Nearly a Lady (4 page)

Well, he’d certainly gotten the poverty bit right. They were living in the gardener’s cottage and wearing threadbare gowns a decade out of fashion. What the devil had they been doing with forty pounds a year?

A simple enough thing to find out. Resolved not to spend what was left of the morning lying about and wondering over questions he could easily have answered, Gideon hauled himself out of bed. He was forced to lean against the headboard when his battered system protested the sudden movement, but his body had taken worse beatings, and it wasn’t long before he managed to right himself again. Then he set out to look for his cane.

M
ad as a hatter.”

Winnefred made the comment to no one in particular. Upon leaving the cottage, she decided on taking the long way to the house. The very long way that included the path around the vegetable garden, which, in all honesty, wasn’t a way to the house at all. But she needed the time and space to think, and she thought best when her hands were occupied.

There was always something that needed doing, something that required her attention—a chore, a responsibility, an errand. Murdoch House and the land it sat on could scarce be called a farm. Besides the large vegetable garden, their only agricultural possessions were a cow, a calf already claimed by a neighbor, a goat, and a handful of chickens. But even those small trappings had been won with years of hard work and sacrifice, and now required constant care and upkeep. She and Lilly hadn’t survived the last twelve years by indulging in idleness.

She stopped in front of the turnip patch, stooped to pull at weeds, and methodically considered the events of the morning and the man that had set them all in motion.

Lord Gideon hadn’t come to evict them, and he wasn’t lying about his intentions. Of that much she was relatively certain. She’d watched him, very carefully, when she’d said she might have been able to keep the house open if she’d been capable of understanding the value of money. It had been, nearly word for word, a quote from the nasty letter he had sent her last year.

He hadn’t recognized it. She’d seen the mix of confusion and humor in his black eyes.

“The man should be in an asylum, or kept by his family, not running amok in the countryside,” she grumbled. Because if he couldn’t remember letters he’d written, and honestly believed a house could be run on five pounds a year, he was stark, raving mad.

If he’d been anyone else, anyone other than a Haverston, she’d have pitied him, even put a concerted effort into making him comfortable while they searched for his family. But he
was
a Haverston—next in line to the marquessate, at that—and her compassion for his illness took a distant second to her concern for what that illness might mean for her and Lilly.

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.

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 between 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.