“Exactly!” He lunged to his feet and began pacing. In truth he’d had no idea she’d endured all that misery. It sent a cold shiver coursing through him to think about it. Although at one time she’d been no better than he, he refused to allow her to return to those endeavors. “Your father wanted that nonsense to stop. That’s the reason he arranged this marriage.”
“He arranged this marriage because he knew I wanted children.”
His stomach tightened. No wealth, no children. It was the deal he’d cut with the devil—with himself.
She rose and matched him step for step. “He had some notion you know how to treat a wife well, but telling me what you will and will not allow borders on slavery. I’m not your possession. I’m your wife.”
He came to an abrupt halt and faced her. “Which means you are entitled to a life of leisure. Why can’t you understand that simple concept?”
“Why can’t you understand the simple concept that marriage is a partnership? A husband and wife should work together to achieve what they want. They should share dreams and ambitions and goals.”
“But none of ours have anything in common.”
She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “What is your dream?”
“To restore Huntingdon to its grandeur, to make it worthy of my son to inherit.”
She held his gaze. “My dream is for you and the children to be happy. It seems to me if we work together, we can make both dreams happen.”
He felt small and spiteful. How could she want his happiness when he was intent on denying her hers?
“Devon, I want to work in the fields.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Fine, then, do whatever you want.”
He could at least grant her that small concession.
She smiled in jubilation. “You won’t be sorry.”
Probably not. But he had very little doubt she would be.
She whistled.
His countess whistled while she raked, bound, and stooked the wheat. Not a soft lullaby but something lively that danced on the breeze and had his men swinging their scythes with a rhythm matching her tune.
And when she needed someone’s attention, to his horror she stuck two fingers in her mouth and released a high-pitched shrill that would have pleased an Eastender.
He would have taken her to task for her lack of good breeding and decorum if he hadn’t been as entranced by her as his men.
If the gentlemen in London had seen her as she was today, he might have had to fend them off in order to gain her favor.
When she wasn’t whistling, she was all smiles and laughter.
He’d thought she’d relaxed somewhat when they’d arrived at the manor, but now she was giddy with delight. Her dark eyes alive with passion, her cheeks ruddy from exertion, her lips inviting a kiss whether she was whistling, smiling, or laughing.
Joyous. She was absolutely joyous, obviously in her element with the arduous, monotonous work. While she had seemed out of place in the ballroom, here she was completely at ease, trudging across the field, going about her work as though she’d been born to it.
He didn’t know why that thought took him by surprise. She’d married him to attain the rank of countess, and now she was brushing dirt off her skirt.
He glanced around. His own efforts paled considerably when compared with the results of his workers. Distracted, he was hardly concentrating on what he needed to accomplish.
He grabbed up his scythe and strode toward her. “Thank you very much. I think you can be on your way now.”
She didn’t so much as halt. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not even noon yet.”
He’d expected her to last an hour, maybe two, not the entire blessed morning.
“You’ve made a fine showing, but people are beginning to wonder about the lady in the field.”
“Let them wonder. It’ll make a good legend, don’t you think?”
He grabbed her arm to still her movements. “Gina, I didn’t mean for you to stay here all day.”
She studied him, her nose red from the chill of the morning, her breath forming white wisps that were carried off by the breeze. “I’ll leave when you do.”
“I shall remain here at least until dark.”
“Then so will I.”
“We have hours yet to go.”
She shrugged, as though his comment was of no consequence. “Time goes faster when I’m busy. I prefer it.”
She shook off his hold and returned to raking. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine Margaret out here in a tattered cloak and a floppy hat, with a bead of sweat rolling from her temple down her cheek, a droplet that so closely resembled a tear.
How could she not loathe what his shortcomings forced her to endure?
“I…”
She jerked her head around, her brow darkened with a light coating of dirt.
He wanted to apologize, promise her a better life, thank her for joining him in the fields, but in the end he simply said, “I’ll escort you home come evening.”
Georgina watched as the laborers wandered off into the dimming light one by one until only she, Devon, and a man named Benjamin remained. If she had been in Texas, she might have thought Devon was trying to impress her with his dedication to his endeavors, but she was in England and knew he’d grown up thinking that working in the fields was beneath him.
She understood now why his shoulders were much broader than his peers’ and the reason his clothing had seemed snug. When he’d had it tailored to fit him, he must not have been swinging a scythe with a poetic rhythm. He hadn’t been reduced to toiling in the fields.
How could she explain to him that what she’d witnessed today had exalted him in her eyes? Even if she possessed the necessary power of persuasion, he wouldn’t want to hear it, wouldn’t contemplate believing it.
Class distinctions were innate among his countrymen, passed down through the generations. Devon didn’t see his actions as proof of his determination to succeed, to rise above. He saw them as failures.
Her father, however, would have viewed his efforts with the same high regard as she did. He’d mentioned that he’d visited the area. He must have heard about Devon’s endeavors. He’d understood that although Devon was willing to marry for money, so was he willing to work for it. The very aspect of Devon’s life that he abhorred was exactly the reason her father had deemed him worthy enough for her.
Unfortunately, he’d trusted Devon to care for her to such an extent that he hadn’t walked away from the gaming tables as quickly as he should have.
Yet a part of her was grateful that he hadn’t. With money at his disposal, Devon never would have revealed this aspect of his life to her. What they had now seemed much more real than what they’d shared in London.
She’d seen Devon in the ballroom, dressed in his finery, on the Thames with his sleeves rolled up. With the exception of their wedding night, when he’d worn nothing at all, he’d never appealed to her more than he did at this moment—with his face streaked with sweat and his muscles straining against the fabric of his shirt as he hoisted the remaining bundles into the wagon while Benjamin guided it along.
She’d offered to drive the wagon so Benjamin could help Devon load it.
“By God, Gina, you’ve done enough for today,” he’d said, not with gratitude but irritation.
She might have taken offense if she hadn’t already learned how difficult it was for this proud man to take help of any kind. She hadn’t truly understood what it must have cost him to approach her father and offer to marry her in exchange for money. He must have felt as though he was selling himself.
And having bartered himself, he was no better off now than he would have been if he’d never spoken to her father. All he’d gained was a wife who didn’t view hard, honest work as a failing.
He strode toward her. “Benjamin has offered to take the wheat to the barn. I’ll escort you home.”
She fell into step beside him. “If I wasn’t here,
would you be the one driving the wagon?”
He said nothing as he came to the spot where they’d left their horses to graze all day. He saddled them in silence, her question answered by his refusal to give voice to the truth.
She wanted to punch him for his obstinate behavior.
When he’d finished with her horse, he turned to her. “Yes.”
She’d almost forgotten the question. “I didn’t think you were going to answer.”
“I considered taking that avenue but decided little was to be gained. I’ll help you mount.”
He bent over, and she slipped her foot into his cupped hands. They seemed much more capable to her now. Was she as guilty as he of judging a person by perceived notions about society? In truth nothing about him had changed, but she found herself looking at him differently now. She was almost ashamed to acknowledge her feelings as she watched him pull himself into his own saddle.
He urged his horse forward, and she did the same. She enjoyed riding beside him. He sat a horse well with an ease that came from knowing he was the master.
“I noticed when I went to the stables this morning that two of the horses were gone,” she said.
“I sold them.”
“Oh.” She turned her attention to the narrow lane. “I keep forgetting how badly you need money.”
“I don’t much like having debt hanging over my head. With a bit of frugality, we won’t go hungry. I appreciate that you are not a spendthrift.”
He was becoming little more than a silhouette as the shadows of the night crept in. Still, she gave him a timid smile. “I never could get used to spending money just so it wouldn’t burn a hole in my pocket.”
“I daresay that would be viewed as a flaw among the ladies in London.”
“Never cared much what people thought.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
She thought she could see his lips twitching. She’d always enjoyed the last remnants of the day after hours of arduous work in the fields. As much as she’d hated picking cotton, she’d still found satisfaction in it.
“Are you responsible for all the fields?” she asked.
His head turned sharply, and even in the diminishing light she thought he looked as though she’d asked a preposterous question.
“I am, of course, accountable for the two thousand acres that make up Huntingdon.”
“I meant are you yourself farming all those acres?”
“Not all. We still have some tenants who work their own acreage. I simply couldn’t abide having the land lie fallow when tenants left so I began working it.”
“What about Benjamin?”
She could feel his gaze boring into her.
“Are all Americans as curious as you? Or are you the exception?”
“Are all Englishmen as private as you? Or are you the exception?” she asked in as British an accent as she could muster.
He chuckled low. “Although I’m accustomed to dealing with a woman’s anger your restrained fury tends to throw me off.”
“I’m not furious, Devon. Just frustrated. I’m your wife. I expected to share your life, not be made to feel like a busybody every time I ask a question.”
“I expected our lives to run on separate paths.”
“I expected them to be joined.”
“So I am coming to understand.”
She wasn’t quite sure if his understanding was for the good or not. “Benjamin?” she prodded. “What’s the mystery about him?”
“No mystery. We have an understanding, he and I. He and his family live in a cottage on my land. He oversees the workers when I’m not available.”
“And when you are available, you work harder than anyone. Why?”
“Battling my demons, countess. Margaret despised my working in the fields, but I saw no help for it. I doubt I make much of a difference, but it’s something, I suppose.”
His wife had despised his working in the fields? In addition to his own shame, he’d been forced to endure hers. Was it any wonder that he’d endeavored to ensure she never discovered he spent his days toiling?
The woman had not only been disappointed in their financial status, but she’d not respected his attempt to better it.
“I think you make a great deal of difference,” she said.
“Yes, well, we’ll see if you harbor the same sentiments when the London Season is upon us and I inform you we cannot afford for you to purchase any new ball gowns.”
“My gowns are less than three months old. Why would I need new ones?”
“Women always need new ball gowns.”
“I don’t.”
“No, I suppose you don’t,” he murmured. “I never know quite what to make of you, countess, but I do thank you for your assistance today.”
“I plan to help every day.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“Devon, accept my willingness to help with a bit of grace.”
“That’s not an easy request for me to honor.”
“But I enjoy working.”
“Gina—”
“Devon.”
“Fine. Do what you will, but at any time you may stop helping and I won’t think less of you.”
But she’d think less of herself. For the first time since she’d agreed to marry him, she felt equal to the task.
Devon drew his horse to a halt outside the stables, dismounted, and walked over to his wife. He was surprised the stubborn vixen still sat on her horse.
Wrapping his hands around her waist, he brought her slowly to the ground. As soon as her feet touched the ground, he should have released her. Instead he turned his hands slightly until his thumbs could graze the underside of her breasts.
Night had fallen, but someone had hung lanterns outside the stables, and they cast their glow over Gina. Strands of her hair had worked their way free of her braid. The rich soil was smeared over one cheek. She looked like no lady who belonged in the aristocracy.
Yet she possessed a fierce pride that even now was apparent by the manner in which she held herself. She’d worked in the fields all day. She should have looked withered, not merely weary.
And she certainly shouldn’t have appeared enticing or engaging. He wanted to pull her to him, flatten her breasts against his chest, and slash his mouth across hers, tasting her sweetness.
He released her, stepped back, and grabbed her horse’s reins. “Head on up to the manor. I’ll be there shortly.”
“There is no stable boy, is there?” she asked quietly.
He bowed slightly. “You are looking at him, countess. Although Benjamin sends his eldest boy over when I’m not about.” He furrowed his brow. “Who saddled your horse this morning?”
“I did.”
He swore softly beneath his breath. “Woman, have you no sense?”
She smiled, actually smiled, her teeth showing brightly against the lantern light. “I’ve been saddling my own horse since I was twelve.”
“But as my countess—”
“Devon, stop worrying about appearances. I doubt anyone around here gives a good goddamn.”
A good goddamn? Was there such a thing as a bad one?
He was on the verge of asking her when she turned, released a small screech, and stumbled to the ground. He was kneeling beside her in an instant. “What’s the matter?”
“My leg is cramping.”
“There, you see? I told you.” He scooped her up into his arms. “You had no business whatsoever working out in the fields.”
She wound one arm around his neck, while with the other hand she attempted to reach her leg.
“Just be still so I can get you to the house,” he ordered briskly, alarmed by the situation, wondering if he should send for a physician. He didn’t want her suffering.
“What about the horses?”
“I doubt they’ll run off. I shall send someone to tend to them.”
He took the steps leading into the manor two at a time. As though realizing he would have h
is way in this matter, she slumped against him, laying her head against his shoulder. He’d forgotten how nice she felt when held completely within his arms. Her simple dress, more suited to working in the fields than attending any social function, had no bustle or bows or anything to prevent him from noticing every swell and dip of her slender body as it pressed against his.
As he turned the knob, he shouldered open the heavy door and caught sight of Winston hurrying into the foyer. “Winston, have someone prepare a bath for Lady Huntingdon. Immediately.”
“Yes, milord.”
He carried her up the stairs to the bedchamber next to his. Gently he sat her in a chair before the hearth. He slid his hand beneath the hem of her dress and had no trouble finding the knotted muscle in her calf. He swore softly.
She tried to move her leg, but he held it firmly.
“Devon, I can do that.”
“As can I,” he said sternly, neither in the mood nor possessing the disposition to argue. Not that his tone would have deterred her if she had been of a mind to expostulate.
With a capitulation that he now understood beyond a doubt was totally foreign to her nature, she leaned back in the chair, gripping its arms. How like the blasted woman not to admit she was in a great deal of discomfort.
He kneaded the muscles slowly, gently, until he felt the knot loosening, her leg becoming firm but not hard beneath his fingers. She had such a finely shaped calf. He was tempted to lift her skirt over her knees and press his mouth just below her knee.
What a fool he’d been to speak in anger and disappointment, to deny her his presence in her bed, and in so doing, deny himself the pleasure of her body and the comfort he’d felt from simply holding her on their wedding night.
He lifted his gaze to her face. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were parted the tiniest bit. Her head was tilted at an odd angle, her breathing shallow.
To Marry an Heiress Page 21
