Regency Secrets: My Lady's Trust

If he remembered the incident, too, he gave no sign. Thanking her, he inclined his long form on the bench and sat watching her.

At bit uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she donned her faded apron and a tattered straw bonnet. But after a few moments she fell into the familiar, satisfying routine, wholly absorbed in freeing the beds of weeds and snipping the leaves, stems and branches she needed.

A short time later he materialized at her side, startling her. To her surprise and amusement, there he remained, questioning her about each plant she weeded out or clipped to save, holding the trug for her to deposit the harvested bounty, and twice, over her laughing protests, carrying off a load of weeds.

After she’d finished, the earl fetched the picnic basket. Once more claiming it was too lovely to go indoors, he insisted on seating her beside him on the willow bench and unpacking the refreshments there.

Having abandoned them during the dull weeding process to sniff out rabbits or other pernicious vermin, at the first scent of food Misfit ambled back, waiting at Laura’s feet with polite, rapt attention for the occasional tidbit.

The golden afternoon dimmed to the gray of approaching dusk and the mild air sharpened. As if sensing his mistress would soon depart, Misfit trotted off and brought back a fallen tree limb, then looked up at Laura with tail wagging, an irresistible appeal in his eyes.

“All right, but only for a few moments,” Laura told him. With a joyful bark, Misfit dropped the limb and danced on his paws, awaiting her throw.

She lobbed it to the far wall, watching with a smile as the dog raced after, a dark streak of motion in the fading daylight. He bounded back, did a little pirouette before her, and dropped the stick once more.

Lord Beaulieu snatched it before she could, and after a grimace at its condition, threw it again, clear over the fence and into the brush beyond. The hound rushed to the wooden barrier and then out the gate.

“He’ll love that,” Laura said. “‘Tis a shame he cannot hunt, for he dearly loves to retrieve. Keeps my vegetables safe, and provides hares for the stew pot several times a week.”

The earl gave his slimy hands a rueful glance. “He makes a rather messy business of it.”

“So he does. Thank heavens you were not wearing your gloves—they’d be ruined!” Laura rummaged in her basket for a rag. “Here, let me wipe them.”

He held out his hands. Without thinking, Laura grasped his wrist. Which, she immediately realized, was a mistake.

The warm touch of his skin sent a shock through her, while below the cuff of his shirt she felt his pulse beat strongly against her fingertips. Without conscious volition she raised her eyes to his.

He stared back. The air seemed suddenly sucked out of the afternoon sky, and she had trouble breathing.

She should look down, wipe his hands, step away. But she didn’t seem able to move, her body invaded by a heated connectedness that seem to bind her to him by far more than the simple grasp of his wrist.

Finally, with a ragged intake of breath she tore her gaze free and wiped his dog-slobbered hands with quick jerky motions. After achieving the barest minimum of cleanliness, she released his wrist and shoved it away.

Still shaky, she stepped back—and tripped over Misfit, who chose that moment to bound up to her, stick in mouth. Not wanting to step on the dog, she hopped sideways and lost her balance altogether.

An instant later she hit the ground in an undignified tangle of skirt and limbs, face up to the startled earl and the star-dusted sky. Her cheeks flamed with humiliation, but before she could speak, Misfit, delighted she’d apparently decided to join him at his level, put both paws on her chest and leaned over to lick her face.

“Stop … Misfit … down!” she attempted to command between swipes by his long pink tongue, all the while trying unsuccessfully to wriggle out from under his weight. After a moment the absurdity of her position overwhelmed embarrassment. Leaning her head back under a continuing assault of doggy kisses, she dissolved into laughter.

He ought to shoo the dog away, help her up. Instead Beau stood frozen, watching the arched column of long white throat, the chest quivering with amusement. All afternoon he’d been haunted by memories of her on the bench where he’d surprised her sun-drying her hair, where today she’d invited him to linger, where, separated only by a picnic basket, they’d eaten the cold meat and cheese and bread, sipped the wine the squire’s cook had packed. Which he’d eaten and drunk without tasting anything because it was her slender body, her wine-sweet lips he wanted to devour.

And now, while that ungrateful mutt dribbled slobber on her face, all he could think of was brushing the dog aside so he might kiss that throat, cup his hands over the breasts now prisoned by muddy paws, move over her and into her. It required another full minute and all the strength of mind he could muster to beat back the pulsing desire to gather her in his arms and carry her into the cottage.

But he was master of his appetites, and she was not ready for that. He called once more on the iron selfdiscipline upon which he prided himself, under whose guiding check he’d operated all afternoon, keeping the conversation carefully neutral, masking the desire she aroused in him with every small movement—the way she touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip when in contemplation, the subtle sway of her hips as she walked, even the tilt of her head as she gazed up at him inquiringly, like a little brown sparrow.

How unobservant people were, he marveled as he watched her tussle with her dog. How could any man look at Mrs. Martin, really look at her, and see only the drab exterior, miss the translucence of skin, the smoky fire of her hair beneath the ubiquitous cap, the sparkling brilliance of mind so evident once he finally got her into conversation. Dismissing the sparrow as dull and familiar without noting the intricacy and subtle shadings of color and pattern. Even the squire, though he’d not been totally blind, had perceived but little of her subtle allure, else she’d not still be a widow.

He was fiercely glad of that blindness, however. For she was his sparrow—his. The strength of that sudden conviction startled him, but it emanated from somewhere so deep within him he didn’t bother to question it.

It would be a novel experience, using his skills to entice a lady. He’d not previously done so, being too circumspect to dally with married women of his own class and too protective of his bachelor state to pay singular attention to a maiden. The strength of his wealth and title alone, he considered cynically, had always been more than enough to garner him the favor of any lesser-born female who caught his eye.

But he would use them now, his vaunted skills, to lure this little brown sparrow and tame her to his hand.

Mrs. Martin, with her long white throat and deliciously heaving chest and frothy petticoats thrown back to reveal shapely ankles, represented temptation strong enough to break the resolve of a saint. Not being one, he’d best bring to an end the torturous pleasure of watching her. Thank heavens she was too modest to let her glances stray below his waistcoat, else she’d have clearly defined evidence of his desire the sternest of will could not conceal.

Ruthlessly he disciplined his thoughts, reassuring himself of the intimacy to come by recalling that timeless, breathless interval when she captured his wrist and his gaze. So strong was the sense of connection that he knew, he knew, she sensed and reciprocated the same powerful emotions that were roiling through him. However, though her agitation immediately after spoke of the depth of her attraction, her care to quickly move away told him she wasn’t ready quite yet to succumb to the force that sparked so readily between them.

But she would be. Soon. And having made such progress today in setting her at ease, he’d not jeopardize her willing acquiescence by rushing his fences now, like an untried schoolboy.

“Misfit, heel!” he commanded. When, with a droop of tail, the dog reluctantly complied, Beau held out a hand. “Mrs. Martin, shall we retrieve you from Misfit’s pack?”

At his teasing comment, she froze. The unselfconscious delight drained from her face and, ignoring his outstretched hand, she scrambled to her feet, brushing at the mud the dog had left on her apron.

“L-lord Beaulieu, excuse me! That was undignified.”

“What need has one of dignity on so lovely a day?”

Her glance shot to his face and probed it, as if looking for evidence of mockery or disapproval. He held her gaze, his amusement fading.

Abruptly she lowered her chin, took a step away and grabbed her basket. “We’ve lingered far too long. ‘Twill take but a moment to pack up the herbs. If you would be so kind, my lord, would you make sure the gig is ready?”

Somehow in an instant, the easy mood that had gilded the golden afternoon had shattered, leaving in its place a chill that had nothing to do with the evening’s approach. Beau was at a loss to explain why it happened, or to figure out how to recapture their warm intimacy. Dismay and anger and heated frustration seized him.

He knew instinctively that pressing her to stay, teasing her further, would only deepen her wariness.

After a moment in which, his mind still a swirl of protest, he could summon no logical reason to stall their departure, he replied, “Of course, madam.” And bowed, though she’d already turned away, retreated to her workbench, putting even more distance between them.

After watching her for another moment, Beau headed for the shed. Analyze, analyze, he told himself as, teeth gritted, he stalked over to prepare the gig. He hadn’t even touched her hand to help her up, so it couldn’t have been his barely repressed desire that frightened her off. What was it she had apologized for—a loss of dignity?

Dignity—a stifling word, that. Had some repressive individual—a stern governess, a cold mama, a disapproving father—or husband—stolen from her the ability to express joy openly? So that the keen zest for life, the unfettered laughter he’d just witnessed, emerged only in unguarded moments and was viewed as a lapse of propriety to be immediately regretted?

His anger shifted, redirecting itself against whomever had required his Sparrow to restrain her innocent delight in life. He’d like to teach the fellow the propriety to be found at the end of a clenched fist.

He felt again that surge of fierce protectiveness. Mrs. Martin had an enchanting laugh, and he meant to hear it, often. He’d have her indulging—and sharing with him—all the passionate responses she so diligently suppressed.

I’ll make it so good for you, for us, he vowed as he speedily checked over the chestnut. I’ll give you freedom from want and restraint, cherish your body, revel in that questing, active mind. You need only let me.

But his frustration revived on the drive back, which mirrored in unwelcome parallel the first time he’d driven her from the cottage to the hall. Mrs. Martin perched on the edge of the seat, as far from him as possible, replying to his every conversational opening an unvarying series of “yeses,” “nos” or “I don’t know, my lords.”

How could she sit there so composed and distant, virtually ignoring him, when his body hummed with suppressed desire, his mind with the fervent need to probe her thoughts, know and explore and nurture her?

By the time he drew rein before the squire’s entry hall, irritation at the unexpected setback drove him to be just a bit less cautious.

And so, after a groom came to the chestnut’s head and Mrs. Martin turned to climb down from the carriage, he stayed her with a touch to the shoulder. Enough of impersonal, nonthreatening courtesy.

Beau took her hand and slowly, deliberately, raised it. “I enjoyed this afternoon very much, Mrs. Martin.”

He moved his mouth across her knuckles, the barest touch of lip and warm breath. Then, while her eyes flared open and her gaze jerked up, he turned her hand over and applied the glancing, shock-spitting caress of his lips down her slender fingers to her callused palm. He had to call once again on his famous self-control to stifle the near-overwhelming impulse to sink his teeth into the tempting plumpness beneath her thumb where the palm narrowed to the soft, rose-scented skin of her wrist.