Willoughby 01 - Something About Her

by Jeannie Ruesch

  “Sneaky, Charles.” She grinned, lowering herself to the ground next to the flowerbed. She pulled her skirts in around her legs to ward off the chill from the cold walkway and picking up the hand shovel, she stabbed it into the dirt with a satisfying oomph of muscle.

  She had a life here, one she was far more suited to than London. Parties and balls until the wee hours? She popped up and out of bed, bright-eyed, at six in the morning every day. Not to mention, the idea of changing clothes three or four times a day seemed absurd.

  She caressed one of the silky leaves of the plant she held. She had to convince her family to leave without her. She was a country girl, and the country was where she wanted to stay.

  ****

  Michael rode up the drive to the house where Thomas’s wife lived, taking in the view with surprise.

  This house, though on a smaller scale, equaled some of the finer country estates he had visited over the years. Standing at three stories with impressive peaks and chimneys, it was built in the classic E-shape of the Elizabethan style. The walls combined darkened oak frames with moss-covered stone. Windows, though set in regular intervals on the first two floors, jutted out of the roofline on the third. The double-door entry stood in the center of the house, the center of the “E”, framed by long, thin windows and small bushes on the porch.

  The grounds were impeccable. Trimmed hedges bordered large expanses of lush grass, still wet from the torrents of rain. Large, willowy trees cast shadows upon flower beds full of bushes and a few colorful sprigs here and there.

  The crisp air filled his nostrils. He’d forgotten how clean the air could smell, without the dirty, congested stench of the city.

  He had eight other homes he could visit throughout England. Why did he choose to spend all his time in a crowded city where he couldn’t find a moment’s peace?

  “Papa!”

  Ah, yes. Now he remembered. Wherever he found a shred of peace and quiet, something—or a mischievous someone—always shattered it.

  Michael slid down from his horse and turned to the carriage that had followed him up the driveway.

  Elisabeth hung in the open door. “Are we here, finally?”

  Finally indeed. He walked over and she hopped down. “Yes, we’re here.”

  She slid past him and ran to the steps of the house.

  “Bethie, wait a moment-” he started just as she pounded on the door. So much for stretching his legs first.

  Elisabeth twirled around on the porch. “It’s so quiet here!” She jumped off the steps, starting toward the side of the house.

  “Not so fast, young lady!” He jogged toward her to grab her arm. “You stay within sight. I’m not playing hide and seek with you.” He hadn’t wanted to play the other six times she’d disappeared during this trip, either. The last time, it had taken him almost two hours to find her.

  The front door opened and an older man peered out through round spectacles. “May I help you?”

  Michael tucked Elisabeth at his side. “The Duke of Ravensdale to call on Lady Ashton.”

  The butler did a passable job at keeping his mouth from falling ajar, but his eyes bulged. “I beg your pardon, did you say the Duke of Ravensdale?”

  “Yes.” He had decided against sending a note ahead, not wanting to give Thomas’s “widow”—or Thomas, if luck was on his side—time to disappear.

  “Of course, Your Grace, please do come in.” He stepped aside to allow them entrance. “Perhaps you might wait in the front parlor while I inform Lady Ashton of your arrival?”

  “That would be fine.” Pulling his daughter closer, Michael moved into the room while the butler scurried down the hall.

  Bethie ran toward a large window. “Look, Papa, horses!”

  “Mm Hmm.” He surveyed the spacious room: quaint landscape paintings on the walls, a hardwood floor that glistened, and simple yet elegant furniture arranged in small conversation areas.

  Realizing his daughter was unusually silent, he checked the window then whipped around when he didn’t see her. “Bethie?”

  He saw nothing but an empty room, and his temper flared. “Elisabeth Victoria Ashton, I told you we were not playing—”

  “Your Grace?” A blond man, equal to Michael in height and build, stood in the doorway. “I am the Earl of Merewood. To what do we owe this unexpected honor?”

  “Did you see a child in the direction you came?”

  “No.” A curious frown crossed his features. “Is the child yours?”

  “My daughter, Elisabeth.”

  “Isn’t she with a governess?”

  “That would require she had one first,” Michael muttered, as he looked around. “Then she has to be in here somewhere.”

  The earl moved into the room. “So what can we do for you, Your Grace? I assume from your trunks this is meant to be an extended visit.”

  Michael stepped to the nearest curtains and pushed them to the side. “Elisabeth, this is not the time to play.” He moved to the other window and looked behind the curtains. Also empty.

  “Your Grace?”

  Michael met his gaze. “Forgive my lapse. I assumed you would know that I am cousin to—”

  “Thomas Ashton. Yes, I am aware. This has to do with Ashton, then?”

  “I just learned of my cousin’s death, and his marriage, in fact. I felt I should pay my respects to my cousin’s widow.”

  “We are honored by your visit,” Merewood said lightly. “As well, my condolences for your loss.”

  Not a loss the earl felt personally, if one could judge from the unemotional, polite mask he exuded. Not that anyone could blame him.

  Michael resumed his perusal of the room. “Is Lady Ashton home?”

  “She is out at the moment, but I will let her know of your arrival as soon as she returns.”

  “Thank you.” Michael did one last turn around the room for any other hidden places. “My daughter must have snuck out. I need to find her.” He veered toward the door. She wouldn’t go far, she was on unfamiliar ground.

  Bullocks. Just who was he kidding? She would trot to Egypt if she could figure out how.

  “Of course.” Merewood dropped his arms to his sides. “I will have the servants search, as well.”

  Michael did not bother to wait. He brushed past Merewood and down the long corridor to the first door. A library, with recessed bookshelves lining the walls. He moved to the curtains.

  “Elisabeth, you best come out this instant.” He pushed aside the heavy velvet to no avail. With no other hiding places visible, he closed the door and continued on to the next. An equally well-appointed but empty parlor. The hallway ended and split off. To the left, chatter wafted into the hallway along with the scent of fresh-baked bread. Michael assumed the kitchen held too many people for Bethie to consider it a good hiding place, so he veered right, where the hallway led to a sun-filled room of glass walls.

  Greenery hung in every corner, flowers sat on every table, and a trio of young women clustered in a small seating area, chatting away.

  The eldest was pretty, though young, with long dark hair. As she registered his presence, whatever she’d been about to say died on her lips. Her dark eyes widened and then quickly narrowed with the familiar gage of calculated interest.

  The other two girls turned and openly stared at him.

  “Who are you?” the youngest, a child close to Elisabeth’s age he guessed, asked. Her blonde hair caught in ringlets that bounced around her head as she cocked it sideways.

  “Georgie!” said the dark-haired girl sitting next to her. “Don’t be rude.”

  The eldest continued to gape at him. “The question remains, sir, as to who you might be and why you are in our house without benefit of an introduction.”

  He knew he should wait, at the very least, for Merewood to appear, but impatience propelled him forward. “Forgive my intrusion, ladies. I am searching-”

  “Your Grace,” Merewood interrupted, entering the room on Michael’s heels.
“A young girl was spotted outside. I sent a couple servants after her.”

  “Was she by my carriage?”

  “She was seen behind the house, near the garden maze.” He took a step toward the door. “I’m happy to show you.”

  Merewood couldn’t be more gracious, but Michael knew when he was being directed away from someone. He glanced at the eldest young woman. Keenan had said the woman seen with Thomas was a beauty. This one would be someday, but she had yet to grow into her full potential.

  “Your Grace?” Merewood interrupted his thoughts.

  With an abrupt nod, Michael followed him to the back of the house, where a set of doors led outside.

  Cool, winter air filled his lungs as soon as they stepped out. Several pathways formed a maze through a garden rich with a colorful variety of spring bulbs and azaleas. To their left, a group of smaller buildings surrounded a stable made of wood and stone. Beyond that, the land extended into seemingly endless, rolling hills.

  Michael focused on the plethora of intertwining pathways and flower beds. It was the perfect place for an endless game of hide and seek.

  And God help her if it took him two hours to find her this time. Michael strode into the maze.

  ****

  The cold dirt chilled Blythe’s fingers as she patted it down. She glanced at the pallet, which held two waiting plants, and then back at the section of flowerbed she’d just placed the other five into.

  She’d run out of room.

  With a sigh, she uprooted the flowers. This time, she drew markers in the dirt to make sure she had room for all seven.

  If only men were like plants, she thought as she pushed dirt out of the way for the first plant. You could move them around when needed, and if they didn’t do what they were supposed to, you’d dig them up and plant something new altogether.

  She chuckled at the idea of planting a new man in her garden.

  Not that she had an interest in any man. It was just a silly daydream. But if she was simply dreaming…

  He would be kind, with an easy laugh. Generous. He would love children.

  His hair would be dark, the opposite of Thomas’ golden strands. His features would be chiseled and strong, not deceivingly angelic as Thomas’s had been. In fact, he would have a hint of devilishness in his smile, in the sparkle in his eyes.

  Most of all, he would adore her.

  Blythe sighed. Better to stick with the plants. She reached a hand underneath her, pushed herself up off the cold stone and looked up.

  “Oh!” she gasped at the mirage in front of her and promptly landed back on her backside.

  She blinked hard. No, no, the man was still there. How was that possible?

  He stood tall at the end of the pathway. The sun shone behind him, haloing his dark hair with golden-red highlights.

  As he neared, his purposeful gait reminded her of a sleek racing horse primed for action. He came closer, focused in all directions except hers until— His booted foot landed hard on her extended ankle.

  Pain shot up her leg. “Ouch!” she cried, grabbing her foot.

  The man’s gaze snapped downward. “What in blazes are you doing down there?”

  “What in blazes are you doing up there?”

  “Are you injured?” Despite the tone of impatience, his deep, rich voice brushed like velvet over her ears.

  The pain in her foot had subsided to a throbbing ache. “I believe I will live.”

  “Very well.” The man gestured toward the gardens. “Where would you hide in here?”

  This hardly constituted proper conversation from her dream man. There should be declarations of love, or at the very least, a mushy poem dedicated to her eyes. Something.

  But, perhaps there was room for a minor fault in such perfection.

  And he was perfection. She couldn’t have dreamed eyes that blue—the exact color of a robin’s egg. And on closer inspection, his hair was a splendid chocolate brown that curled over his collar, just long enough to beg her fingers to run through it.

  “Hullo? Pay attention, please. Where would you hide in this maze?” He loomed over her, shadowing her from the sun.

  “Why would I hide in the maze?” She shivered at the sudden chill in the air and tried to figure the most graceful way to get up, since her skirts were gathered underneath her.

  “Say you were playing a game of hide…and…seek.” He spoke as if she were a two-year-old.

  “I have not played that in years,” she muttered.

  “Just answer my—Oh. Well.”

  Oh, heavens. Heat shot up her neck, and she glared over her shoulder. “You could extend a hand, if you were any kind of gentleman.”

  “Who said I was a gentleman?” he asked, amused.

  How fitting that she couldn’t even summon an imaginary man without major flaws. She had wished for a hint of devilishness, and here he was in all his irritating glory.

  With a few shuffles and some frantic rearranging of her skirts to keep them from flinging over her head, Blythe managed to stand—without an ounce of grace and without a single gesture of help.

  She swiveled on her heel to dress him down for his lack of manners, wincing at the twinge of pain when she stepped down.

  “Are you ready to help me now?” he asked, annoyance stamped on his face.

  “Am I—You’re the one who stepped on me!”

  “And you said you were fine, so help me search this maze.” He examined the nearest flowerbeds.

  “What could you possibly want in my garden?” She blinked hard again. She was having a ridiculous argument with a man who might be a figment of her imagination. Before she realized what she was about, she reached out and pinched his arm.

  “Ouch!” He yanked his arm away. “What was that for?”

  “You are real.” She didn’t know if she was relieved or mortified.

  “Quite real, last I checked.” He rubbed the place she’d pinched.

  “Oh, I didn’t pinch you that hard. I thought perhaps I was daydreaming.”

  He stared at her as if she were a candidate for Bedlam. “You are supposed to pinch yourself to prove you aren’t dreaming.”

  “Well, I know I am real. It was you I had doubts about,” she muttered. “Seeing how you are—real, that is—who are you and what are you doing in my garden?”

  A flicker of annoyance sparked. “My daughter is playing hide and seek.”

  “And you want me to give you hints to find her?” A self-satisfied smile curved her lips. “Not a chance.”

  “Did you see her?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  “I have not seen anyone.”

  “This is not a game!”

  “Didn’t you just say it was Hide and Seek?” She was starting to think he was the one who had lost all sense of reality.

  “Never mind, I can find my own child.”

  “As easily as you managed to lose her?” Oh drat, where had that come from?

  He leaned toward her. “If you value your position, I suggest you find someone else to bother.”

  Her position? “I suggest you—”

  With a scathing regard, he turned on his heel and strode in the direction of the stable.

  Her mouth gaped open. Who did he think he was? She kicked the dirt, though she’d rather place her slipper— “Stop that,” she admonished herself. But she’d had enough of people treating her as if she didn’t matter.

  And she was going to tell Mr. Blue Eyes just that.

  Chapter Four

  He hadn’t lost his daughter, Michael repeated to himself as he trod toward the stables. She was on the grounds. Somewhere.

  Look, Papa, horses! Elisabeth’s comment in the parlor crashed into his brain. What an idiot he was. Of course she would go to the stables. He’d taught her to ride as soon as she could walk, and she often spent a large portion of her day annoying the stable hands into letting her help.

  “Blasted women,” Michael muttered. Young, old, debutante or servant. They were nothing
but trouble. He’d had enough of the lot of them to last a few dozen lifetimes.

  Though he was mildly surprised by the altercation with the beautiful servant in the garden. Michael had become so used to everyone bowing and scraping at his feet because of his title and wealth, he couldn’t remember the last conversation that hadn’t left him feeling as if someone was permanently adhered to his buttocks.

  He strode toward the stables just up ahead and in minutes, entered through the wide, stone archway. The harsh, sweet smell of hay and manure cleared his nostrils as he surveyed the room. Horse stalls sat on either side, enclosed with wooden doors that came halfway up the doorframe. He counted eight horses in stalls and four stalls empty.

  “Elisabeth?” When silence proved his answer, he moved toward the stalls. She’d more than proven her ability to completely ignore anything he said. Calling out her name wouldn’t do a lick of good. Hell, bribing her didn’t work either. He’d tried that the last time.

  He blew out a breath and started on the first stall on his right, found it empty and moved to the next. As the stalls on this side proved empty, he moved to the other, finding those equally empty of his precocious seven-year-old.

  “Bethie!” he yelled out in pointless frustration.

  “Perhaps if you did not bellow your daughter’s name, she might be more inclined to answer you.”

  The woman from the garden had appeared in the middle of the entryway. Sunlight streamed in behind her, bathing her curves in a pale yellow glow. The effect, so diametrical to the sarcasm in her words, momentarily distracted him and he realized how lovely she was.

  “I do not recall asking for your opinion,” he said, annoyed by his thoughts. He studied the room for additional hiding places.

  “You’ll never find her.” The woman’s words were now filled with amusement. “There are hundreds of hiding places in the buildings on this property alone. I should know. I played here as a child.”

  “Then I suggest you start looking in each and every one of them.”

  An indignant flush crossed over her lovely face as she walked toward him. “You do not have the right to order me—” She stopped, staring into an empty stall on the left. “Satin is gone.”