"During my afternoon walk, I shall try to pass by the milking barns and see how work is going on the new churns." The fringe was slowly unraveling in her fingers. "Of course, if I have any suggestions, I shall make note of them and let Mr. Whitney know later."
Marcus felt a sudden twinge of sympathy. Her sense of frustration was entirely understandable. The ideas, the innovations were hers, and yet she must cloak her intellect in the same drab cloth that hid her physical attributes.
"The barns can also wait until tomorrow," he murmured. "Why not ride out with us this afternoon. We'll make a thorough tour of the south end of the Manor, to make sure you are satisfied with the way your plans are being implemented."
Her eyes narrowed, though not enough to hide the spark of excitement that set their emerald color aglitter. "I—I thought you said my role in running Killingworth Manor must remain a secret."
"I did. And it must. But as long as you are a guest under my roof, it will not draw undue attention if you accompany me on a leisurely ride. Nor will it seem odd if my steward joins us for part of the time."
She hesitated, pride warring with a burning curiosity to see how things were progressing.
"Ah, well. If you would rather not..."
"I shall be ready in ten minutes."
Five was more like it, thought the earl with an inward grin on watching her hurry toward the stables. As she drew nearer, his amusement faded. He could see she had not changed her garments, save for replacing the shawl with a short spenser jacket and adding an unattractive bonnet. That she didn't appear to possess a riding habit made him question for a moment whether his suggestion had been a wise one. It hadn't occurred to him that she might not know how to ride and so he had chosen a rather spirited filly for her mount.
The problem was, given her present prickly mood, it was highly unlikely she would admit to not knowing how to handle the reins, no matter if she had never been in the saddle before. He could only hope that she wouldn't take a bad tumble.
His misgivings were quickly dispelled as the groom helped her up and adjusted the reins. Despite her billowing skirts, she had a firm seat and a calm authority that stilled the filly's nervous prancing. And, he added to himself, a nicely turned ankle and calf, which the breeze was now exposing with gratifying regularity.
As if sensing the drift of his thoughts, Eliza urged her mount into a brisk trot. "Where to first?" she demanded over her shoulder.
A light touch of his heels brought his stallion abreast of her. "I thought you might like to see how work is progressing on the mill pond before we meet up with Whitney."
Her only response was a curt nod. They rode on in silence until the way led into a grove of beech and live oaks, slowing their pace to a walk.
Seeing a frown start to form, Marcus sought to allay her impatience. "We needn't rush, Miss Kirtland. If we can't cover all the ground today, there is always tomorrow."
"Perhaps there is tomorrow, but I shall not be a guest for much longer," she muttered. "So I must try to accomplish as much as I can before it's time to take our leave from here."
He mulled over the import of her words before replying. "Yes, thanks to your sister and you, Lucien is well on the mend. I believe that only this morning, he managed a short walk through the garden." With Meredith steadying the young man's steps, he might add—though he didn't.
"It is Meredith who should receive all the thanks. I deserve little credit—you know well enough that my first inclination was not that of the Good Samaritan."
"Yet you allowed your sister to convince you otherwise."
"So I did."
He thought he detected a flicker of emotion shade her profile. Curious, he pressed on. "Have you any regrets?"
"In retrospect, that would be a churlish sentiment to admit to."
The answer was oblique at best, but he let it pass. Their horses splashed through a shallow stream, then climbed a short rise into open meadow. Marcus, too, made a slight change in direction. "They seem to have developed a certain... friendship, despite the rocky beginning."
"Unlike their relatives." The filly gave a wicker and tossed her head, causing Eliza to relax her grip on the reins. Perhaps realizing her tone had grown just as tight, she let out a deep breath and added, "Yes, they appear to enjoy each other's company."
"Unlike their relatives," echoed the earl, though he said it with a great deal more humor than she had.
"This is a business arrangement, Lord Killingworth," she replied. "Whether we like or dislike each other is not part of the equation."
Damnation. Why did she insist on being as stiff and dry as one of the numbers in his ledgers? He knew she had a keen sense of humor, though she took pains to keep it as well-shrouded as the curves of her bosom.
Grimacing in exasperation, he couldn't refrain from answering her snap for snap. "Ah. I shall make a note of it in my copybook. Lesson number one for Wednesday—the duties of a steward include rebuffing any attempt at polite conversation with gratuitous rudeness."
His words seemed to take her by surprise. Her brow furrowed and there was an awkward pause before she replied. "I—I was not intending to be deliberately rude, sir. Merely... businesslike."
"You might want to make a few notes of your own, Miss Kirtland. When I do business with someone, I prefer it to be a pleasant exchange. That way I am more likely to want to repeat the experience. I imagine most people feel the same way." He slanted a sideways glance at her, interested to catch her reaction.
There was a pronounced scowl, then the scrunch of her lips gave an odd little tweak. "I shall make a note of it in my workbook. Lesson number two for Wednesday—the duties of a steward include humoring one's employer."
Though her expression was not quite a smile, it was getting close. "I would offer to sing, or to dance atop the saddle, but as I do both very badly, it would definitely not be a pleasant experience."
Marcus gave an inward grin, delighted he had unwound at least one layer of her protective covering. "I shall settle for polite conversation."
"Very well." Eliza shifted in her saddle. "What do you wish to discuss, sir?"
"We were speaking of your sister and my nephew. I am curious as to whether you are still dead set against the acquaintance, given your initial opinion of the young man?"
"My initial opinion was wrong," she conceded with hesitation. "Mr. Harkness seems a... decent young man."
His brow waggled. "Miss Kirtland in error? Did I hear correctly?"
"I can be wrong on occasion." Two bright spots of color had appeared on her cheeks, whether from the wind or some other cause was impossible to tell. "Though not often."
Marcus couldn't help but chuckle.
"Fie on you sir! Overt mockery is hardly polite." She was, however, still sporting the odd half smile.
"Ah, but there is a different between teasing and mocking. Teasing is a more—"
A loud hail from up ahead interrupted his words. He looked around, surprised that he hadn't noticed the rocky cliffs or the sound of the surf until that moment.
"Lord Killingworth." Whitney sounded a bit winded as he trotted over to greet them. And well he might. Despite the stiff breeze, he was stripped to his shirtsleeves and the mud on his person made it clear he had been doing more than just issuing orders.
"The job is nearly done, sir. Another hour or two and there will be no further danger of sheep straying over the edge." He gestured at the sturdy posts and heavy rails that guarded the crumbling rock. "Though it took a bit longer, I had the holes dug a foot deeper and packed with crushed stone. That way, the fence may weather the elements with less danger of collapse. I hope that meets with your approval."
Eliza gave an almost imperceptible nod.
"Yes. Good thinking," said the earl as he surveyed the expanse of work. In doing so, his eye caught on a small area near where the rails took a turn inland. "While you are here, should not that bit of overhanging ledge be chipped away? It looks as if one good storm would knock it loos
e and cause a good deal of damage."
Both Whitney and Eliza looked to where he had indicated. "Aye, milord. You are right," exclaimed the steward. "I'll see to it directly."
"I think the men can finish up on their own," said Marcus, feeling oddly gratified by his contribution to the efforts. Perhaps there was hope that he could be a competent master of his lands.
"I'd rather you accompany us on a tour of the south fields. I may have some suggestions to make, once we see for ourselves how all the work is progressing."
Whitney's gaze made only the slightest flicker in Eliza's direction. "An excellent idea, sir. I'll just be a moment."
As the two of them waited for him to fetch his coat and horse, the earl heard a murmur mix in with the gusting breeze.
"Lesson number three for Wednesday—the duties of a steward include acknowledging when one's employer shows a marked improvement in his attention to detail."
* * *
The earl was improving in his grasp of estate management, Eliza admitted to herself later that afternoon. In leaps and bounds. Her eyes scanned down the ruled page, checking over the past month's expenditures. Why, he had even made some headway in getting the numbers to add up as they should. She made several minor corrections, then let the ledger fall closed.
Would that she could figure out the sum of Lord Killingworth with half as much accuracy.
Thinking his demand that she teach him how to run the Manor was made out of whimsy or boredom, she had been determined to test his mettle. Indeed, the lengthy list of things to do might have intimidated even the most dedicated of pupils. There were dreadfully dull technical treatises on agriculture and animal husbandry to read, practical lectures to assimilate and hands-on inspections to make, not to speak of getting to know his tenants.
If truth be told, Eliza hadn't expected him to stick it out a week.
She let out a harried sigh. Well, not only had the earl stuck it out, he had proven to be an extremely quick study. Unlike many people, he listened well, and when he understood a fundamental concept, he asked intelligent questions to further his understanding of a subject. The afternoon ride had shown he was observant to boot. His suggestion about the ledge had been only one of several excellent recommendations.
In short, the Earl of Killingworth had shown himself to be smart, diligent, thoughtful and determined.
And amusing.
Loath as she was to acknowledge it, she had enjoyed their lively bantering. His teasing lit a certain spark in her that was far more complex than mere anger. It was odd how she had, on first impression, thought him a cold, hard gentleman—Chillingworth had seemed a more apt moniker than his true name. Now, it was difficult to imagine she had missed such nuances as the subtle shades of intelligence in his amber eyes, or the rich depth of his laughter, or—
Eliza stopped herself with a rueful grimace. Hell's Bells, she was in danger of sounding like a besotted schoolgirl. It would not do to forget that he was also a practiced charmer, a man who made a habit of seducing women, drinking to excess, frequenting the gaming hells and... engaging in vices she probably couldn't begin to name.
Or imagine.
Besides, it wasn't as if he was waxing poetic about her.
The earl thought her rude. She brushed an errant curl from her cheek. And what of his snide remark concerning hairpins? Her hand came up to fiddle with the tightly wound bun at her neck. He had implied she was rigid, unbending, incapable of having fun.
It was, she thought with a slight sniff, a rather unfair—not to speak of unflattering—assessment. With a sick mother, a younger sister and a dwindling nest egg, she had had little opportunity to think of serendipitous pleasures.
Cupping her chin, Eliza contemplated the drops of rain that were beginning to spatter against the windowpanes. A sudden squall had blown in from the sea, bringing with it a thick mist that had turned the sky a dull pewter and obscured all but the closest trees. As she watched the landscape dissolve into naught but an amorphous blur, she couldn't helping thinking how strange it was that things could look so sparkling clear one moment and so fuzzy the next.
"Am I interrupting your work?"
Eliza turned with a start, then smiled. "No. Just woolgathering, I'm afraid." She hastily opened one of the journals at her elbow. "However, I really should not be wasting my time in idleness. I have a good deal of reading to plough through."
Her sister's brow creased as she took a seat near the desk. "Don't apologize. You should do it more often—woolgathering, that is, not analyzing the latest mechanical devices for cutting a furrow through the earth."
Meredith smoothed at the sash of her dress before continuing. "I fear you are pushing yourself too hard, especially of late. It wouldn't hurt to lay aside the books and spend a few hours doing... nothing."
The journal fell back on the pile with a thump. "You, too?" muttered Eliza through clenched teeth. Before her sister could respond, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair and went on. "You think I should... let my hair down, is that it?"
Meredith smiled. "I suppose that is one way of putting it."
"Hmmph. Well, I'd rather you didn't." In the ensuing silence, her fingers unconsciously strayed to the nape of her neck. "Do you find me too stiff? Too serious?"
"Good Heavens, that's not at all what I meant." Meredith's reply was said gently, but the gaze that she fixed on Eliza's taut features was a good deal more probing. "I spoke out of concern, not criticism. At times, I worry that you are taking on too many responsibilities."
"I like keeping busy," she said, a note of defensiveness creeping into her voice.
Her sister looked from Eliza's shadowed profile to the heavy ledgers to the open inkwell. "Is there some particular reason you are working yourself to the bone? I thought you had finished preparing the estimates for Mr. Hardy's alehouse."
"I have." Eliza's mouth quirked. For reasons she could not quite explain, even to herself, she had held off in telling her sister about the arrangement with the earl. It would, she knew, have to come out at some point, so she decided it might as well be now. "But I have a new client."
As expected, the announcement caused a ripple of surprise in Meredith's eyes. "A new client? Given all the recent events, I can't for the life of me imagine when you had time to arrange that. Who is it?"
"The Earl of Killingworth."
* * *
The earl stretched his legs out toward the fire and tried to concentrate on the printed page. Yet try as he might to visualize the alignment of pulleys and levers described in the paragraph, all he could picture in his mind was a pair of exotic green eyes, a tigerish scowl, a...
With a snort of exasperation, he tossed the book aside. Why was he was bedeviled by thoughts of Miss Kirtland when he had a good deal of other, more important, matters to occupy his attention? If he thought of her at all, it should only in the context of their business arrangement—say, for example, to review one of her myriad lectures on estate management. But somehow, contemplating an explanation of crop rotation or tilling methods was not nearly so intriguing as picturing the defiant tilt of her chin, or the way her unruly wheaten curls refused to be tamed by a regiment of hairpins.
Bloody hell. It wasn't as if she thought of him. Except, perhaps, for the few seconds it took to consign him to whatever circle of the Inferno that Dante had reserved for dissolute scoundrels.
Muttering an oath, he rose and poured himself a generous splash of brandy. It went down in one hurried gulp, no matter that the fiery spirits left his throat feeling a bit scalded.
The sensation was rather like an encounter with the young lady herself—a complex mixture of spice, sweetness and heat that was not altogether pleasant at first, but left one wanting another taste.
After refilling his glass, the earl moved to stand before the blazing logs. Why he should savor the idea of their working together was puzzling in the extreme. She was all business, while he preferred his females to be all pleasure. No matter how he looked at the probl
em, it simply didn't add up.
But then, he had much to learn before he would be proficient in mathematics.
Chapter 12
The stallion's frightened whinny was nearly drowned out by the crackling flames. Smoke was fast enveloping the stall, thick with wisps of blackened hay. It took only a few minutes for the fire to spread to the adjoining enclosure, setting alight an old carriage harness hung out for repairs. The tangle of burning leather quickly snapped and shattered a lantern.
Glass exploded, spilling oil onto a pile of rags. Sparks lit the soaked fabric and suddenly flames were shooting up to the rafters.
Panicked, the big animal reared up again and again, hooves splintering the singed wood as it desperately sought escape from the growing inferno. The noise finally roused a young stable boy who was sleeping above the tack room. He stumbled down the stairs, finally awaking to the danger below.
Shielding his face, the lad tried to make his way to the stall, but the heat and smoke forced him back. Another snort of terror from the thrashing stallion drove him to try again. Dropping to the stone floor, he managed to crawl half the distance before a falling timber caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder.
He tried to cry out, but the sound was hardly more than a choked sob. The air was acrid and billowing clouds dark as slate...
"Bloody Hell!" Blinded by the swirling smoke, the earl needed several precious minutes to locate the unconscious lad and drag him to safety.
It was a damn lucky thing, thought Marcus, that he had been unable to fall asleep earlier in the evening. Rather than lie awake counting sheep, he had gone down to his study with the intent of finishing the accounting for the millpond project. From the windows opposite his desk, he had noticed the faint orange glow and had lost no time in racing down the graveled path.
"Come, Jem, take a breath!" he ordered, thumping some air into the frightened lad's lungs. "You must run to the house and wake the others." Without waiting for a reply, the earl turned, ready to plunge back into the roaring blaze.
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