Leslie LaFoy (18 page)

Of course not, she assured herself, going back to raking the winter's deadfall out of the herb garden. He'd said they needed to keep their distance from each other, and he'd certainly held to his side of it. If only she could stop thinking about him, stop remembering the rakish way he'd leaned against her doorjamb that first night and given her that roguish half-smile of his. And it would be especially nice if she could stop her heart from ridiculously fluttering every time she thought he might be near. She'd never acted like this in her life. It was embarrassing.

Meg looked up from her work on the other side of
the planting bed and cautiously asked, “Would there be anythin' you'd like to be askin' me, Lady Claire?”

“About what?” she asked absently, bending down to break off a dried sprig of lavender and inhaling the earthy, sweet scent.

“Whatever 'tis that's had ye mopin' and lookin' over yer shoulder at the least noise fer the last week.”

She'd admit to looking over her shoulder. She knew that she did it frequently. But sighing and moping? Had she really been such poor company? Resolving to be more aware of her behavior, Claire tucked the lavender sprig behind her ear. “I'm fine. Honestly.”

“Well, 'tis with a great an' profound respect that I disagree with ye,” Meg countered, her hands fisted on her hips. “Ye're not fine an' 'twould be me guess that it has somethin' to do with Mr. Devon.”

Her pulse skittered and, irritated with herself, Claire yanked a dead parsley plant out of the ground with far more vigor than necessary. Dirt rained down and she stepped back, shaking it from her skirt as she summoned her most blithe manner and asked, “Now, why would you think something like that, Meg?”

“ 'Cause I haven't seen the two of ye together since the first night ye both was here in me kitchen.”

Yes, servants noticed everything. Most of them understood, though, that they weren't supposed to share their observations. But then Meg wasn't the typical servant. “He's been very busy with the estate since the snow melted,” Claire said, tossing the dead plant onto the heap and studiously refusing to meet Meg's brown-eyed gaze. “And I've been busy with matters concerning the house.”

“Ye've been hidin' in the kitchen, pure an' simple, Lady Claire. 'Tis many a time I've wondered if'n we ought to be findin' a bed fer ye to put on the oth'r corner. An' since I'm havin' no luck with gettin' ye to share
the burden by beatin' 'round the bush, I'll just be a-comin' at it square on… is there anythin' ye'd like to know 'bout sharin' a man's bed?”

Meg thought… Heat flooded Claire's cheeks. “No. But thank you for offering,” she hastily replied. “If I ever find myself in the situation, I'll—”

“
If'n ye ever?
”

Claire sighed, realizing that she couldn't let Meg make assumptions and that she should have addressed the matter long before this point. If she and Devon were going to successfully annul the marriage, then everyone needed to know that they weren't sharing a bed. Either happily or unhappily. She'd avoided discussing the matter with Meg simply because the time had never been any more right than the words she could find. But the time had now come and whether the words were the right ones or not, she had to say something.

“Ours is an unusual situation,” Claire began, finally meeting the other woman's gaze. Meg's eyes were huge, their depths filled with puzzlement. “Devon and I were forced to marry. The circumstances are rather complicated. Suffice it to say that since neither of us wants to be married—and especially not to each other—we've agreed that the marriage will be in name only so that it can be annulled in a few months.”

“Blessed Mary, preserve me. Are ye tellin' me that when the two o' ye left here that first night, ye shook hands at yer doors an' went to yer beds alone?”

“I suppose that's something of how it went.”

“Well,” Meg said with a snort, “ 'twasn't what he wanted to do, I can tell ye fer sure. The man was squirmin' the whole time he was in the kitchen. Couldn't keep his eyes off ye. 'Tis surprised I am to hear that he didn't ravage ye out on the flagstones the second the door was closed behind ye.”

“He did kiss my finger,” Claire offered with a weak
smile, wondering why it was such a relief to share what had happened to her.

Meg blinked rapidly, shook her head slightly, and then said, “He what?”

“I was carrying his biscuit, remember? When we got to the door of my room, he asked for it back. I'd forgotten that I even had it. And when I gave it to him, he caught my hand and kissed my finger. He said it was sticky from the jam. But it really wasn't. It was just an excuse.”

“He just kissed yer finger?” Meg pressed, incredulous.

“Well, actually, no,” Claire admitted, for some unfathomable reason pleased by her ability to so easily flabbergast the Irishwoman. “He kissed it. And then he licked it.”

Meg's eyes lit up and she pressed her hand over her heart as she turned her face skyward and whispered, “Oh, Lord.”

“And then he suckled it.”

Meg's gaze came back to hers with an almost audible click. “An' ye weren't just a wee bit tempted to throw the man on his back an' have yer way with him?”

Claire grinned and offered Meg a shrug and the truth. “I wouldn't know how to have my way with a man. The only real experience I have with them is in fending them off.”

With a soft laugh, Meg asked, “But I'll bet ye were regrettin' that, weren't ye?”

“Actually, I thought for a minute or two that he might take matters into his own hands. So to speak.”

“But he didn't,” Meg finished sadly.

“Thank goodness,” Claire quickly countered. “If he had, my fate would have been sealed. It took all the strength I had just to stand there. There wouldn't have been any left with which to fight off his advance. But,
mercifully, he released me and suggested that wisdom lay in trying to avoid each other as much as possible. I agreed that he was right. We've seen each other only from a distance for the past week. It's working out rather nicely.”

Meg considered Claire through narrowed eyes. “No doubt,” she said slowly, “ 'tis the thing to do if 'n yer hearts is set on goin' their different ways.”

“I don't see that we have any other course. We're not at all suited for one another.”

Meg opened her mouth to speak, but it was Mother Rivard's voice that filled the silence.

“Oh, Lady Claire, I've found you,” the older woman declared breathlessly as she fumbled with the latch on the garden gate. Unable to operate it, she ceased her efforts and, clutching the top of a picket in each hand, said with a heavy sigh, “Thank heavens.”

Alarmed by the woman's agitation, Claire dropped her rake and pulled off her gloves even as she asked, “Has something happened? Is someone hurt?”

“A note has arrived from Wyndom,” his mother answered excitedly. “He's returning home in two days' time. And he's bringing the Lee brothers with him!”

“Guests,” Claire repeated, feeling a little foolish for having been so easily frightened.

“Not just any guests!” Henrietta countered. “The Lee brothers! Dear heavens, I hope Devon can understand the importance of this. You need to find him in the fields and tell him the news straight away. He must prepare.”

Prepare
. Claire's pulse tripped as full realization struck. Guests meant getting the house cleaned from top to bottom, the guest rooms opened up, the sheets changed. And then there was the food and the—

“Oh dear,” Mother Rivard gasped, intruding on Claire's quiet panic. “What to wear for their arrival? The pink silk? Or perhaps the green brocade?”

With all that had to be done, Henrietta was worried about dresses? And she'd asked absolutely the wrong person for help with the decision. “I think you should consult Elsbeth on the proper wardrobe for the occasion.”

“Yes, yes,” the other woman agreed, her smile bright. “That's the thing to do. You will find Devon and give him the wonderful news, won't you?”

“Immediately.”

The promise seemed sufficient. Henrietta Rivard, still smiling, gathered her skirts in hand, turned, and all but ran back to the house. Claire watched her go, wondering what it would be like to go through life so blissfully unconcerned about anything more pressing than what dress to wear the day after tomorrow. It had to be nice, she decided. As long as there was someone around who would happily—and competently—bear the responsibilities you didn't see. Henrietta was very fortunate to have a son like Devon.

Turning to Meg, she pulled the sprig of lavender from behind her ear and tossed it away, saying, “I'm off to the fields to share the joyous tidings.” With a weak smile, she added, “Of course, I have absolutely no idea why they're so joyous. And would you happen to have any idea of where the fields are?”

Meg absently pointed off to the east, her gaze fixed on the back door of the house. “We're in trouble deep an' wide, Lady Claire. There's too much to be done an' not 'nough time to do it.”

“We'll manage,” Claire promised, letting herself out of the garden gate. “If you'd prepare a cold luncheon while I'm gone, I'd be most appreciative. And put something on to simmer for supper as well. It's going to be a long afternoon and we're not going to have time to fix anything too terribly complicated.”

“That Elsbeth—”

“Don't worry about her, Meg.” Gathering her skirt
into her hands, she tossed a quick look at the main house. “She'll be too busy complaining about other things to even notice the food.”

Meg called out an assurance and then abandoned the garden for the kitchen. Claire set out on the wide path that led from the back of the house toward the gently rolling, wooded hills to the east, mentally sweeping through each and every room of Rosewind and noting all the tasks that needed to be done in each. The list was long and daunting. If she found any time to sleep between now and the arrival of the Lee brothers, it would be a miracle. There was so much to do, so much that shouldn't have been allowed to reach the state of decline it had.

Suddenly she understood the comment Devon had made that first day: that he'd be happy if anyone could meet the least of his expectations regarding the care and maintenance of Rosewind Manor. She slowed and then stopped, staring blindly down at the dirt road, and wondered why it was that she felt such a keen and personal need to meet his expectations.

The reasons, as Devon had explained them to her, for having a splendid home and offering lavish hospitality were silly at best and, at worst, financially indefensible. And she wasn't the true mistress of Rosewind; Henrietta was. Seeing that Rosewind met the standards of outsiders was properly the obligation of Devon's mother. However, Henrietta's inability to see to the task meant that someone else was going to have to shoulder the responsibility or Devon was going to be severely embarrassed in front of his peers.

Claire frowned. So why was she so quickly willing to accept that obligation to Devon? Why did she care what the Lee brothers thought of his home or of him? She wasn't bound to him or this place forever. In a few months she'd be far away, and what anyone—Devon or
the Lee brothers—thought of her wouldn't matter in the least.

And yet, despite all the rational arguments to support her stepping back from the incredible amount of work that needed to be done, she wasn't willing to do that. The Herefordshire gentry had publicly said she was too young to be a proper mistress for Crossbridge Manor. They'd said that her father should hire a manager for the farm and a housekeeper. She'd proven them wrong. And eventually they'd had to not only publicly admit their mistake, but also that no one could have done it better. She'd earned their admiration and, far more important, their respect.

With a smile, Claire looked up from the road. The trees arching overhead were leafed, the colors of green wildly varied and refreshing. She drew a deep breath, enjoying the scent of spring air, of the promise of the world coming new again.

D
EVON GLANCED UP
from trickling seeds to site his plowing line over the mule's back. Up ahead, at the far end of the field and perfectly framed between the animal's ears, was the unmistakable flutter of rose-colored skirts. Claire. It had to be. His mother and Aunt Elsbeth had no idea where the fields were, and there was no reason for them to have developed a sudden curiosity about such matters at this point in their lives. And the woman watching him, her hand shading her eyes, didn't have red hair. Yes, it was definitely Claire.

He tore his attention away from her and resolutely set it back on the seeds dropping one by one from the spinning barrel and into the freshly dug furrow. Behind him he heard the scraping of metal against dirt as his few remaining slaves covered the seeds he was leaving in his wake.

Why was she here? Had something happened up at the house? Had there been an accident? He glanced up again and decided that her manner was far too patient for there to have been some great calamity. So what had brought her out here? he wondered. They'd agreed to avoid each other as best they could. They'd been able to do that quite well for the last week.

Not that she'd been all that distant from his thoughts, Devon silently admitted. But that didn't pose a problem beyond restless sleep and being a bit dis-tractible when awake. No, thinking about her, remembering and turning her words over and over in his mind, didn't count against him in the agreement they'd made.

But her coming to the fields was a clear violation of it. Which, given her compliance to this point, meant that there had to be a very good reason for her having made the effort to find him. And, he conceded with a sigh, the only civil thing to do was turn the mule at the end of the field, stop, and take the time to talk to her. Not that he really wanted to. His mind—hell, his fantasies— didn't need any additional fodder where Claire Curran was concerned.

He managed to give her a cursory nod as he drew near enough to meet her gaze, then deliberately looked away as he turned the mule and reined it to a halt. It took him a moment to disengage himself from the harness and turn back toward her. It was only then that he realized that he should have been thinking of what he intended to say.
What are you doing here?
might well be what he wanted to know, but it was also entirely too abrupt and blunt.