Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (189 page)

Frowning, she redirected her thoughts to her perusal of the gentleman before her. She skimmed over his full wide lips.
No facial hair.
His breath brushed her fingertips. The light sensation made her lick her lips, the overwhelming desire to kiss him causing her hand to shake.
Am I daft? Kissing him is the last thing I want or should do.
Biting her lip she continued her investigation, sliding her fingers up along the side of his head. She combed his sideburns before she found the tiny crow’s feet and indentation of his eyes.
Early to mid-thirties I would say.
Short, spiky lashes stroked her fingers as he blinked. She rose on tiptoe to run her digits through his thick, wavy hair.
Most likely dark brown or black, since blond hair is usually finer and red, curlier.

Dropping her hands she stepped back with a confident smile. “You are taller than average, well built. I would say dark hair, black maybe, and not unhandsome compared to most. You spend a lot of time outdoors by the feel of your skin, and the crow’s feet by your eyes date you at perhaps two and thirty.” She smiled at his sharp intake of breath.

“One and thirty, actually.”

She shrugged. “Close enough.”

“How did you learn to do that?”

A giggle escaped her lips at the wonder in his voice before she smothered it, remembering how much she disliked him. “I do not know. It is a skill I acquired at a very young age.”

“So, you go around feeling people’s faces?”

“No, not always. I can tell a lot about a person by the way they walk and talk as well.”

“For instance?” The settee creaked as if he sat.

She crossed her arms. “I can tell you are used to being obeyed, have no sense of humor, and are sitting on my settee without being asked.”

The settee creaked again and his voice was closer this time, like he leaned forward. “Perhaps you are playing tricks and are not blind, at least not completely.”

Delilah snickered. “No such luck, my lord. Being blind is nothing to jest about. I take my … affliction … very seriously.” Air whistled past her face. She scowled. He was not the first to wave his hand back in forth in front of her to see if she would blink. “Now, if your curiosity is satisfied would you mind removing yourself from my music room?” Again the settee creaked. She tilted her head. Did he settle in to stay?

He cleared his throat. “I came to speak with you about the storeroom and barns.”

With a sigh she sat. It appeared he was in no hurry to leave her be. “What about them?”

“They are empty.”

Empty?
She pondered his words for a moment. “Impossible. Though harvest is not yet finished it has been a good year. Besides, there were plenty of stores left from the previous harvest.”

Annoyance stiffened his tone. “I assure you, Miss Daysland, I checked each storeroom and barn myself. They are almost empty and there are no animals on the place.”

As if on cue Delilah detected the light tattoo of hoof beats heralding Jester’s presence on the veranda. She stood, crossed to the French doors, and flung them open. “I beg to differ, my lord. It looks to me as if there is indeed an animal on the place.” The pony entered the room, brushing her skirts as he passed by.

“Good Lord! What is that?”

She laughed at his astonishment. “This is Jester, he is my guide and yes, an animal.”

“You allow the creature free run of the house?”

The urge to shock him further was too great to resist. “Of course. He
is
housebroken.”

“Housebroken?”

Delilah crossed to the piano bench and sat, knowing the pony would follow and stand beside the instrument. “He has been trained to soil outside, not in the house.”

“Oh.” The earl grunted.

He grew quiet, something she suspected he very seldom did, and she wondered what he was thinking. Perhaps he thought her noddy? That was better she supposed, then he would be less eager to wed her off to someone and leave her be. “If you will excuse me now, Lord Frostbite, I would like to return to my practice.” She was surprised when his footsteps retreated out the door without him refuting her improper term of address. With a self-satisfied smirk she returned to playing.

• • •

Delilah headed outdoors to work in the herb garden after her practice, savoring every last fleeting ray of the sun’s warmth before winter would suck the heat from it. A slight breeze, heavy and rich with the scent of rain, lifted the tentacles of hair escaping her braid from her damp neck. A shower would be just the thing the garden needed after she churned up the sun-baked soil around the few plants remaining. On her knees she searched for each plant with one hand and dug with great care around them with a small trowel. Perhaps tonight she would slip outside during the rain and immerse herself in its refreshing drops. She stabbed the dirt with a ruthless thrust of the trowel.
If Lord Frostbite is not around.
No doubt the starched shirt wouldn’t approve of her escapade. What was the king thinking to send such a man to Westpoint? She was doing just fine on her own. There was no need for someone to watch over her like she was some kind of invalid. With a final jab she buried the trowel to the hilt and sat back on her heels.
Oh Papa, why did you have to leave me? Why did you take the mountain trail on such a stormy night?

A heavy tread roused her from her contemplation. She swung around.

“Miss Daysland?”

The voice was familiar yet she couldn’t place whom it belonged to. “Yes? Who are you and what are you doing in my garden?”

The man cleared his throat. “So sorry to disturb you. It is Augustus March. I have come to see how you fare these days.”

Not him again.
Did she not already chase the insolent whelp from her father’s graveside once? “Baron March. I was not aware you would be calling on me today.”

“I … well that is to say, I was in the vicinity and thought perhaps I should drop by to check on my dear friend’s daughter.” The nervous edge in his voice almost made her laugh.

“The vicinity? Since we are in the middle of nowhere in particular, I shall have to assume you exaggerate, sir.”
Dear Lord! I better get him out of here before Lord Frostbite shows up and decides the baron is a match for my hand or before the baron himself goes out of his way to convince him of such.
“As you can see I am fine, sir, thank you. Now if you will excuse me, I would like to finish cleaning out the herb beds before it rains.” Picking up the trowel she turned her back on him, resuming her activity.

The shuffling of his feet warned he was not quite ready to leave. “I was wondering if you, ah, have lent some time to considering my offer?”

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “You mean your preposterous and insensitive offer of marriage at my father’s graveside, before his coffin was yet covered?”

He cleared his throat again. “I did say I was dreadfully sorry about that,” he whined, grating on her nerves. “I was simply concerned for your welfare.”

“Spare me your insincere drivel, March. All you are concerned about is my father’s wealth, now mine by right.”
The cad! How dense does he think I am?
Resisting the urge to turn around she groused,
“I am blind, sir, not daft.”

“See here, you judge me wrong.”

All the whining in the world couldn’t quite cover the uncanny edge in his voice. Clenching her teeth she jabbed the trowel into the ground. The sudden sharp scent of witch hazel gave evidence she broke off a stalk in her preoccupied state. Her instincts told her he couldn’t be trusted. She rubbed at the back of her neck, where despite the heat the hairs raised in alarm. “You shall not have to fear for my well being any further, sir, for the king himself sent one of his loyal subjects to see to my welfare.”

“He has?”

The higher octave of surprise in his inquiry made her smile. “Oh yes, a very well-to-do man. I suppose the king felt it was in my best interests to marry me off quickly, before the riffraff came knocking on my door.” Though she said the words with sweetness she allowed a trace of malice escape to inform him of her sarcasm.

“Oh.” A hint of anger clipped his reply. “In that case, I should go. All the best to you and your betrothed, Miss Daysland.”

She stifled her giggle as his footsteps faded away. Guilt pricked her conscience and she brushed its accusations aside.
I did not lie exactly, merely left out a few minor details of the arrangement.
She turned back to her weeding.
What Lord Frostbite does not know will not hurt him or the baron either.
The sole problem left to solve was how to get rid of the Earl of Merryweather. He was not going to give in to her insistence she was fine on her own. Perhaps she could bribe him to leave her be? She bit her bottom lip. It would all depend on how loyal he was to the king. It was farfetched to think it would be an option the uptight man would consider, if there was even enough money to bribe him. Could she pretend to be engaged to someone? No, he was sure want to meet the man and settle her dowry. Her fingers landed on a tuft of fox glove. Perhaps she could poison him? She shook the uncharacteristic, sadistic thought from her head. Was she losing her mind? Murder was not an option, even if she could bring herself to do such a thing.
There must be a way to make him see reason …

A drop of water splashed her nose and she tipped her face heavenward. The distant rumble of thunder and another drop splashing her cheek foretold the welcome storm. After yanking the last weed from the herb bed, she picked up the trowel and headed back inside whistling for Jester. By the time she reached the veranda the pony was close at hand, following her in to shelter from the storm.

After washing up she went to the library, the pony ambling along behind. She seated herself on one of the window seats with a book of poetry her father wrote for her. Most of them she knew by heart from reading them over and over. The poems gave her a sense of peace and closeness to her father that she was desperate for. Flipping to one of her favorites she made herself comfortable, tucking her feet up beside her and settling in to spend a stormy afternoon. With a sigh of contentment, Jester, too, made himself cozy, nuzzling her knee before he lay down, reminiscent of a dog asleep at his master’s feet.

The door to the library clicked and footsteps padded across the carpet toward her.

“Did you bring me some tea, Teresa?”

The earl’s rich baritone, still new, startled her. “No, I did not, however, I could send Teresa for some if you would like.”

She shook her head. “No, it is quite all right.” The ticking of the clock punctuated the silence.

At length the earl cleared his throat. “There is a horse asleep at your feet.”

“A miniature horse, actually.” She stifled a giggle wishing she could see the look on his face, sure it would match his incredulous tone. Turning her attention back to the poem, she attempted to dismiss his presence.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Why I am reading, of course.” The clock on the mantle ticked by the seconds while she waited for him to ask the expected question.
One … two … three.

“I beg your pardon? How is that possible?”

She snickered.
A mere three seconds. His mind works fast.
“I can feel the words.”

This time she couldn’t help laughing at the astonishment in his voice. “No, I am not noddy in case that is what you are thinking.”

“That is not what I was thinking.”

“Of course not.” She shrugged, wondering why she cared what he thought.

The earl chuckled. “Dear lord, is the animal snoring?”

She smiled, her mood sweetening a little. “He does it often.”

“I see.” He cleared his throat. “So are you some kind of witch who has eyes in her fingertips?”

His ridicule was nothing new to her; she heard it all before from others. “I am reading. I can feel the ink of each letter raised off the page.”

“Ink soaks into parchment,” he pointed out with a definite trace of disbelief.

“Most, but not the special sap ink my father makes … made.” Delilah swallowed the lump rising in her throat at the thought of all the sacrifices her father made for her before his death. “The sap makes the ink thick and it sticks to the surface of the paper to form a raised letter.”

“May I see?”

Reaching out she sought his warm hand. His strong fingers stroked hers in an intimate gesture that made her stomach tighten and her breath hitch. How did one slight touch render her smitten with him? She should be insulted by his boldness, yet in some small way she desired it, craved it. Why? Was it because it was new, uncharted ground?

Shaking off the sensation she placed his fingers over the title of the poem,
Ode to a Spring Robin.
“Close your eyes and feel the letters with your fingers.” She assumed he obeyed when she traced his finger over the large raised O. “What character do you feel?”

He made a small sucking sound as if squeezing his bottom lip between his teeth. “An ‘O’?”

“Very good. Are you peeking?”

“No.”

The unflinching utterance of his words convinced her he spoke the truth. “Try the next one.” She moved his finger to the second letter.

Again he made the small sucking noise before he answered. “A small ‘o’ and an ‘l’?”

“No.” She retraced the character with his finger. “The two are of the same letter.”

“Ah, a ‘d’.”

She smiled. “Correct. Try the next one. It is more difficult than the other two.”

He brushed her arm as he sat beside her and traced the character. The scent of mint tickled her nose. Why he always seemed to smell of her favorite herb, she couldn’t fathom; nonetheless she liked it. She waited with patience as he moved his fingers back and forth along the letter.

In the end a sigh filled with frustration slipped from his lips, caressing her cheek. “You are right. This one is more difficult. I give up, what letter of the alphabet is it?”

“An ‘e’.”

He moved his hand. “You are right.”

She giggled. “Of course I am.”

“Will you read the poem to me?”