The young gentleman walked to the closest wicket, trailing his bat along the grass, a big smile on his handsome face. “Thank you, Worthing,” he called as he walked. “I’ll bowl you out when your turn comes.”
The auburn-haired man holding the ball laughed. The guest passed his bat to another man, fixed his gaze on Wenna, and starting walking in her direction. She stood transfixed, not knowing what he might want of her. Her first thought was to pretend she hadn’t noticed and go on her way, but he was staring straight at her and coming closer with each step.
“Do you need me for anything, sir?” she asked before he got too close. His cricket whites and light hair contrasted with his golden tan.
“I’m parched. Could you lead me to a gallon of cool water?”
The color of his hair reminded her of Da’s, and her heart constricted. Her father, the big, blond Cornishman, had been crushed during a mine cave-in. Always frail, her mother had died soon after, leaving Wenna to fend for herself from the age of thirteen. But fend she had. In the thirteen years since, Wenna had worked her way from being a kitchen helper in the mining town of Clare, to being a lady’s maid in a wealthy urban household.
In two paces, he stood beside her. She glanced up at him, watching his gaze travel over the untamed outlines of her hair. His expression said that he, unlike everyone else, didn’t find a frizzed mass of bright red appalling. He lifted a hand, wound a spiral around one finger, and smiled down at her.
She stepped back, jerking her head away, her cheeks heating. He wasn’t her father, but a stranger taking liberties, as gentlemen liked to do, though not usually with prickly Wenna. “Water. Yes. In the kitchen.”
A flock of lorikeets swooped into the orchard, their bright red-and- green plumage blending into the leaves, which trembled as they searched for ripening pears.
“Lead on.”
Wenna stiffened her spine. The man was a golden god with a straight nose and a perfectly chiseled jaw, and he strolled beside her as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a handsome young gentleman to accompany a spinsterish tongue-tied maid through an orchard.
“I’m Devon Courtney,” he said in a cultured voice, staring at her with a question in his eyes. He had the thickest brown eyelashes she’d ever seen, and stark clear blue eyes. His hair shone dappled white in the orchard.
Her pulse quickened, and she lost the thread of her voice. “I’m Mrs. Brook’s maid.”
“Is that Cornwall I hear in your accent?”
“Is it? I don’t know.”
“It sounds like Cornwall.” He rolled his words with a lilt like Da’s.
“Do you have a name? I can’t call you ‘maid.’”
“Wenna.” She should have said “Miss Chenoweth.” She should have
kept her hair confined.
“Wenna. Definitely Cornwall.”
“My parents came from Cornwall. I might have picked up their speech.” “No doubt about it, lass.” He stood, blocking her way, glancing from
her hair to her mouth. If he wasn’t trying a line with her, she didn’t know the ways of the gentry.
Her insides tickled in reaction to his scrutiny. No young man before had shown such blatant interest, but no sensible maid would be foolish enough to be flattered by his attention. His sort would see a working-class woman as a mere diversion, a quick tumble to be forgotten in a second. “You said you wanted water.”
“Indeed, I do need cooling off,” he said with a mischievous smile as he stepped aside.
She slowly let out her breath and marched on, not about to let him see her confused reaction.
He followed her into the kitchen, compounding her acute embarrassment. “This is Mr. Courtney,” she said to the cook, breaking the thick silence of the servants in the room. “He wants a cool drink of water.”
“If it’s not too much trouble.” He smiled at Mrs. Green. “If it is, just direct me to the pump, for I’m sure I need to wet my head as well to completely cool down.”
Mrs. Green finally closed her jaw. “Just out from the old country, are you, sir? Takes some time to get used to the heat.”
He laughed. “I’m not a very new chum. I’ve been here two years now. You must take into account I’ve been playing a very strenuous game of cricket and make allowances for that.” He flashed a wide complicit smile at Wenna.
She didn’t know if he was a natural-born flirt, or if he was looking for an easy conquest. However, he had charmed Mrs. Green and impressed the scullery maid, and his resemblance to Wenna’s father had almost torn her heart from her chest. If he meant to charm her, too, he would have quite a road to go, making a wasted trip, for he would not take a lady’s maid in marriage. Anything else she would not consider.
She crossed her arms while she watched him gulp down a pint of water, wipe his sleeve across his mouth, and smile at a room full of new admirers. He nodded at her, then left through the back door.
“You’re right. Miss Patricia will be lucky to get that one,” Mrs. Green said after the door had closed. “My, did you see those shoulders?” She glanced at Wenna.
“He talked, Mrs. Green. I barely glanced at him.” Wenna realized she’d been holding her breath. Yes, she had seen those shoulders and she had seen those eyes. She could allow herself a moment of envy of Miss Patricia, whose papa could buy her almost any husband she wanted.
Wenna squared her shoulders and took up her basin and wooden spoon. She couldn’t buy a husband, but she wouldn’t want one she could buy. She made cakes as well as she styled hair. Taking into account her spotless reputation, she would always have well-paid employment. She didn’t need a husband. She could support herself.
Excerpt from Wenna (The South Landers Series)
Lyrical Press books are published by Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2016 by Virginia Taylor
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Artfully Wicked ('Pon Rep' Regency Rogues Book 1) Page 11
