by Leenie Brown
Lydia’s weary body welcomed sleep, and just as it had in the shed, it did not wake of its own accord. However, this time it was not the gentle and playful fingers of the sun which woke Lydia but the banging of a door and a masculine voice.
Lydia tucked herself into the chair as best she could. The back of the chair was nearly turned completely toward the door, so perhaps if she were very still, she would not be noticed. She sucked in her breath and closed her eyes as she listened to the sound of boots thumping through the cottage.
Marcus Dobney peered into all the rooms in the cottage and was about to lock the door and leave when he heard a small, muffled sneeze from the sitting room. He shook his head. He had looked in that room and seen no one. Another sneeze. Ah, the chair by the fireplace! How had he neglected to check there?
He crept into the room, coming up behind the chair. “I heard you sneeze,” he said as he stood behind the chair and looked down at the occupant. “Miss Lydia?” he asked in surprise as she squealed and shot to her feet.
She whirled on him. “That was not nice. You frightened me half to death.” She placed her hands on her hips and glared at the intruder, who looked oddly familiar. “How do you know my name?”
He chuckled and leaned on the back of the chair. “It is also not nice to be stealing into cottages that do not belong to you.” He tipped his head and smirked as her eyes narrowed. She looked as defiant now as she had last evening when they had been introduced. “You do not remember me?”
Lydia shook her head, but then her brows furrowed, and her mouth formed a perfect o as her eyes grew wide, and she began to recall why the fine looking gentleman leaning on the back of the tired old chair looked so familiar. “You were with Captain Harris.” She bit her lip as she strained to remember his name. To be honest, she had not been focused on much yesterday except convincing her uncle that she did not need to marry Wickham. There had been two gentlemen who had come to call, and then Jane escorted them to the garden to find Miss Dobney. That was it! “Mr. Dobney, is it?” Lydia fluttered her lashes just a bit and smiled sweetly. Most of the men she had met responded well to such an expression.
Marcus nodded and motioned for Lydia to be seated on the settee near the window as he pulled the chair to face it. “Why are you here in my cottage when you should be at Willow Hall?”
Lydia watched his fingers unbutton his jacket as he sank into the chair and swung one leg over the other. This was his cottage? Her brows furrowed once again. Surely, a man who wore such beautiful clothes did not live in this tiny dust-covered cottage. “You live here?”
He chuckled again. It was a sound that Lydia found dreadfully infuriating. There was no need to laugh at her for asking a simple question.
“No, I do not live here, but just the same, the cottage is mine ─ or will be when I come into my inheritance.” He leaned forward. “Now, tell me why I should not call the constable to report a vagrant?”
Lydia pulled herself up and looked down her nose at the man across from her. “I am not a vagrant. I merely needed a place to rest, and the door was unlocked.” She folded her arms. “It seems very careless of you to leave your inheritance unlocked.”
He chuckled again, and she huffed. “My steward forgot to lock it yesterday when he was checking on the fields. That is why I am here. I told him I would see to it.”
“It is not well-tended,” she muttered.
He raised a brow at the comment but let it pass. “You are avoiding my question.”
She smiled at him again and rose from her seat. “I am sorry, but I must be on my way. If you could just point me in the direction of Kympton.”
This time he laughed out loud. “Sit down.”
If she were not so irritated with him, she might have taken a moment to admire his smile. It was very nice. Very nice, indeed. But she was not in a mood to admire his pleasant mouth or his lovely brown eyes that were currently sparkling with amusement.
He pointed to the settee, and she sat. “You were going to Kympton?”
“I may have gotten turned about in the woods,” she admitted.
“You most certainly did,” he replied.
“It was dark,” she mumbled.
His eyes grew wide. “You were travelling at night?”
“Of course,” she smoothed her skirts, so she would not have to look at his face. It was a handsome face and wearing an expression she particularly did not like — especially on a handsome face. Handsome men were to look at her with interest, of course, but not as he was. His expression was one that spoke of him wondering quite loudly about her mental abilities. “It is far easier to make an unnoticed exit when it is dark and everyone is asleep.” She skewered him with a challenging look. “I do not suppose you remember doing anything so exciting in your youth?” There, that ought to grate, but just to make certain it did –“Not that I am calling you old, per se.” She smiled and fluttered her lashes. “I am just saying you are not young.” The effect was as she had hoped. His smile faded, and his eyes narrowed. Displeasure she could allow on a handsome face.
“I was never so foolish in my youth.”
She shrugged.
He could see the anger at his comment by the set of her mouth and the narrowing of her eyes. His sister, Mary Ellen, would often respond in such a fashion when she did not wish to continue a particular discussion.
“Now, tell me why a girl,” he emphasized the word, enjoying the darkening in her eyes, “like you is sneaking off in the night? A secret rendezvous? Perhaps with Wickham?” He attempted to keep his tone from growling the name, but his success was only limited.
She shot to her feet, grabbed her bag, and would have left if Marcus had not blocked her path.
She stepped close to him, so close that she had to tip her head up to glare at him. “I am not a girl!”
He swallowed as he looked down at her. Her figure was definitely not girlish. However, the stamp of her foot was.
“And I do not know why everyone insists that I would even consider a man like Mr. Wickham.” She visibly shuddered as she said his name.
“Perhaps it is because, as I have heard tell, you flirted with him in Brighton and then travelled with him for several days.” He folded his arms across his chest in an attempt to avoid seeing any more of her than her face when he looked down. She rolled her large hazel eyes at him and pursed her lovely lips, causing him to swallow once again.
“As I explained to my uncle, a man such as Mr. Wickham is easily led. A mention of exposing his swindling to the ones he has played for fools and a hint that a rumour of doing harm to me might reach Mr. Darcy ensured me safe passage.”
“A lady is never safe with a man like Wickham,” growled Marcus.
Her eyes sparkled at the comment — most fetchingly he thought.
“So, I am now a lady?” She smiled at him and raised an eyebrow. Then, swiftly, she took a step to her right and scooted past him. “I really must be on my way, for as you say, no lady is safe with a man such as Wickham, so it is best that I do not remain where I might be forced to be tied to him in marriage.” She threw the words over her shoulder as she hurried to the door of the cottage.
Marcus chased after her and grabbed her by an elbow. “You are not leaving. You are returning to Willow Hall. Your family must be worried.”
She wrenched her arm free. “I am not returning to Willow Hall!”
He reached for her arm once again, but she pulled it away. “You are,” he said as he took two long strides to catch up to her again.
“No. I am not.” She began to run.
“You are being a fool.”
“I will not marry him, Mr. Dobney. I will not!”
He sighed and ran after her. “Perhaps, but you must return to your family.” He pulled her bag from her hand and sat it on the ground behind him.
“Give me my bag!”
“No, not until you are at Willow Hall.”
“Oh, you are infuriating.”
He smiled as she stam
ped her foot.
“Very well, I shall go to Willow Hall with you, but I am not staying.”
“Yes, you are.” He chuckled at her scowl. “You are a rather adorable girl even when you are put out.” He called to his horse. “I will need a way to get home,” he explained.
“I am not a girl,” she muttered as she stood there waiting for him to tie her bag onto his horse.
“And I am not old,” he retorted and began walking with Lydia scampering behind, trying to keep pace with his long strides.
Chapter 2
Marcus kept his pace quick, glancing over his shoulder now and then to make sure that Lydia was keeping within sight of him. He knew it would be far more gentlemanly and courteous to slow his pace to hers, but he was also certain it would be more difficult for her to berate him if he kept her at a distance and nearly out of breath. If only he had been right!
“You are doing this to vex me,” she called. “Ouch.”
He stopped and looked back to see that she was well. “Mind the branches.”
“If you would slow down, I might be at leisure to do so,” she spat back.
“If you would stop complaining, I might willingly slow down.” He gave her a crooked smile. “However, it seems a young thing like you should be able to keep up with an old man like me.” He ran a hand over his horse. Content that his horse was faring well, he turned and continued walking.
“I did not say you were old,” she called.
“Per se,” he returned.
Oh, he was as irritating as he was attractive, which made it all that much more frustrating. She should be imagining knives in his back instead of noticing how wide his shoulders were or how muscular, his legs. Why could he not act as every other handsome man she had met? If he did, she would not be marching at a ferocious pace through the woods. “I am not going any further,” she said, stopping and taking a seat on a fallen log. “My feet hurt.” She held her breath. Surely, he would not leave her alone in the woods. He took three more steps before turning in her direction once again.
“If you stay there, I will bring your uncle to you,” he called.
Her mouth dropped open. He would leave her? She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. She was positive that he was too far away to see her scowl, but she wore it none-the-less. “A gentleman would not abandon a lady,” she called in an attempt to goad him into staying.
Had her tone not been one resembling that of a willful child, he might have taken the comment as an insult. But since it was most definitely spoken in a tone of one trying to get her way, it did not injure his pride in the least. It did, however, raise his ire. “It is fortunate for me, then, that you are not a lady.”
The responding huff was rather satisfying to Marcus.
“Now,” he called to her, “will you stay where you are, if I promise to bring a horse with me for you to ride?”
Receiving only a shrug in response, he sighed and said, “Five minutes, and then we move on again.” He dropped the reins of his horse and came back to take a seat on the ground closer to where she was. He watched as she stretched out one leg, twirling her foot in a circle before repeating the same activity with the other leg. She rubbed her calves rather vigorously. Her face did look a bit pained.
“If you turn around, I could take off my boots for a minute.”
He shook his head. “That would be a bad idea.”
She glared at him yet again and began to untie her right boot. She had only gotten it loosened and was beginning to remove it when his hands were on hers, halting her progress.
“If your foot is swollen, you might not get your boot back on.”
“You needn’t growl at me.”
He applied himself to the task of retying her boot and tried not to hear the hurt in her voice. “If they are truly sore, you may ride with your bag.”
“Thank you,” she said, pulling her foot away from him and tucking it back under her skirts. She considered untying her left boot so that he might also retie it and that foot might feel as lovely as her right did at this moment. She bit her lip. He would just scold her again, but the lovely prickly feeling might be worth it.
“So you will ride?”
He was looking at her with the most concerned look he had given her since their meeting, and it was making it very difficult to be angry at him, although she knew she should be since he was being so demanding.
She sighed and looked toward his horse. “Must I indeed go back?”
He nodded. “Your family will be worried.”
She pulled her lip between her teeth once again. “I cannot marry him,” she said softly. “I will not.”
“Let me help you onto Erebus, and then you can tell me about it.” He waited until he saw a small nod. Then, he stood and extended his hand to help her to her feet. It was odd how he at one moment wished to leave her sitting here in the woods, exposed to the elements, and suffering the fate of her foolishness and the next he wished to bundle her up and see her protected. He hoisted her up onto Erebus and situated her bag so that she had enough room to be comfortable.
She grabbed his hand before he could remove it from her bag. “You will stop before we get there so I might dismount?”
His brows drew together. “If you wish it, I can.”
She looked away from him, her cheeks growing rosy. “It is not very ladylike to ride astride. I know what they think of me, but I assure you I am not…that.”
He mumbled his understanding. She was a conundrum ─ worrying about her modesty yet sneaking out at night and travelling with a man such as Wickham ─ and then there was that perplexing wavering of his own opinion about her.
“Did you name him Erebus because he is the colour of shadows?”
“Indeed, I did. Have you read mythology?” He glanced up at her. She was smiling, and her head bobbed up and down enthusiastically.
“I have. They are such fanciful tales. I quite enjoy them.” She laughed. “Although Papa does not know I have read them. In fact, only Kitty knows.” She leaned forward and spoke more softly as if what she was going to say was a secret that not even the trees were allowed to hear. “I cannot let Mama know, you see. She is always going on about how Lizzy is far too quick to make a good match, and I should not want her saying such things about me. It would ruin my chances.”
“And why would it ruin your chances?”
“Because gentlemen do not wish for intelligent wives. They want only pretty women who smile, flutter their lashes, and agree with their opinions.”
She said it in such a matter of fact way, as if all of creation, save him, already knew this fact. “I would disagree.”
“You cannot. It is true. That is why everyone prefers Jane to Lizzy and me and Kitty to Mary.”
“Everyone?” Her head was bobbing up and down again quite emphatically, and his mind was once again perplexed by the disparity of her thinking. She claimed to enjoy reading myths; she had out-schemed Wickham; and yet she could not countenance the fact that some man, such as himself, might wish for a woman with more than just good looks and pleasant manners.
“I would disagree.”
Lydia shook her head. “You cannot.”
He realized she was quite probably correct. Although he could make a case to refute her claim, he was uncertain as to which Lydia he might be presenting his case. The scheming Lydia might see his logic, but the one that rode his horse did not seem capable of it.
“Very well, I shall not disagree. However, it is not because I agree.” His lips twitched in amusement at the look of utter confusion on her face.
“That makes no sense,” she said after a few moments of contemplation. “If you do not agree, you disagree, and if you do not disagree, you agree.”
He shrugged. “Ah, but it does make sense that I am neither old nor young?”
“It does. You see there are degrees to age. If you were young, you would not have such a prickly look about your jaw.”
He rubbed his hand against
the stubble on his jaw.
“It is not a bad look,” Lydia added, seeing his brows furrow. “It looks quite good actually, but it does give the appearance of age rather than youth.”
“And precisely how does an appearance of age and a lack of youth not equate with being old?”
“I did not say you lacked youth! I said you were not young. The two are very different. One can still have a youthful vigor and be quite decidedly old.”
“Very well, continue with your explanation.” He dared not ask any further questions, for his mind was already getting rather turned about.
“To be old, I imagine, one must be at least forty. You are not forty, are you?”
“No, I am not forty.”
She tipped her head to the side. “Are you thirty?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. I have two more years.”
She smiled. “I thought as much.” She pointed to the corner of her eye. “There are no little creases.”
“And creases happen when one turns thirty?”
“I think so,” she replied. “You have no creases; your eyes are bright, and your hair is brown without a fleck of grey or white. It is actually a lovely colour, as are your eyes. And, therefore, you are not old although you are not young, either.”
He nodded, unsure exactly how to respond to such statements. “Very well, I will allow that you do not find me old.”
“As you should,” she said with a smile.
He chuckled, and this time, instead of being a sound that annoyed her as it had before, it was a sound that she found rather pleasing. How odd. But then her feet were no longer hurting, so that must account for her better opinion of him. Lydia patted the neck of Erebus. Yes, her feet not hurting must be the answer.
~*~*~
Some time later, as they approached Willow Hall, Marcus stopped as he had promised he would.
Lydia’s cheeks puffed out and then flattened again as she released the breath she had drawn. “I cannot go in there,” she said, turning to Marcus. “They will make me marry him.”
