“I am not married to anyone,” she stated, appearing unbothered by that fact. “I am too busy taking care of that fat beast in the tree to entertain suitors.” She pointed upward and he saw the cat had decided to move up the branch to an even more precarious seat.
“Fat and unintelligent,” she muttered to herself. “Not at all the sweet kitten she was last time you rescued her.”
“Kitten?” Harry said, and then the memory came back to him. Years ago, he could not even remember how far back in the past, he’d come upon Miss Gabriella and the younger sister. What was her name? The vicar’s younger daughters had been beside themselves, as they tried to convince their tiny new kitten to come down from a tree very similar to this one.
What had they called the youngest?
As if she knew his thoughts, the woman took pity on him at last. “I am Miss Augusta Ames.”
“Miss Augusta. Of course. I apologize for not knowing you at once. It’s been several years since we’ve crossed paths.”
She met his eyes for a moment and offered a most friendly smile, then made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Think nothing of it. Except, with two older sisters married, I am Miss Ames now. It is good to see you again, Mr. Devon.”
Harry winced at that title of address. “Indeed.” He looked back up into the tree. “That thing was the kitten I climbed into the tree to retrieve?”
“Yes. Time has not improved her temperament, I’m afraid. Bell is an absolute hoyden of a cat, which is saying something given that all cats misbehave.”
“Bell?” He couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. “I thought you called her something different a moment ago.” When he looked down at her, he had the pleasure of watching her cheeks turn pink.
“Oh, it is only a joke I shared with my sisters. We called her something indecent, I’m afraid, considering we’re the daughters of a vicar.” She cleared her throat and folded her arms. “What do you think? Ought we to leave her up there?”
He tried not to smile at the obvious attempt to avoid any further questions on the cat’s name. “Can she not come down on her own?”
“I’m afraid she will refuse to do so. She rarely climbs trees, at her age, but the last time she did she stayed up for two days until I bribed one of the earl’s under gardeners to go up after her.”
Though tempted to laugh, Harry took off his coat and went to the tree, draping the article over a branch before beginning his climb.
“Oh, Mr. Devon, you really shouldn’t—”
“It’s perfectly safe, Miss Ames.” He went further into the tree, though his clothing was ill-suited for his adventure. Still, closer to the cat than the ground, he continued on. The animal noticed him drawing near and set to making an awful sound, part-growl and part-yowl. Nothing about the noise was friendly.
Harry reached up with one hand, the other holding tightly to a thick branch above his head. “Come, Bell,” he coaxed, hand nearing the animal’s wide-eyes and snarl. “I’ll help you down.”
She hissed and puffed out her fur, then raised one paw in an obvious threat, claws extended.
He froze, realizing this exact thing had happened years before, only he’d been better suited for climbing trees and the cat had been much smaller.
Of course, he’d grown a little wiser, too.
Crouching down on his branch, he held his hand out. “Throw me the coat, Miss Ames.”
Much to her credit, and despite her frown of puzzlement, she tossed his coat upward with a great deal of force. He caught it by a sleeve and then went about finding his balance again, teetering as he had to snatch the cloth out of the air.
Harry stood again, gripping the branch above him, and studied his precarious perch as well as the cat’s stubborn position.
“Maybe we ought to leave her,” the lovely Miss Ames said from below, obvious worry in her tone. “It would teach her a lesson.”
Judging by the malevolent gleam in the cat’s eye, Harry very much doubted the truth of that statement.
“Miss Ames, I am a gentleman. I will not leave man or beast in distress.” He angled himself to look down at her and shared his most charming smile, the one which made many a young woman blush and flutter their fans. But Miss Ames only stared at him, wearing an expression that appeared to question his sanity.
Harry faced the cat again, then carefully swung his coat in the animal’s direction. Distracted, the cat turned its hissing and growling toward the cloth, batting at it with a paw. But, as Harry suspected, the animal didn’t move from her chosen spot.
“Right.” He swung the jacket in a wider arc, then another, and finally tossed it onto the cat. The horrid little beast froze, though its strange noises continued, now muffled by the fabric, and Harry reached out with his free hand to scoop the jacket, wrapped around the animal, up into his arms.
Immediately, Bell started writhing within his grasp, howling with rage. One clawed foot emerged. Harry tightened his hold on the cat, pulling it against his body in an attempt to keep it from moving. At least a dozen claws dug through the jacket and into his chest.
“Careful,” the young woman from below said.
Harry gritted his teeth against the pain, realizing he hadn’t grown as wise as he’d hoped, and tried to make his way down with one free arm. It was slow going, and his rescued prize didn’t tire of thrashing and digging claws into his jacket. He heard an astonishingly loud rip.
“Oh dear.” Miss Ames must have heard it as well.
He was on the branch closest to the ground when the cat came through the coat’s collar, claws in his shoulder, and sprung to the ground at the same moment he meant to swing down. The animal’s unexpected maneuver threw him off balance and Harry tried, through flailing his arms, to find purchase.
His boots slid off the bark and he tumbled backwards, five feet to the ground, and landed on his back and shoulders.
His breath left him with an “oof.” He laid there, his body stiff as a board, staring up into the branches of the tree. Miss Ames moved into view, brow pinched with concern and eyes full of worry. She knelt beside him and reached out, her slim fingers brushing against his cheek.
“Mr. Devon? Mr. Devon, can you hear me?”
At last Harry’s lugs loosened, and he sucked in a deep breath of air. “Jezebel.”
Miss Ames drew back her hand, her concern replaced with affront. “Pardon me, Mr. Devon, but I had nothing to do with your fall. Calling me names—”
Harry couldn’t help the laugh that escaped, even though it made the muscles in his body contract in a way that told him of bruises sure to come. “Not you, Miss Ames. The cat.” He folded his hands over his chest, in no hurry to get up. “Jezebel. It suits her.”
“Oh.” She covered her lips with one hand, but not before he saw the flash of her pretty smile. “She is a terribly ungrateful creature. She’s already streaked away like a bolt of lightning. I am so sorry you were hurt in her retrieval.”
“I’ve fallen out of trees before.” Harry at last started to push himself up, into a sitting position. He managed not to grunt, though the ache in his back promised to stay for some time.
“I would hope you haven’t had much practice at that feat recently.” Miss Ames stood and held her hand out to him. He considered it for a moment, wondering if he ought to allow a woman to help him up. He had little pride left to lose, so he wrapped his hand around hers.
She leaned her slim form away from him, providing just enough leverage for him to come easily to his feet and stand taller than she, looking down into her eyes. He admired the pert tilt of her nose and the slight pink in her cheeks, and the fingers resting against his gloved palm.
“Mr. Devon,” she said, blonde eyebrows drawing together. “Are you sure you are all right?”
Realizing he ought to have released her hand some moments before, Harry reluctantly did so now and reached up to adjust his hat—only to find it missing. “My hat.”
Miss Ames tucked her freed hand behind her back and her
eyes swept the ground around them. Harry watched her search for a moment before realizing he ought to look too.
Perhaps the fall had addled him somewhat.
“Here it is,” she sang out. He saw it near the gnarled roots of the tree poking above the ground. Harry stepped toward it, bending at the same moment as Miss Ames, and promptly knocked into her head.
“Oh,” she gasped, leaning away and raising her hand to the spot. Harry hissed a pained breath from between his teeth and reflexively reached out. His hand covered hers at her temple.
“Miss Ames, I’m dreadfully sorry.” She sank back on her heels and lowered herself to the grass, then leaned back against the tree. He kept his hand on hers, following her every movement. It occurred to him he was hindering rather than helping and he dropped his hand away and curled the offending fingers into his palm.
She closed the eye nearest where their heads had collided and peered at him with the one that remained open. “Mr. Devon, I am not certain how the two of us have bungled this cat rescue so terribly, but I think we ought to cease engaging in such endeavors for the foreseeable future.” Though she delivered her pronouncement with a serious tone, something about the dimple appearing in her right cheek lightened her words considerably.
§
Daisy watched Mr. Devon sit back, his position on the ground less than elegant.
“That was something of an adventure,” he said, then groaned as he rose to his feet. He offered her his hand, taking his turn in assisting her to her feet. Daisy accepted the help, gripping her shawl tightly in one hand with the other in his.
“I feel quite terrible about this,” she said. He looked about after releasing her, then reached down for his coat.
A splatter of mud covered its back, as it had landed in a damp patch of earth. And when he turned the garment around to inspect it further, she saw the lining on the inside bore several haphazard tears from the cat’s claws.
“Oh. Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” She reached for the coat while her cheeks warmed with still more embarrassment.
He pulled it away from her and folded the clothing, draping it over one arm. “Do not trouble yourself, Miss Ames. I’m certain it is repairable.”
Daisy bit her lip, mortified at the damage her reprehensible pet had done him, and all the difficulties it had led to.
Mr. Devon reached down again, finally retrieving the troublesome hat. He conducted a quick inspection, then put it on his head at a slightly rakish angle. “There we are. All is restored to order.”
She glanced about them, seeing nothing else out of place. “I suppose it is.”
“Miss Ames, I must thank you for making my return to the neighborhood interesting.” He put one hand to his back and bent to one side, wincing.
“Your return?” she asked, that wording piquing her interest. “Are you here for a visit, Mr. Devon, or do you intend to take up residence at Whitewood Manor?” The local gossips hadn’t breathed a word about the return of one of the neighborhood’s most eligible bachelors.
“I am not yet certain,” he said with an easy shrug. “For now, it’s only a visit to my sister.”
“Oh.” She took in his appearance again, noting the expensive cut of his clothing, the fine linen of his shirt, and boots that looked of higher quality than any she’d ever seen. Rumors of the Devon fortune had long circulated in the neighborhood, but as the late Mr. Devon had rarely mingled with the neighborhood, much less opened his house to visitors, none could say with certainty just how wealthy the man had been.
Given that his son stood before her dressed as well as the earl, and had been known to have taken a tour of Europe, she guessed the rumors were true.
“Will you be at your home, or hers?” she asked, then hurried to add, “I will need to let my father know. I am certain he will wish to see you during your stay.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her with one raised eyebrow and a smile as charming as it was good humored. “Will he? And will you be joining him?”
“Me?” she asked, perplexed. “I suppose I could, though he prefers to make perish visits alone most of the time.” When his lips curled into an expression of amusement, she frowned at him. Then the realization came. He is flirting with me. She wasn’t certain if she ought to be flattered or not.
“I will be at my sister’s home.” He cast a glance in the direction of the vicarage, though a slight rise in the ground hid it from view. “How is Mr. Ames? The last time I saw him was years ago.”
“He is well enough.” Daisy wrapped her arms around her waist, looking up to see clouds moving across the sky. “It looks as though it is to rain, Mr. Devon.”
He spared a glance to the sky, frowning. “May I escort you home, Miss Ames?” he asked, then gave her another charming grin.
Daisy took a step back, looking over her shoulder toward home. “Not just now, I should think. Father isn’t home, and it is a short walk. You should return to the Gilberts’ before those clouds burst. It was good to see you again, Mr. Devon.” She curtsied, ready to take her leave of him. Perhaps he’d taken her friendliness as an invitation to flirt, and it certainly was not that. She hardly knew the man, after all.
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Miss Ames.” He didn’t sound disappointed, though she caught the puzzled look on his face. Perhaps he wasn’t used to young ladies turning down his company. “I hope to see you again soon, Miss Ames.” He turned a teasing smile on her.
Daisy answered in a neighborly way. “Thank you, Mr. Devon.” She curtsied again. “Good day, sir.” Then she turned and walked toward home, at a brisk pace. Before she crested the hill, she glanced over her shoulder.
He stood there still, coat in his hands, watching her retreat.
Chapter Four
Harry sat in the pew with the Gilberts, staring across the church at a dark blue bonnet. The vicar sat next to his daughter. A younger man—a curate, his sister had informed him—read the sermon. Several days had passed since Harry’s encounter with Miss Ames, yet he kept thinking on it and the way she’d nearly fled from him.
Most young ladies of his acquaintance enjoyed his company, and she’d certainly seemed amiable enough given her teasing about her identity.
“Mama will question you after the service,” little Charles whispered next to him. Harry looked down in some surprise, but the boy was staring at him with wide eyes. “To make sure you pay attention,” he added helpfully.
As Charles was already eight years old, he accompanied the adults to church while his younger siblings remained behind with their nursemaid.
Harry winked at the boy. “Then we’d best stop daydreaming.”
Charles grinned at him before facing forward again, his expression changing to one of intense concentration. “It’d be easier if Mr. Haskett didn’t talk so much.”
Harry masked his chuckle as a cough, covering his mouth with his fist. Christine, seated on the other side of him, leaned closer.
“You aren’t being a poor example to my son, are you?” she asked in a soft whisper.
“Of course not.” Harry looked down at her, pleased to see her teasing smile. “The lad is keeping me in check.”
He tried to concentrate on the sermon, but the next distraction came when a young woman in the next row glanced back at him, fluttering her eyelashes in a pretty manner. Harry hadn’t the slightest idea who she was, so he hardly dared offer more than a polite nod before pointedly turning his eyes away.
Perhaps attending church wasn’t the best idea. Every match-making mother in the county will soon know I’m here. While he generally didn’t mind attention from ladies, with his present concerns, he wasn’t certain he wanted the distraction. He had a life to plan, after all.
The meeting ended and his nephew rushed from the pew without a backward glance, escaping outside with several other small boys. Christine watched him go with a rueful smile, her arm through Thomas’s as they joined the other parishioners in the aisle.
Harry’s atte
ntion went back to the front of the room in time to catch Miss Ames turning around. He waited, watching her eyes sweep the room, until she saw him. Then he deliberately grinned in her direction and nodded. The woman raised her eyebrows and immediately engaged in conversation with someone standing at her side, showing him her back again.
Perhaps Harry had done something to upset her, though he could not think what. Or maybe she is only embarrassed by the absurdity of the cat’s rescue. If her sensibilities were delicate enough, he could understand how that entire interlude could be viewed as awkward. If the opportunity arose, he determined to find out how to rectify the situation.
“Mr. Devon?” a feminine voice said.
The young lady who had stolen glances at him all through services stepped into his pew, her expression one of charm and welcome. He noted the woman standing near her, likely her mother, did not appear nearly so happy to see him.
He bowed. “Good morning, Miss…?”
She colored and raised a gloved hand to her cheek. “Oh, you do not remember me? I suppose that is natural. I was only a girl the last time we met.”
She didn’t look as though she was much more than a girl at present, either. She couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen, at the most.
She curtsied. “I am Miss Amelia Robin.”
“Ah. Miss Robin. Of course.” He vaguely recalled that their family had taken a lease on another house in the neighborhood the same year his father passed away. “Did you enjoy the sermon today?” From the corner of his vision, he could see the dark blue bonnet Miss Ames wore making its way down the aisle, slowly.
“Most assuredly.” She cast her eyes downward. “I wonder, Mr. Devon, how long you might be in the neighborhood? There is to be a public ball soon, you see, and I wanted to make certain you knew of it.”
The matron behind her frowned more deeply. He ought to say something to her, greet her properly, but Miss Ames’s approach took up more of his attention than the conversation at hand.
“A ball, you say?” Harry asked, distracted. “I have no plans to quit the neighborhood at present. I will be certain to attend, should circumstances permit.”
Courting the Vicar's Daughter: A Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 6) Page 3
