Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3) (14 page)

              She frowned. “But you told Paulina that you have business in London.”

              He sat back, looking triumphant. “So I did, and I also said that I have business at Oakvale. Which I do not.”

              Alix gasped, heart pounding harder by the moment. “That means!”

              He nodded. “Five days at least.”

              Five days in Spencer's company with no one more obtrusive than John and Laurel to take a bit of notice. Equal measures of relief and anticipation dashed her composure, and she pressed a hand to her chest and fell back in her chair.

              Spencer nodded again. “Precisely.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

              He had found her at last, his woman from the masquerade. Perhaps even more than that, Spencer thought, watching her tease John and then duck her head at his colorful retort. However alluring, his garden lady had been one color where the woman before him now was a whole spectrum.

Alexandra was the sun after a cloudy day, and it was impressed on him what a powerful effect her brother and sister-in-law had. Even her way of dressing had changed since their departure. Smooth bare arms and a neckline somewhere lower than her chin revealed creamy skin in frustrating quantity. She wore crisp ivory satin which set off a mountain of black waves swept up to reveal a slender neck his fingers remembered well. There was a renewed light to her beautiful face, and Spencer thought her a match for London's most celebrated belles.

              Laurel stood, stifling a yawn against one hand and massaging the green muslin that shrouded her growing belly with the other. “Walk me up, John, or you'll be carrying me.”

              “Hmph. In that case at your current size, you'll stay where you are.”

              A whack from Laurel earned Spencer a helpless look from John. Spencer raised his arms in reply. “If you fear her size, I wouldn't provoke her, Hastings.”

              Laurel grabbed a fistful of John's coat, heaving with all her willowy might. “Your friend is wise. You should heed his advice.”

              That put an end to it. John caught her around the waist, swept her legs and gathered her to his chest, Laurel giggling and shrieking all the while. Alexandra doubled over with laughter, meeting his eyes and shaking her head.

              “Spoils of war, Reed!” John called back over his shoulder. “You're my witness. Won fair and square.” Laurel's giggling could be heard all the way down the hall, punctuating John's indistinct murmurs.

              Still laughing, Alix raked their cards together. “I suspect neither of them is as put out as they let on.”

              He tapped her slipper under the table. “Whatever gives you that impression?”

              “Hm.” She finished stacking up the deck and glanced around. “I thought we were old, but here we are, the last ones up at an embarrassingly early hour.”

              Pulling out his watch, Spencer saw she was correct; just past ten.

She reclined into a languid stretch, painting him with a lazy smile. He wondered if she grasped the effect her pose was having, until her foot brushed his calf beneath the table. “What should we do with ourselves?”

              Anything. Everything. Spencer had no idea how to answer. The only thing he was sure of was that he didn't want to leave her yet, that he wanted every possible moment in her company before the Patons returned. “Get your coat,” he instructed, not certain what he intended. “I'll meet you in the hall.” Like everything where Alexandra was concerned, the moment was impulse and he was happy to make it up as they went.

              Looking as perplexed as he felt, Alexandra cocked her head and smiled, skipping his heart. “Are we running away?”

              Swallowing twice, he still couldn't find a reply, and shrugged.

He felt like an idiot, but Alexandra nodded and spared him. “Playing coy. Very well. Though, I warn you, I'm prepared.”

              He watched her go, the graceful sway of her skirts holding him captive until she was out of sight. Taking her outside had seemed like a clever idea until this moment; now he had the distinct sense of saddling himself with biblical temptation. There was no telling yet if that were terrible, or wonderful.

              When he met Alix in the hall minutes later, she was covered from neck to ankles in a sensible brown velveteen coat, and Spencer exhaled. Made safe by the garment, mostly from himself, he offered her an arm.

              They went left around the staircase where he opened the ballroom's wide double doors and led her through the dark, their footsteps tapping at marble until they reached the terrace’s high doors. A few lamps blazed along the wall and Spencer took advantage of their light, as they moved down the stairs, to steal glances at Alix. They retraced steps they’d taken into the garden on that first night, and he studied her as they went for any hint of recognition. She looked more concerned with navigating deepening shadows, no acknowledgement for their surroundings.

              “It’s just up here,” he whispered when they had passed the orangerie and his beloved wall, and moved into the garden proper.

              “Why are we whispering?”

              Spencer chuckled at himself and shrugged even if she couldn't see him. “Because it's dark?”

              “Oh.” A soft laugh. “Of course.”

              “Here.” He stopped them atop a low rise beyond the garden's hedges where Broadmoore's lawn rolled away toward wilder country. Lights from the house caught the edge of a small pond, painting it in amber ribbons, offering a hint of illumination until the moon rose. Sitting, Spencer braced back on his arms, stretched his legs out along the small hill, and patted the grass. Alix fell beside him without warning, hip to hip, one arm inside his own so that their fingers just touched. She was close enough for him to catch the warm, sweet perfume from her hair, to hear her slow. even breathing. The magical ward of her modest coat began to dissolve.

              Spencer fixed his eyes overhead, studying the night sky and clearing his throat. “Do you know your constellations, Mrs. Rowan?”

              “In fact, I do.” He caught a delighted bent to her words. “I think anyone who has a love of sailing must. My father taught me each and every one.” Her laugh was girlish. “Sometimes we made up our own. It became a contest.”

              “Is that so?”

              “A toad. A fountain. Snake; my father always tried snake, which of course you can make out of exactly any four stars.” She snorted and pressed their shoulders together.

              He inhaled, exhaling her name slowly. “Alexandra.”

              “Mmm?”

              It was more a sensation than a word. He had meant it as a preamble, an introduction to a speech he had practiced countless times over the last week. It was a concise and finely worded explanation of his attraction and confusion, her beauty and quiet strength, and how he feared her as much as he chafed in her absence. He had even written it out on a scrap of paper and whispered it to himself before the glass while dressing, two mornings in a row. Face to face with her now, he could hardly recall it and the parts he did remember sounded rote.
Wrong
. Finally, he settled on: “I'm glad we have this time together.” He caressed her cheek with his thumb and hoped that she could hear his sentiment behind the words.

              “I am glad you found it for us.” Her head fell against his arm in reply, putting their faces in dangerous proximity. “A month,” she murmured.

It barely pierced his awareness, distracted by her heat through his clothes. “What's that?”

              She didn’t speak for awhile, long enough that he wondered if she had heard him. “Chas means for us to return home. Settle the accounts he's started here, and then we'll be on our way.” Her words were hollow, toneless.

              “You could stay on,” he argued. “The Hastings enjoy your company. Stay as their guest.” While he spoke, he grasped for more answers, more solutions, arranging arguments in advance against any protest she might raise.

              Her head was already shaking against him. “Chas and Paulina would never have it. It isn't so simple.”

              “Tell me how it is, then,” he growled, frustrated. “You're a woman of a certain age, Alexandra. Your brother cannot still have so much hold over you.”

              “My brother? No.” Anger burned in her words. “Not my brother.” He sensed there was more, that she was about to continue, but then she deflated. “Things
will
change, soon. For now, let's enjoy the time we have. I certainly am, at the moment.”

              He wasn’t done fighting her departure, but a husky note to her last words mollified him. Letting his palms slip over the grass, Spencer fell onto his back. Alix joined him, twining their fingers in the space between their bodies. Her smaller hand fit inside his, palm smooth against his calloused one.

              “Funny how you can come to depend so much on something you've otherwise managed to live without. Something you never knew existed.”

              He knew exactly what she meant, had felt it for days. What Alix had called friendship, except it ran into gray areas along its borders. He turned his face to her and cradled her cheek. He hadn’t intended more, but Alix closed the space between them with a kiss, her lips warm and soft against crisp night air.

              He held her there, still cupping her face and not daring more or retreating.

She was the first to pull away and, sighing, nestled against him. She shivered and pressed closer, igniting a slow burn.

              “Cold? Would you like to go in?”

              “No,” she murmured to his relief, raising their joined hands and resting them on her belly, “Not just yet.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

             
Rap-rap rap-rap rap!

              She'd heard him the
first
time, but had rolled over and covered her head with the quilt and ignored him. His knock was heavier, more insistent this time, and Alix wriggled from her bed, stomping through a smaller front room and throwing back her door.

              Spencer grinned and looked her over. “Were you awake?”
              She raked fingers through tumbled hair, staring back and letting her appearance answer his question.

              His grin spread, and he was undeterred. “Well, when are you getting up?”

              Alix narrowed her eyes. “Now, it seems.” Her frown couldn't hold and she broke into a smile. “I'll be down shortly. Give me a few minutes.”

              “Perfect!” His smile was serene, and he turned and leaned against the wall. “I'll wait here.”

             
Of course he would.

              “We're going out!” he called through the door as she shut it.

              “I haven't eaten yet!” She protested.

              “You'll manage.”

              Alix rifled through her trunk for something she hadn't risked wearing with Paulina about. Tossing through her wardrobe, she came upon a crisp white muslin gown with deep flounces to the knees, more extravagant than she was usually permitted. Next, she claimed a raspberry velvet pelisse trimmed in white satin braid, a coat Paulina insisted was gaudy but had asked to borrow twice. Last came a straw bonnet with a matching pink ribbon. She looked herself over in the glass, losing and finding her nerve twice at the combination. Then she turned away and grabbed her reticule, deciding not to overthink a matter just this once.

              Coming out the door she nearly plowed Spencer over. He held out a white linen napkin in one hand and a blue porcelain cup in the other. Toast, and judging by the aroma, coffee.

              He studied her with a slow nod which gained momentum, and Alix's hesitation at her choice of clothing faded away.

              “Butter,” he announced, holding out the napkin, “and cream.” He raised the cup. “You can eat them on the way downstairs.”

              “Ugh.” She sighed, claiming the toast now hovering in her face, not quite awake enough for his enthusiasm.

Spencer didn't seem to notice. He took the steps two at a time ahead of her, pacing the hall while she managed to drink without spilling. He claimed her cup and empty napkin as she reached the bottom and set them atop a narrow table, the only convenient surface at hand.

              “What?” he questioned at her disapproval. “Someone will get it.” He grabbed her sleeve, moving off again, bounding for the door like an enthusiastic puppy.

              The morning was clear and blue, sunlight spilling golden over green treetops. A summer breeze whispered away its heat and fanned them with a sweet perfume of honeysuckle bordering the drive. It was absolute fantasy but, for just a breath, Alix dared to imagine it as reality, her future a delicious string of similar days, all at Spencer’s side.

A groom fussed over Spencer's yellow curricle, checking its hitches and patting down both horses. With a little bow he opened the door for Spencer, who helped her up and climbed in behind.

              Her curiosity was piqued, realizing that they were riding out together. “What are we about this morning?”

              Spencer snapped the reins, leading them around the yard and down the drive. “Are you acquainted with our annual Lady Day?”

              “No, but it sounds as though gloves are involved.”

              Spencer chuckled, pulling his hat lower over his eyes. “As in our lady, the Virgin Mary.”

              “We’re moving further and further outside my purview.”

              “Mid-March,” he explained, “leaseholds are renewed and rents are paid. Normally, I settle business in the village with my steward Mister Sheldon. Only, this year I was busy conquering France.”

              Alix clucked her tongue. “Inconsiderate of you on several counts.”

              “The French army agrees with you.” He wheeled them left, away from the main road toward a series of low slopes. “Now that we're approaching midsummer, the village will hold fairs. Men come for work, cotters trade, and so on. Today is the first of such gatherings, and an opportunity for me to meet with my tenants.”

              She had teased him thus far, but Spencer’s explanation impressed on her his importance, and the importance of his villagers. Still, she refused to be deferential. “Goodness. You're like a king!”

              He shook a fist. “And a ruthless king at that. You'll have the best view of the beheadings.”

              “I can hardly wait.” Alix closed her eyes, breeze whipping over her face and enjoying Spencer's nearness.

              “No sleeping,” he ordered and nudged her with an elbow.

              She nudged back. “Shh! Don't ruin the moment by speaking.”

              He made a wounded sound, then laughed.

              The horses slowing their pace brought her eyes open again. The road's brown ribbon dropped, curved, and spilled between neatly arranged rows of stone cottages and shops. Golden thatch roofs glistened in the sunlight with colorful specks of people passing up and down the main street. The thoroughfare ended at an old stone church, its wide wooden doors thrown open for the crowds. Fields of striped green, bronze, and black earth formed a patchwork border outside the village. Roly-poly sheep, white again after spring shearing, meandered between low stone walls.

              Their surroundings were easy, natural, and peaceful in a way that spoke to her soul. Alix allowed it in and dared a step away from her old self.

              Spencer drew them to a stop alongside one of the walls, raising his hand at the approach of a white-haired man. He stood slightly stooped, his frame thinned by the passage of at least sixty years, by her guess.

              Spencer rose a hand in greeting. “Tom Thornton.”

              “Lordship.” Tom bowed, taking Spencer’s hand, stealing glances at her all the while through creased blue eyes.

              Spencer nodded, acknowledging her. “Lord Hastings’s cousins have come to Broadmoore. Mrs. Rowan was good enough to join me today, offering us a chance to show off our talents.”

              Tom nodded to her and to Spencer, head going like an old rocking chair at the pleasing information. “Me and the elders are glad for it.” He patted the chest of his brown homespun coat with gnarled fingers. “I've a short list of folks who've asked to speak with you, when it’s quite convenient.” There was a pride in Tom’s voice hinting that the list making had fallen to his lot, as one of the few literate elders.

              “Mrs. Rowan and I will have a walk of the village. I'll find you when we're done.”

              Tom lunged off, carried by long strides, swatting a hand and grumbling instructions to the crowd ahead of his master. Men and women stopped their labors, and even a group of giggling children ground to a dusty halt. Everyone lined the street in front of well-tended buildings, bowing and curtsying at Spencer's passing.

The scrutiny of so many pairs of eyes felt like a punishment to Alix rather than respect. She settled her gaze somewhere near their waists, wishing their processions over as quickly as possible. When they reached a little side lane heading off towards the fields, Spencer muttered something to Tom, who then turned and made a gesture she didn’t catch. Everyone reanimated behind them and tension unknit from her shoulders.

Under the noise of the crowd she dared a whisper. “How do you tolerate that?”

              He shrugged. “They are my band of civilian soldiers; I would hardly say I tolerate them. They show gratitude for work and dwellings, and I tip my hat in thanks for all their hard labor and loyalty.”

“They are beholden to you,” she argued, not certain if she was asking or telling.

“I am their lord, true enough. But I cannot plow the fields or tend the sheep, harvest crops or mend thatch all on my own. Armies have generals, towns have mayors, and vassals have lords. Any man who believes such a post grants him leave to be haughty or cruel…” He shrugged, turning them back onto the village street. “Ships have mutinies and armies, rebellions. He should expect a stern reminder that no man rules by his own will.”

              Satisfied, she tugged on his arm. “Well, I'm not curtsying to you, even if you did bring me coffee.”

              “It's tea that causes all the trouble with you people,” he quipped, glancing round. Then he tugged her arm in return, pulling her with purpose through the crowd.

              “There are so many people,” Alix marveled, wondering at a steady stream of pedestrians which flowed up and down the main street.

              “Visitors,” he tossed back over his shoulder. “Neighboring villages come 'round to trade or find work. They’ll return again in the fall, when crops are in.”

              They stopped first at a narrow wooden stall tended by an old woman with a face like a potato, her rough brown skin contrasting a wealth of snowy hair tugged up into a knot. She fixed Spencer's appearance with a gap-toothed grin. “Lordship. We're all more than pleased to see you home, fit and in one piece.”

              “And I am pleased at being seen so.” Spencer bowed his head with respect. “Mrs. Collum.”

              Two girls flanking her ducked their heads. Sisters, Alix guessed by their faces, with oceans of blonde ringlets, twin pert noses and large blue eyes. One was no more than seven or eight while her older sibling was well on the path to womanhood. It was she who dared glances at Spencer while he studied chunks of honeycomb and jars of golden amber. “The honey is very fine, Mrs. Collum,” he complimented. “Particularly so early in the year.”

              Mrs. Collum drew up proudly, smoothing her coarse linen apron with a broad hand. “Patrick's done right with the hives since my son's been away. Not like as Mister Collum used to, but he'll progress.” She rested fingers on the older girl's shoulders. “All my grandbabies is growin',” she offered. “Sarah's sixteen now, lordship.”

              Spencer raised his hat, oblivious, and smiled. “Then happy birthday, Miss Collum.”

              “Thank you,” was muttered from smiling lips between absolutely scarlet cheeks. Alix bit her lip and fought a smile.

              Mrs. Collum looked her boldly over, head to toe. “Mrs. Rowan. Tom Thornton says you're Lord Hastings's kin.”

              She paused, surprised to learn that she’d been the subject of gossip to people she hadn’t known existed an hour before. “He's told you right, Mrs. Collum.”

              “And a Yank!” She clapped surprised hands as though swatting away a shock almost too much to bear. “You've intentions to stay here then?” Alix didn't miss the pointed glance between herself and Spencer, nor the pursing of elder Miss Collum lips. “No, not much longer. My brother's business is nearly concluded.”

              “Shame,” muttered Mrs. Collum, without a hint of disappointment.

              This time Alexandra didn't bother covering her amusement. “Here,” she counted out her shillings into Mrs. Collum's leathery palm. “I'd be delighted to take a jar home.”

              Their transaction concluded with a dismissive
hmm
, and Spencer tipped his hat to the ladies.

              “Lord Reed,” she chided when they were beyond hearing, “You'll have Mrs. Collum out shopping for wedding dresses.”

              One brow raised. “Meaning what?”

              “Truly, Spencer?” Alix shook her head, ignoring his confused stare. Frightening that a man his age could be in such a fog.

              She drifted next to him, letting her mind wander along with the crowd. There was so much to take in, seemingly endless tenants and craftsmen calling for his attention over the din, pressing him with their wares; a good winter ale that had just come ready, or a pie of last fall's apple preserves; straw baskets, butter and candles. Pots steamed above rock-ringed fires, savory odors hinting at sausages and rich stew. Everyone was eager to impress their landlord with produce and appearance. A thick rope stretched between the posts outside of one house, hung with three wedding-band quilts in pink, yellow, and blue calico prints. Alix marveled at the skill and patience it must have taken to sew them, brushing soft cotton with her fingertips.

              “Do you like it?” he asked.

              “I'm not partial to yellow, but this is really lovely.”

              A brown haired woman in the doorway smiled, nodding appreciation and patting at her cap and apron. Spencer took down the quilt and folded it over his arm. “The lady will have this one,” he said, digging inside his coat.

              “No.” Alix pressed his shoulder. “I can't let you...” No man had bought her a gift since her courtship with Edward years before. Coupled with being beholden to Chas and Paulina, Alix felt uncomfortable. “No,” she repeated, “I can manage.”