Louise Allen - Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 1

Beau laughed. “If you can persuade the very independent Mrs. Martin to accompany you to London,” he offered, sure her future would have been decided in much different fashion by then, “you may tell your husband I’ll frank the expense.”

“We shall see her settled for certain.” Ellie gave him an impish grin. “But given the interest hereabouts, if you refrain from appearing to dally with her, I may well not need a London Season to achieve that goal.”

Did his sister mean the vicar? Instantaneous irritation ignited at the thought. Having Laura Martin wed the well-connected reverend was certainly not in his plans. Suppressing the sharp remark that vision engendered, he replied instead, “No matchmaking schemes, Ellie. Let the lady choose her own way.” Our way, he added mentally.

“Yes, brother,” she replied with deceptive meekness.

Best to depart before Ellie tried to tease any more reactions from him. “Tell Catherine I’ll ride with her before dinner.” After kissing her cheek, he escaped to his room.

It being absolutely unavoidable, he’d work through the day on his papers, he decided, pulling out the first of several document satchels. Though he had a strong desire to confront Mrs. Martin again before she left, prudence said it might be better to let her depart unopposed. Allow her to regain the tranquility of her safe haven—and carefully prepare his approach before seeing her again.

Despite that resolve he paused, paper in hand, a bleakness invading him as he envisioned the long expanse of afternoon and evening which, for the first time in more than two weeks, would not be brightened by the sight and voice of Laura Martin.

As soon as he’d processed this stack of documents, he’d set about figuring out how to change that. If you think me easily discouraged, you are mistaken, Sparrow.

Figure it out and act upon it. Tomorrow, he promised himself as he sorted the papers on his desk, as early as he could reasonably expect her to be up and about, he’d pay a call on the newly resettled Mrs. Martin.

Wiping her muddy hands on a rag, Laura sat back on her heels and surveyed the weed-free herb bed. Misfit dozed in an early morning sunbeam nearby, a hot pot of tea and a fresh loaf of bread waited her in the kitchen, and she ought to be quite pleased with the results of her first morning home in over a se’ennight.

But she’d found upon arriving yesterday that the snug cottage she’d regarded for two years as a welcoming haven had somehow lost its power to comfort. Though she could still sense the presence of her beloved Aunt Mary, the small rooms echoed with emptiness. The conviction that her guardian angel watched over her yet had as little effect in raising her sagging spirits as the sputtering fire had in driving two weeks of chill from the room.

Another voice whispered through her dreams now, bringing her to wakefulness time and again awash in poignant longing. Another face appeared before her eyes as, weary of attempting sleep, she rose early to busy herself with weeding, gathering and replenishing her supply of herbs.

She missed the earl, missed even more sharply the energizing possibility that she might at any moment encounter him—at breakfast or tea or out walking with Catherine. ‘Twas the height of foolishness to mourn the loss of a friendship which had never really been hers, yet she could not seem to banish the deep sadness that dogged her. Nor could she, to her mingled chagrin and shame, deny that the one spark of pleasure in this gloomy day was the knowledge that she would return to Everett Hall this afternoon to check Kit Bradsleigh, walk with Lady Catherine—and perhaps catch a glimpse of the child’s uncle.

Soon Lord Beaulieu must return to London, beyond the possibility of a chance encounter. Her foolish partiality, she assured herself, would then wither and die, as it must. She should be proud she’d had the sense to tear herself away before she committed some irretrievable folly.

She wasn’t.

A lick on her hand startled her back to the present.

Tail wagging hopefully, Misfit nudged her. With a short bark, he bent to pick up the stick he’d dropped at her feet.

Laura sighed. “Since you were the only one to enthusiastically welcome me home last night—even the cat having deserted me—I suppose I owe you a game.”

Prancing in agreement, Misfit released the branch, then stood eyeing it avidly. He tensed as Laura held it aloft and swung it behind her back.

The instant she released it the dog tore off. She laughed, thinking ruefully how simple a dog’s needs were: food, affection, an occasional game of fetch. Why could human vessels not be equally reasonable?

When after several moments Misfit did not return, she frowned, certain he could not yet have tired of the game. Then she heard his bark—the short, sharp one that meant he’d discovered something. Fervently hopeful that it wasn’t another from a litter of skunk babies he’d tracked several weeks previous, she set off in pursuit.

She rounded the corner of the cottage—and stopped short. Smiling down at the prancing dog, who offered him up a stick, stood Lord Beaulieu.

Beau looked up to find Laura Martin staring at him from behind the gate that separated her herb garden from the country lane. Though she wore another worn gown faded to nondescript gray, the strengthening sunlight transformed that prosaic garment, outlining her slender figure in a halo of light and turning the stray curls that escaped the confines of her shapeless mobcap to copper fire.

Even with a smudge on her nose and mud on her apron, she looked beautiful, he thought, his heart swelling with gladness at the sight of her.

Were those shadows under her solemn eyes? Had she slept as little as he, tossing with impatience for the day that would bring him back to her?

He realized suddenly they’d both been standing, silently gazing at each other for some moments. Evidently she did, too, for she jerked her glance from his.

But not before he’d seen the surge of gladness in her face turn to wariness.

“Don’t!” he cried, brushing past the dog to approach her. “Don’t be afraid of me.”

For a moment he thought she’d retreat back into the garden without even permitting him to speak, but at the last moment she stood her ground. She even managed a tremulous smile.

“Good morning, my lord. And—I’m not afraid of you.”

He offered his hand. After a small delay, she extended hers. He savored the small courtesy of bringing it to his lips. “Are you sure? I’ve been much dismayed, worrying that somehow I drove you away.”

“Not you. Prudence. Did … did you need something?” Sudden alarm crossed her face. “Kit has not suffered—”

“No, Kit is fine. Awaiting a rematch at chess this afternoon, he bade me tell you.”

Her face relaxed. “Good. Did Dr. MacDonovan send you for supplies?” She tilted her head up, giving him that inquiring Sparrow look he’d come to treasure.

How fiercely he’d missed her after just one day. “No. I came to apologize.”

A blush stained her cheeks. “There is no need—”

“There is. But I should do a better job of it seated. If we might?” He gestured toward the cottage.

He held his breath as alarm, indecision—and longing played across her expressive face.

Yes, she still cared for him. Exultation mingled with restraint and a fierce desire to embrace her, kiss away the caution in her eyes, seize the opportunity here, far from prying eyes, where they might recapture and deepen the wordless intimacy they’d found in the moonlit garden.

Too soon yet, he told himself, stilling fingers already curled with anxiety to hold her again. “You are too kind to deny me that opportunity, aren’t you?”