Marriage to a Mister (A Daughters of Regency #1) (27 page)

She had seen Evan several times now in the same state of undress, but she had never seen him like
this
.
 

His brow glistened with sweat, the muscles of his forearm flexed as he lifted a long heavy board, helping Little Thomas hold it steady. He grasped the hammer and affixed it into place.

She moved forward slightly to have a better look, and the gravel under her feet sounded her arrival.
 

Evan looked up away from his work and saw her. "Fleur? What are you doing down here?"

He set down the hammer and jogged towards her, wiping his brow as he stopped in front of her.

"I was on my way to gather some eggs for Mrs. Briggs when I heard the noise."

Mr. Briggs stepped forward. "My mother sent you for eggs? Please accept my apologies —"

"No, please, I offered. Truth be told, I'm going a bit mad shut up in the cottage."

"Still, it is a strange thing," said Evan. "A duke's daughter fetching eggs," he teased.

"Sort of like an earl's son mending stable doors?"

Evan laughed. "Touché."

He turned around to address both Thomases. "Briggs, we're done here for now. I don't think that mare will be able to escape again. Make note of the lumber we need to mend the other stalls, won't you? I'll escort Mrs. Woolf to the coop and find you later."

"Of course, sir."

Evan walked Fleur out of the stable as he heard Big Thomas ask Little Thomas how many pieces of lumber they had left in storage. As a steward, Mr. Briggs has been a Godsend. He was well educated in all matters of running an estate, but he was not above getting his hands dirty. Evan liked that about him.

"How are things coming along?" asked Fleur.

"Slowly, but we are making progress. You will be happy to know that we now have enough stables in repair to stop the horses from fleeing, and we have more staff coming this weekend for you to interview, and a slew of carpenters, plasterers, and others will be here Monday to begin the real work. You won't have time for idleness then, I'm afraid."

She laughed, and then pretended offense. "I have not been idle. What is one to do until the work begins?"

Evan nodded. "Fetch eggs, I suppose. I think Mrs. Briggs may be in for a scolding from her son later."

Fleur sighed. "I really did force her, you know," she said as reached forward to open the wooden door to the chicken coop.

"Allow me," said Evan. He swung the gate open as he looked at her face. Her hair was in loose curls on top of her head, a single white ribbon giving the illusion of holding it all in place.
 

Suddenly the gate lurched as a chicken burst out of the door and into the open yard. Coming to his senses, he quickly closed the gate.

"Oh, dear, how will we ever catch it?" asked Fleur.

The hen walked slowly after fluttering around on the ground, obviously pleased with her escape.

Evan looked at Fleur, a confident smile gracing his face as he handed back the basket he had taken earlier. "It's not a problem. I can handle one measly chicken, surely."

Fleur crossed her arms, a brow climbing her face as she watched.
At least I am no longer bored
, she mused.

Evan crouched and walked slow and quiet. He lunged and the chicken fluttered away, barely escaping his grasp.
 

This went on for five minutes, Fleur trying not to laugh, and Evan becoming less concerned that his wife was in earshot of every expletive he uttered.
 

Finally, he cornered the hen near the pigs, and with one great leap his arms latched around her. He smiled in triumph, only for the hen to flap her wings, knocking him off balance, straight through the pen and into the mud below.
 

Fleur gasped, hand flying to her mouth as she dropped the basket and ran towards him.
 

The chicken escaped, again, and Evan, not caring one whit, propped himself up with his hands, breathing hard.

Fleur looked over him, and he seemed to be fine, besides the thunderous look he was wearing. She tried, she really did, but laughter bubbled within her, and he gave her a scathing look.

She bit her lip, giggles abating as she cleared her throat. "I am sorry, Evan, truly, but..." She dissolved into a fit of giggles again.

He remained sitting, too tired to move yet, and also not entirely sure how he was going to stand in all the sticky mud without falling straight over again.

"Are you going to come out of there?" she asked.

He grinned. "No, I quite like it in here. You know I have it on very good authority that dukes love spending their time in here. What's good enough for a duke ..."

He trailed off, waving his hand in the air.

She laughed and shook her head at his antics. "Even dukes must listen to their wives some time, so come out of there."

He laughed and rose forward, standing on unsteady legs. He sloshed through the mud and straw, surveying the damage he caused. He would have to get someone to mend the fence immediately.
 

As he moved forward, she took a step backwards, her nose crinkling.

The most devious grin Fleur had ever seen slanted across his face. She backed further away, pointing at him in warning.

"Evan? Don't. You. Dare."

"Dare what?" he asked, as he lunged forward to catch her. She squealed and dodged him, though barely, and ran towards the cottage laughing.
 

He followed, trying to reach her as she ran in circles, hiding behind trees, doing everything she could to avoid him.
 

In the kitchen, Cook looked at the time and wondered where Fleur had gone off to with her eggs.

A MATTER OF TIME

Fleur gazed at her reflection in the mirror and flushed. The dress was simple, elegant, and silver netting cascaded down the most emerald of greens. It was
the
dress, the one Julia had persuaded her into but she never dared wear, not until now, and could not help but own she felt beautiful.

She leaned forward to smooth her chignon, catching a glimpse of the swell of her breasts in the mirror. She leaned back, hastily, covering herself and wondering if she should not wear a chemisette after all. She had never wanted it before, to have men gaze at her, though it was not lost on her that she
wanted
Evan to gaze upon her, to want her and to think her as beautiful as she felt.

Seeing the sky grow dim with the warmth of the setting sun, she knew it was time. Excitement thrilled through her at imagining him waiting for her. She had no idea what he had planned for them this evening, but she could no longer wait to go to him.
 

Making her way out of the cottage she walked down the clearing towards the road that lead to the main house. The pond was not far, so visitors would see the water and the sweeping willow trees on its banks as they arrived.

She walked towards the trees, not seeing Evan but catching a glimpse of light shining from under the canopy. She moved forward, separating the willows with her hand, and as she stepped inside, she gasped.
 

Lanterns twinkled, made brighter from the darkness of the branch cover. They sat strategically placed around within, and hung from branches galore. She saw a small round table, chairs arranged on either side adorned with linens, wine, and table settings. It was like a painted scene from Vauxhall Gardens, shimmering with light.

Walking further into the secluded area she saw him, standing by the water's edge, looking out over the horizon, his hands clasped behind his back. He was wearing what she had come to think of as his customary browns, his pantaloons showing every line of his muscled legs, his figure making a dark silhouette against the soft glow of the remaining sunlight.

"Evan," she spoke, barely above a whisper.
 

He turned and saw her, and looked long, his eyes roaming over her just as she imagined, exactly how she wanted. She walked over to him, joining him by the water, turning to look up at him.
 

"This is beyond anything I imagined, Evan. Did you do all this yourself?

He gave her a brisk nod. "Most of it, though Briggs had the table brought down from the attic."

She laughed, turning back to look at it. "
The
table?"

"I covered it," he said, smirking, turning towards her. "And all has been checked for weasels, Madam, you are quite safe."

"As are you," she teased and he laughed.

"I may have been a bit frightened by the weasel," he admitted, "but only a tiny bit."
 

He escorted her to the table. She sat, and he reached under the cover, removing a basket. Opening it, he laid out different foods and wine and took the seat across from her. He motioned to her to fill her plate first, and they began to eat.
 

She watched him, and she could tell he was hesitant. Several times she thought he was going to speak, but then he would look down at his plate, or sip his wine, averting his eyes. Suddenly she knew that if she was going to get Evan to open his heart to her fully, she would have to first unlock it.
 

So she asked about his life, the one she knew not of, wanting to know all about his university years and beyond. He asked about her debut, first jealousy and then amusement clear when she told him of her many offers, and how her father had refused every single one. He told her he would have to shake her father's hand for chasing off so many ne'er-do-wells.

But through all of this, they carefully avoided the one issue she knew would bring both of them pain.
But how do you ask a man intimate questions when you have not known him as such
, she wondered. She also knew they would have to eventually speak about it, and soon, so she took the risk upon herself, along with a steadying breath.

"Evan?"

He looked up from his dinner, where he had been shuffling cheese across his plate with his fork for the last few minutes. Placing his fork down, he took one last sip of wine, looking at her over the glass. "Yes?"

She held her breath, but pressed on. "Why did you leave, or rather, why did you not return?"

One never knew how Evan would react to a thing, emotions always having an inconstant and jarring effect on him. So when he abruptly stood and walked from the table, she panicked, quickly rising and grasping his arm.
 

"Don't go."

He turned to her, regretting his rash action leading to her distress. "I wasn't ... I just needed to move, to not feel confined."

Hurt, she let her hand fall from his arm and turned from him. Cursing his inelegant tongue, he walked up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "I don't mean to say that you make me feel confined, I only meant ... honestly, I don't know how to explain my feelings to you. I never have."

She started to turn, and he held her. "No, don't, I don't know if I can get through this if I see your feelings upon your face."

Nodding, she slowly turned her head back around and stood silent.
 

"It's one of my nightmares, you know, the way you might perceive me once I returned. The longer I stayed away, the worse my fears became, and I knew you would be angry."

"I would not have been," she argued.
 

"Truly? I don't believe that, and I don't believe you do either."

"Perhaps I would have been at first, but I still don't understand. How many times have we quarreled? More times than I can recall, and I know you're not afraid of my ire or my censure."

Evan closed his eyes, hands gripping her shoulders tightly. She reached up and laid her hand over his own. "Please, tell me."

He opened his eyes, focusing on the back of her head. "I didn't know how to ask your forgiveness — I still don't — and I didn't know how to come home after I had made such a spectacular arse of myself."

"Is that the only reason?" she whispered.

He swallowed. "I don't know."

Angry, Fleur whipped around to face him. "You don't know? Do you want to know what I know, Evan? Do you want to know how wretched I felt? You left without so much as a goodbye or any indication of when you might return, and if that weren't bad enough, you didn't return because you didn't know how?"

She turned and started to walk away, and he ran to her, grasping her by her waist, pulling her back into his chest as she struggled to get away.

"I did not know if I could live my life next to you," he said, his deep voice in her ear, and she went dead still. "If I could only be your friend. How could I live my life apart from you? Unable to be yours in the most intimate of ways?"

He hugged her closer, knowing what he was about to reveal would upset her. "That day was never meant to be the last time I saw you. I had intended ... I was going to ask you to marry me that night, Fleur, the night of your birthday."

She turned in his arms and looked at him in astonishment.
 
"What? I ... marriage? You wanted to propose?"

He nodded. "I had it all planned for weeks before I returned home."

Fleur closed her eyes, tears welling within. "But you ... all this time wasted, when we could have been together."

Evan wanted to die when he saw the first tear fall, and a little more at the second. "I know," he said, unable to defend himself further.

"All you had to do was say that you were sorry."

"I am sorry —"

"And I would have forgiven you, always —"

"I am asking you to now." Evan watched her carefully, knowing the fate of his entire life lay in this one moment. In her answer.

"I forgive you," she whispered and he kissed her, her soft lips warm against his own in the cool night air. His arms brought her body against his own, and she shivered.
 

He rubbed her arms, his own hands shivering not from the chill in the air but from nerves. He had done it, he finally told her everything bottled within him all those years, all his feelings and his fears. And she had accepted him, fully, and without dependence upon future promises never to misstep, or false hope he would never make mistakes again. Because he knew they both would, but they would find their way together this time. Never alone again.