Douglas: Lord of Heartache (4 page)

“Have you finished your meal, madam?”

“I apparently have.”

“Then I thank you for a very filling repast and will await you in the stables.” He rose, bowed, and withdrew without another word.

***

When Douglas gained the peace and quiet of the stables, he first checked on Regis, who was swishing flies in a shady paddock. The horse had grass and water and seemed content to nap in the afternoon sun.

While Douglas beheld his somnolent steed, he tried to quell his own internal tumult.

What
in
the
name
of
Jesus
and
the
Apostles
had
got
into
him
that
he
would
challenge
Miss
Hollister
as
if
she
were
some
close
associate
of
long
standing?
He had made a thinly veiled reference to the word
rape
in the presence of a woman connected to his family, and he’d done it purposely.

And she had looked so… dumbstruck, so innocent.

That exchange with her over lunch had told him things, things a man didn’t ask a lady outright regardless of her shadowed past.

Her shock suggested she was sexually inexperienced, for all that she was the mother of a bastard child.

And he’d learned other things, too: Her skin, when he’d taken her hand, was
kissably
soft. As close as he’d stood to her at several points in the day, he’d learned that if he were to take her in his arms, she’d fit him. She was tall and well formed and curved generously in the right places. And he’d learned something else, something that made him oddly… happy:
he
could
desire
her.

This insight had come to him when he’d stood, his hand on the door, blocking her exit the previous day, and he’d known the surprising impulse to press closer to her, to breathe her in and let her feel the evidence of a man’s desire right up against her feminine curves. A momentary impulse, but he was honest with himself, and it had been an honest impulse.

Within that impulse was nothing less than a revelation.

Douglas had felt the need for sex before, but always in the nonspecific sense that he’d simply wanted to spend. In the past few years, it had become the less complicated option to spend in his hand rather than into the body of a willing female stranger.

He had desired this woman, specifically: Guinevere Hollister. She was pretty enough, but Douglas was drawn to her not because of her looks but because she utterly eschewed the flirtation and simpering of many of her peers. Her lapse from propriety had, if anything, imbued her with more dignity, not less, for which he had to like—to admire—her.

That she did not acknowledge any reciprocity was immaterial, and whether he ever fornicated with the object of his attraction was equally irrelevant. He was relieved simply to experience normal adult male longing for a woman.

One of the grooms approached and interrupted Douglas’s peculiar reverie. “My lord?”

Douglas shifted away from the fence. “Yes?”

“Mistress says you may use one of our mounts for the afternoon. She’s up at the barn, awaiting yer pleasure.”

Fascinating
notion.
Douglas walked back to the barn, half-curious regarding what Miss Hollister’s mood might be.

“My lord.” She was leading out the same rawboned chestnut she’d ridden in the morning.

“Miss Hollister.” Douglas followed her into the stable yard as she gave the girth a final tug.

She looked at him askance. “Sir?”

“I will assist you to mount,” Douglas informed her, reasoning that if she could tolerate his fingers laced with hers, she could tolerate his hand on the ankle of her boot, because when all a man had to offer was good manners, by God, he would offer same.

And something about their exchange at lunch had made it imperative that he offer them to Miss Hollister, will she, nil she.

“That would be most kind,” she replied. “On three,” she said, bending her left knee so Douglas could grasp the ankle of her boot and hoist her aboard her gelding. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Most welcome,” he replied—sincerely—before going to his horse, checking the girth and fit of the bridle, then swinging up. “What is our agenda for the afternoon, Miss Hollister? I confess, when you offered me the use of a guest room at luncheon, I was tempted to catch a nap.”

She smiled over at him as their horses walked out of the yard, the fleeting, shy, genuine smile that hinted at the girl she’d been. Her mood, it seemed, was improved for having eaten—or for having been given a respite from his company.

“We did get an early start. We will ride up to the trout pond and inspect the ditches used for irrigation along the way. Autumn can be as dry some years as it is wet other years, and then you end up with less grass the next spring, not even realizing how much you lost from drought rather than cold.”

“There is much to learn. I am feeling decidedly overwhelmed.”

“Good.” The dratted woman’s smile turned smug. “Taking responsibility for the land and the people on the land is a serious endeavor. Agriculture has become a rapidly changing science, and if the owner of the property doesn’t care to keep pace, why should his employees or tenants?”

“You make a valid point,” Douglas allowed, then fell to considering her point silently. After noting numerous locations where the lads would have to clear ditches and grates before winter set in, Miss Hollister drew up at a stand of trees, in the middle of which lay a sizeable pond.

“This is one of my favorite places on the estate. Let’s get down and let the horses rest a bit, shall we?”

Douglas’s weary fundament found that a capital notion. Before the lady could hop down on her own, Douglas was beside her mount, reaching up to assist her from her horse. She allowed it without comment, and even remembered to murmur her thanks. She slipped off her horse’s bridle and indicated Douglas should do the same.

“Your daughter is taking the air.” The pond, its copse of trees, and a small white gazebo sat in a high meadow overlooking the buildings and grounds of the Enfield manor house. In the distance below, Rose skipped out on the terrace, a large pad of paper in her hand, a nurse and a shaggy brindle mastiff trailing behind.

“She likes to be outside,” Miss Hollister said, “as do I.”

For several minutes they watched Rose settling in at a table, the dog arranging itself at her feet, then Miss Hollister walked off toward the gazebo. “Come,” she said, “we can sit in the shade, and I will explain to you about ponds.”

A
riveting
prospect
indeed
, though Miss Hollister’s retreating form also bore a certain charm
.

What Douglas would have enjoyed most at that moment was taking off the boots he’d had on since sunrise and stretching out on a blanket in the grass, there to sleep for several hours in blissful solitude. He was not so tired, however, that he didn’t notice Miss Hollister was continuing on her way without him.

A bit of teasing was permitted. Just a bit, for form’s sake, surely?

“Miss Hollister?” She stopped, turned, and arched a brow at him. He winged his arm at her. She pressed her lips together and came striding to his side.

***

Gwen let the blighted man escort her to the small, white octagonal building at the edge of the pond and gestured for him to sit beside her. She began a discourse, explaining the benefits and burdens of trying to raise trout in a pond, about the evils of pond scum, and the trials of dry years versus the trials of wet years. When she had prosed on for a good five minutes—and again noted what a pleasant scent Amery wore—Gwen realized she had yet to hear a single question from his perishingly proper lordship.

Her companion had fallen asleep, wedged against one of the supports holding up the roof. For a moment she was insulted; then she reasoned a man of his exaggerated sense of propriety would not deal her such a slight intentionally. She watched him fall more deeply asleep, his head turning against the pillar, his hand going lax against his thigh.

To see a grown man fall asleep right before her eyes was novel and more interesting than it should have been. A muscle leapt along Amery’s square jaw once, his breathing evened out, and his hand slid off his leg to fall against Gwen’s thigh. On a soft sigh, he was gone into the arms of Morpheus.

In sleep, Douglas Allen was appallingly, surprisingly handsome. Waking, his features were schooled to a chronic pained reserve. The relaxed version of those same features was infinitely more appealing. Slumbering, his thin, disapproving mouth was fuller, his lips more sculpted. His blond hair, usually swept back in a queue, had come loose from its ribbon and spread over his shoulders in golden disarray.

After a few more minutes studying her companion’s sleeping visage, Gwen let the lazy quiet of the afternoon penetrate her senses, to the point where resting her eyes gained appeal. She wouldn’t fall asleep, of course, not in the presence of a man who was nearly a stranger to her—

When she awoke, the sun wasn’t much changed in its position, but
she
had changed
her
position.

“Steady,” her pillow said. “Rising too quickly can leave one dizzy.”

Mindful that the warning bore some merit, Gwen did not abruptly abandon her location. She was cuddled against a warm slab of male muscle, one bearing the pleasant, spicy scent of Douglas Allen. His arm rested loosely around her shoulders, and for an instant, Gwen battled an impulse to close her eyes and go back to sleep. Amery’s proximity should have felt distasteful and presuming, threatening even… Except, it didn’t.

“Beg pardon, my lord.”

“Now, Miss Hollister,” his lordship chided gently, “you weren’t contemplating abandoning me here when I was having such a lovely meditation, were you?” He retrieved his arm and shot his cuffs, not a hint of self-consciousness or hurry about him. “I do feel somewhat refreshed, but I confess I missed some of your profundities regarding the care and feeding of pond trout, for which I heartily apologize. For my penance, I suppose you must harry me off on yet another lesson?”

Gwen watched him, knowing she regarded him with the look he detested, the wary, careful appraisal that anticipated mischief. His expression was more relaxed though, as if he really had needed a nap to restore his spirits. He rose and extended a hand toward her, a hint of challenge lurking in his eyes. She braced her free hand on the back of the bench and let him assist her to her feet.

“Oh, blast and perdition,” Gwen muttered, glaring at the hand she’d rested on the wooden bench. A small drop of blood welled on the outside of her fourth finger. A splinter lodged there, but the angle of penetration made it hard for her to examine, much less extract with her teeth.

“Allow me,” Amery said, reaching for her hand.

“No thank you.” Gwen snatched her hand back. “I can tend to it when we return to the manor.”

“Of course you can,” Amery agreed pleasantly. “And ride all that way without gloves—because you surely don’t intend to put a glove on over that—and blister your fingers for no reason other than your abundant pride.”

Was he laughing at her? Gwen thrust her hand under the arrogant length of his nose.

He grasped her hand and slowly turned it to bring her finger against his mouth. With his tongue, he traced the side of her finger, finding the sliver of wood and
acquainting
himself
with its angle of entry by virtue of explorations that made Gwen’s insides leap.

Gwen turned her head, unable to hold his gaze while his tongue probed at her flesh. The wet, warm feel of his lips and tongue against her finger, the challenge in his eyes as he held her hand to his mouth… Hot, uncomfortable, complicated feelings spiraled up from her middle, made all the worse by her conviction that Amery found the whole business amusing.

His teeth gently scraped at Gwen’s finger just as her insides nearly collapsed from an answering mortification—it had to be embarrassment causing those odd sensations—and then his mouth was gone.

“There.” He held a mean little dagger of wood on the end of his finger for her to see then flicked it into the weeds. “No wonder it hurt.” He withdrew a handkerchief and wrapped it around Gwen’s finger, applying a snug pressure while she submitted to his assistance.

“Wouldn’t you do the same for me?” he asked quietly. When Gwen mutely gazed out over the water, he sighed and answered his own question. “I see you would not, which is just as well. I relish asking for help no more than you do. Shall we be on our way?”

He offered his right arm, and Gwen accepted it, wondering at the significance of his last comment. They made the journey back to the manor house in thoughtful silence until they were walking up the driveway, their horses side by side.

“You will spend the balance of the afternoon with Rose?” he asked her as they approached the stable yard.

“She might be napping, but from when she awakens until she goes down tonight, I will be more or less with her.”

Amery dismounted and came around his horse. “What is more or less?”

This had nothing to do with stewardship of the land, and yet Gwen answered him. “If I have accounting to do, she might play in the library while I work at the books. She might come with me if I need to visit the home farm or the propagation houses. I reserve tasks near the manor for the end of the day, and if it’s safe, she comes with me.”

He lifted her off her horse and likely would have stepped back in the next instant, but Gwen pitched a bit forward on landing, so his hands lingered on her waist a moment longer.

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Most welcome,” he replied, taking that step back and offering her his arm. The horses were led away, and the idiot man remained standing there, his elbow winged out until Gwen took his arm and he started a sedate progress toward the house.