Twelve years of lost allowance, plus bonus, and Lilly’s back pay. All at once. It wasn’t a great fortune, but it would be enough to buy more calves, a few pigs, and put aside a substantial savings in the likely event of lean years to come. With careful planning, they would never need to go hungry again. Perhaps she could even purchase a few luxuries like a new pair of shoes for herself and a pretty bonnet for Lilly.
There was a great deal they could do with that money. Dreams of new livestock and comfortable shoes had danced into her head the very instant Lord Gideon had made the promise. In Lilly’s as well, Winnefred thought. Well, perhaps not the livestock, but the bonnet certainly. Lilly had always held a yen for things like that: pretty bonnets and frilly gowns, silly teacups that didn’t have a purpose.
Winnefred had seen her friend’s eyes light with hope, and it had frightened her as little else could. What if Lord Gideon wasn’t in any position to be making such promises? What if Lilly set her heart on a pretty new hat and Engsly’s men showed up next week to take the mad lord away?
Then again, what if her letter, like those Lilly had sent to Engsly, had simply fallen into the wrong hands?
Or what if she was wrong about his honesty and he was simply a marvelous actor with a penchant for playing malicious tricks on the unsuspecting?
She should have shown him the letter. She should have made him read it and explain himself.
“Damn.” She straightened from her weeding, caught her foot in the hem of her skirts, and nearly tumbled headfirst into a row of turnips. “Blasted useless waste of material.”
She yanked the offending gown over her head, not hard enough to damage it—that would have sent Lilly into fits—just hard enough to gain a small amount of satisfaction.
“Well now, this isn’t something a man sees every day.” Lord Gideon’s voice floated through the fabric of her dress. “Not in daylight, anyway. Pity you’re wearing a shirt and trousers.”
For a few awful seconds, Winnefred stood, stunned, with her arms above her head and her face hidden in the folds of her skirt. She’d seen a drawing of a turtle once, and had the ridiculous thought that she very much resembled one now.
“You might as well finish the job, Winnefred. I know it was you in the stable last night.”
It was the laughter that cut it for her. She didn’t mind being poked fun at by those she knew and trusted—one should never take oneself too seriously—but being mocked by Lord Gideon was asking too much of her pride.
She swore, pulled at the dress, and managed to tangle herself hopelessly.
“Oh, blast.”
“Stand still a moment.”
She felt him step up behind her. Large hands brushed past her hair and down to her neck. For reasons she couldn’t or didn’t care to name, the sensation sent pinpricks of heat along her spine.
“It would help,” he said from somewhere above her, “if you undid a few buttons first.”
She had only a moment to register the play of deft fingers along her nape before the dress came off with a whoosh.
“Ah. There you are.”
She looked up . . . and up . . . then stepped back a foot and looked up again. Heavens, the man was tall. She’d known he was larger than average, but it was hard to judge size accurately in the dark or while a body was lying down. At a guess, he stood well over six feet.
And he was quite broad. Not pudgy like their neighbor Mr. McGregor, and not impossibly thick like the blacksmith Mr. Dowell, but notably muscled across the chest, and arms, and legs, and . . . everywhere, really. Like a soldier, she decided, or one of the gladiators she’d seen depicted in books.
Only soldiers and gladiators didn’t have black eyes that twinkled as they watched her. Nor did they walk with canes. Ebony ones with carved handles she couldn’t quite make out but looked to be some kind of fish.
“Do you need that?” she asked suddenly. “Or is it an affectation?”
He glanced at his cane. “I can walk without it, just as I did now to fetch it out of the stable, but it eases the discomfort of a weakened leg. Why?” He grinned at her. “Feeling ashamed, are you, for having knocked a helpless cripple to the ground?”
“I might have been,” she admitted, looking over his substantial form. “But you appear capable enough to me. Do you mean to bring charges against us?”
He handed the dress to her. “No, I don’t. To begin with, you had every right to protect yourself. Beyond that—what man would willingly announce he’d lost in a fight to a woman? In fact, I’ll strike a bargain with you. You keep that bit of knowledge to yourself, and I’ll keep mum the fact that Miss Winnefred Blythe runs about in trousers.”
Winnefred frowned down at the brown material. “We only wear them when we work because they’re practical,” she said, feeling a little defensive. “And a sight more comfortable than this ghastly old dress. Any sane woman would toss it off at the first chance.”
Her eyes rounded in horror at the realization of what had just come out of her mouth. She waited for him to scoff, or to sneer. Instead, a laugh, low and pleasant, rolled from his chest. “And what sane man would argue?”
Her courage bolstered by his reaction, she started to ask him if he was sane. But she hesitated—it seemed unforgivably rude. As a rule, she wasn’t particularly concerned—or even particularly familiar—with good manners, but asking simply “are you mad by any chance?” sounded a bit too crude, even for her.
Torn, certain she’d lose the courage at any moment, she dug the letter out of her pocket and held it out to him with a hand that wanted to shake.
“Did you write this?”
Dark brows shot up as he reached for the letter. “Is this the letter you took from the cottage?”
“It is.”
“And is it the reason you keep looking at me as if I have two heads and a tail, and why I heard you muttering something about asylums a few minutes ago?”
She swallowed, thought about it, then decided to be truthful. “Yes.”
“Ah. Well, let’s see what you have.” He shifted his cane to unfold the letter, and she watched, nervously, as he read. The humor and curiosity that she was beginning to think were permanently ingrained in his features faded, and his countenance grew darker and darker the further he read. By the time he reached the end of the last page, his brow was furrowed and his lips pressed into an angry line.
“Why haven’t you burned this?” he asked in a quiet voice.
“Did you write it?” She had to be certain, absolutely certain.
“I did not.” He handed the letter back to her. “It’s vile, and at a guess, penned by my stepmother.”
She looked at the paper thoughtfully, then brought her eyes to meet his. “Will you give me your word, as a gentleman, that you never received the missive I sent you?”
“I will. What did it say?”
She felt a blush rise to her cheeks. Lilly had been ill, terribly ill, and they hadn’t the funds to pay for a physician. She’d been desperate the day she’d written, and it had led her to an act she had always promised herself she would never commit. She had begged.
“It was a request for help,” she mumbled, hoping the letter had found its way into a fireplace somewhere. She shrugged, pushing the memory of those dark days away. “As is happens, assistance was not required. It matters little now.”
“I see.” His hand, warm and rough, came up to cup the side of her face. He cradled it for a moment, a moment that held her transfixed and made her belly tighten and the air catch in her throat. And then one finger slid down to her chin and tilted her face up to his. “And I’m sorry.”
For one terrifying moment, Winnefred felt tears gather at the back of her eyes. She blinked them back, surprised at her reaction to a simple apology and an easy, albeit improper, caress. Merely exhaustion, she told herself, brought on by a lack of sleep and an onslaught of fear, worry, and—perhaps most draining of all—hope. People did the oddest things when they were overly tired.
&n
bsp; The fact that she’d been a great deal more tired, and a good deal more worried in the past, and never before felt the urge to leak like a sieve wasn’t something she cared to dwell on.
She was on the verge of turning away and making a light joke to cover her confusion when he spoke.
“Do you have those freckles year-round?”
“Do I . . . ?” She blinked, tears forgotten. “Beg your pardon?”
He tapped a finger against her cheek and let his hand fall. “There was a boy on my ship. Joseph O’Dell. His freckles would disappear in the winter and come back every summer. I’d swear they were different each time they emerged, but then, I never looked too closely. Unseemly, don’t you think, for a man to be counting a boy’s freckles?”
“I imagine so,” she managed, caught somewhere bet ween baffled and charmed. “Are you quite certain you’re not touched?”
He shrugged. “One can never be completely certain, as one would be the last to know.”
“That’s not at all reassuring.” But she found herself smiling at him all the same. “And this may be the most absurd conversation I’ve ever had.”
“I’m told I have a knack for them. Are you going to answer my question?”
She couldn’t think of any reason she shouldn’t. “Some of my freckles fade in the winter. But I couldn’t say if their positions alter from year to year as I’ve never troubled myself over their placement. What of yours?”
He started slightly and grinned. “Mine? Have I freckles?”
“Seven,” she informed him, realizing belatedly it may be just as unseemly for a woman to be counting a man’s freckles as it was for a man to be counting a boy’s. She mentally shrugged off the concern. It was only the truth, and she’d hardly been staring—much. “You’ve three on the left and four on the right. They’re very faint, but they’re there. Perhaps they’re only noticeable in the sunlight.”
“I’m not in the habit of looking in mirrors out-of-doors, so you must be right.” He grimaced a little. “I’ve always considered freckles an endearing characteristic. I’m not at all sure I’m comfortable with that description being applied to me.”
She’d known him less than a day, but Winnefred felt the adjective “endearing” fit him rather well. And that didn’t seem right at all. Men who looked like Lord Gideon should have words like swarthy, dark, and dangerous attached to them. Large men shouldn’t laugh softly, black eyes shouldn’t twinkle mischievously, and rough hands shouldn’t feel gentle when they brushed along a woman’s skin.
She looked away. “We should go in. Lilly must be finished by now.”
“Have we cried pax, then?” he asked.
She considered it. He wasn’t lying, and he wasn’t mad. In fact, he was rather likable. There was still the issue of his believing a house could be run on five pounds a year. But then, sometimes those in possession of the greatest fortunes had the least understanding of their value. Lord Gideon was likely merely eccentric, and as long as that eccentricity didn’t extend to making wild promises he wouldn’t keep, she saw no reason to spend the next few days being at odds with him.
She nodded, resolute. “Pax.”
Breakfast at the Murdoch House generally consisted of one of three ingredients: eggs, fish, or porridge. Winnefred caught and cleaned the fish. Lilly collected and cooked the eggs. Porridge, despised by both of them, was used only under the most dire of circumstances and prepared by whomever was hungry enough to go to the bother of making it.
Meals in general were eaten in the kitchen with a single fork and tin bowl each. So it was with some surprise that Winnefred discovered the small dining room table set with the few pieces of chipped china they’d discovered in the attic, and a small hill of eggs, bread, and cheese. It was several days’ worth of food, and the sheer gluttony of it had Winnefred gaping.
“What in the—?”
“Do have a seat, my lord. Winnefred.” Lilly sent a look that somehow managed to both plead with Winnefred to say nothing and promise the most severe of consequences should Winnefred refuse.
Familiar enough with pride—and with Lilly’s rare temper—Winnefred moved around the table to sit, only to have Lilly stop her with a quick grasp of her elbow and a low, furious whisper.
“What happened to your gown?”
Winnefred shook her head. “He isn’t angry. I’ll explain later.”
Lilly looked as if she wanted to argue but settled for a scowl before letting go of Winnefred’s arm and taking her own seat.
Gideon sat at the head of table and looked over his steaming plate. “It looks and smells wonderful, Miss Ilestone.”
Winnefred smiled knowingly and waited for him to take his first bite. Gideon scooped up a forkful of eggs and tasted. His eyes widened in surprise, then closed in overt pleasure.
“Sweet Mary,” he murmured around the mouthful. He chewed, swallowed, and took another, larger forkful.
Lilly smiled and blushed. “I am delighted it’s to your liking, my lord.”
Gideon bobbed his head, but waited until his mouth was empty before speaking again. “Extraordinary. Absolutely extraordinary. What did you put in here?”
“A little bit of this and that—cream, dill, and so on.”
“Are all your meals this well prepared?”
“They are when Lilly cooks,” Winnefred answered.
“Winnefred makes a very fine trout as well, my lord.”
“Gideon, please,” he invited. “I suppose this is why you’ve no one else to cook for you, then. What would be the point, really?”
“I’m afraid a cook just wasn’t possible with the funds Lord . . . I suppose I should say Lady Engsly sent us,” Lilly replied.
Gideon stopped eating. “How is it two intelligent, practical women are unable to keep a small house and . . .” He trailed off as if just considering something. “How many pounds, exactly, did Lady Engsly send you?”
“Five,” Winnefred answered around a mouthful of eggs. “I thought you knew that.”
“Five,” he repeated dully. He set his fork down, dragged a hand down his face, and swore under his breath. “As in, five-decimal-point-zero?”
“Yes, of course,” Lilly answered with a small laugh.
He swore quietly again. “I beg your pardon. I’d rather hoped you were speaking in hundreds.”
“Hundreds?” Winnefred would have laughed herself, but the cold shock on Gideon’s face had a trickle of nerves dancing along her skin. “Lady Engsly didn’t steal half, did she?”
“No.” He blew out a hard breath. “Your allowance was set at eighty pounds annum.”
There was a simultaneous gasp of breath and clatter of silverware. Lilly stared, openmouthed and wide-eyed. Winnefred moved her mouth to speak but found she was unable to form sound.
“There’s the bonus, as well,” Gideon reminded them. He scowled at his plate. “And given the extent of Lady Engsly’s crime against you, whatever else you might like.”
Winnefred’s mind stayed eerily blank except for a repetitive echoing of Gideon’s voice saying, “Eighty pounds annum. Eighty pounds annum. Eighty pounds . . .”
“I want a London season for Winnefred.”
That sudden, decisive, and wholly unexpected statement from Lilly cut through Winnefred’s mind like a sharp knife.
“What?”
Lilly ignored her in favor of addressing Gideon. “You said anything within reason, and I feel a season for a young woman of good birth is not beyond the realm of reasonable.”
Obviously expecting an argument from him, Lilly straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin defiantly. She needn’t had bothered.
“A season it is.” Still scowling, Gideon picked up his fork and stabbed at his eggs. “Five pounds. It’s a wonder the two of you survived.”
Winnefred shook her head in bewilderment. “This is absurd. What the devil would I do with a London season?”
“Find a husband, I imagine,” was Gideon’s reply.
It onl
y served to mystify her further. “What the devil would I do with a husband?”
“Obtain long-term financial stability,” Lilly told her. “Something more reliable than sheep that can fall ill or crops that can fail.”
“A husband can fall ill,” she argued. “And I’d wager they fail their spouses regularly. Also, we haven’t any sheep or crops.”
“But we will, if you have your way.”
“Well, what’s wrong with that?” Lilly opened her mouth, ready, it seemed, to explain exactly what was wrong with that, and Winnefred tried another angle. “I’m nearly six-and-twenty. I’m too old.”
“For a traditional debut, yes, but not a simple season.” Lilly leaned forward, excited. “Think of it Winnefred. The opera, the shops, the balls and soirees, rides in Hyde Park and trips to Bond Street. You could have that life—” She cut herself off, obviously remembering with whom she was speaking. “You could have a husband with enough funds to keep you knee deep in sheep and soil for the rest of your life.”
Winnefred considered her friend. It was impossible to miss the way Lilly’s eyes lit up as she spoke of visiting London. “You should have the season,” she decided. “You’d enjoy it far more, and make better use of it as well.”
Gideon responded before Lilly could. “A fine idea.”
“My lord, the expense, the trouble . . .” Lilly protested.
“Isn’t something you need concern yourself with,” he finished for her. “The Engsly estate can well afford it, and I’ve a great-aunt who would like nothing more than to introduce two lovely young ladies into society.”
“She’ll need to content herself with just one,” Winnefred said, adamant she would not, absolutely not, be going to London to indulge in a silly game of husband hunting.
Lilly pressed her lips into a thin line. “I’ll not go without you.”
“Lilly, that’s unfair.”
Nearly a Lady (Haverston Family Trilogy #1) Page 3
