out working—after he’d asked her to refrain from touching them. “What is this?”
She leaned a little closer to him to look at the page, then glanced up at his face. “How should I know, my lord?”
“Do you think me a complete idiot, Miss Willits?” He stifled a smile as she opened her mouth to respond. “No, don’t answer that. Allow me to explain. Here,” and he turned back several pages, “is my uncle’s writing. The only Bancroft with worse writing is my brother.” He pointed at another, much later entry. “This is my writing. Not much better, but at least you can tell the t’s from the w’s.” He returned to the indicated page and its rows of neat entries. “And this writing, I believe, is yours.”
She gave the page a sour look. “All right, my lord, I confess. I know how to do arithmetic.” She pointed at one of the lines. “But if you’ll note, my lord, nowhere did I allow my writing to touch yours.”
Ignoring that, he lowered the book to look at her. “Why didn’t you say you’d been tending Langley?”
“We wrote as much to your father.” Maddie met his gaze. “You didn’t seem to be interested.”
Actually, he was more interested than he cared to admit. “Why don’t we say that I was ignorant of the facts? You’ve done a great deal of good here, both for my uncle and for the Bancrofts.”
By Love Undone Page 8
