“She most definitely doesn’t like me, although I don’t know why.”
“She doesn’t like anybody. But you needn’t worry
—she spends most of her time in her room, embroidering.” Alethea smiled. “I like you very much, and I’m glad you’re here. You’ll help dispel some of Fairfield’s awful gloom.”
“I like you, too, Alethea,” Lucinda sincerely replied. With a touch of irony she continued, “Now I had best hurry to my bed chamber and jot down those French names before I forget.”
* * *
Later, in Aunt Pernelia’s bed chamber, her aunt apologized. “I do hope you weren’t too offended by Edgerton. I hate to say it, but my son is not a pleasant person.”
Not pleasant? Those were hardly the words to describe Edgerton, Lucinda thought but refrained from saying. “I don’t mind, Aunt, but what bothers me, if you don’t mind my saying, is how everybody just sits there in fear of him and doesn’t speak up.”
“But what are we to do?” asked Aunt with a helpless flutter of her hands. “We’re only women, after all, and Charles is just a child. Edgerton would have our heads if we so much as said boo to him.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.” Lucinda saw plainly nothing was to be gained by pursuing the subject. She wished the ladies of Southfield possessed more backbone, though. “Is he like that all the time?”
Pernelia sighed. “I’m afraid so. There was never a time...” Her thoughts seemed to drift. She got a faraway look in her eye. “My son was never what you would call a dear little boy. He has always been well-mannered, of course, but never pleasant. If anything, he changed for the worse at the time of the tragedy.”
“The tragedy,” Lucinda repeated. It was an obvious prompt on her part. Naturally she couldn’t help wondering exactly what it was that seemed to rip, haunt, and tear at this pathetic family.
“I had three children once,” said Pernelia, a slight tremor in her voice. “But twenty-five years ago I lost Marianne, my older daughter. She was just six
—an adorable little girl. Blonde curls...cherub lips...you never saw such a bright little smile. I shall never forget how pretty she looked the day she disappeared. She was so proud of the little red velvet dress I had made for her. It was embroidered with wreaths of laurel leaves and the bottom flounced with a gold tassel fringe. She wore little white kid shoes, and...” Pernelia choked up and could not go on.
Lucinda’s heart filled with sympathy as she watched tears fill the older woman’s eyes. She reached to pat her aunt’s hand. “It’s still painful, I can see. I want you to tell me about it, but only when you feel the time is right.”
As Pernelia smiled her gratitude, Lucinda remarked, “I would like to go to the woods tomorrow, if that’s all right. Perhaps when you’re stronger, you could accompany me.”
Aunt immediately brightened. “But of course you can go. I most certainly won’t be requiring your services every minute. And, yes, as soon as I’m able I must return to searching the woods.”
Lucinda’s spirits lifted. It was good to know she could occasionally get away from this dreary house. “I shall look for birds tomorrow. I might even take my sketch pad along.”
“You’ll find many lovely birds in our woods.” Aunt suddenly frowned. “Be careful, though. What Alethea said is true.” She looked around and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I happen to know Lord Belington truly is at home. Mind you, our land borders that of Ravensbrook Manor. I know His Lordship is fond of going hunting in his woods this time of year, so you had best be on your guard tomorrow. Don’t go past the creek or you’ll be on his property.”
“So what would he do if I did?” Lucinda asked with amusement, “eat me up?”
“Who knows?” Aunt Pernelia got a far-away look in her eye. “He was only six at the time of the tragedy. Since then, he’s remained an enigma to everyone in the countryside. He’s a strange, dark, silent man who stays away from his home as much as possible. Of course, one could hardly blame him...”
Realizing her thoughts had drifted away, Aunt laughed and squared her shoulders. “Oh, dear, I’m afraid you must learn to put up with my silly flights into the past.”
“Quite all right,” Lucinda answered, but when she left for her own bed chamber, her thoughts were troubled.
Chapter 5
The next morning, Lucinda could hardly wait to head for the woods she had been longing to explore. No matter that she had lain tossing and turning in the dark most of the night. As visions of Edgerton’s stern face floated before her eyes, she kept questioning the wisdom of her decision to come here. But the sun was up, the sky was blue, and today was a new, glorious day. What had seemed hopeless last night seemed not nearly so bad this morning. Somehow she would cope with Edgerton. After all, what could he do except add a bit of unpleasantness to her life? The dinners would be unpleasant, but with a bit of luck the rest of the time she would avoid him. Meanwhile, the woods beckoned her from the moment she slipped from her bed and gazed out her window. Now, wearing a simple white muslin morning dress and a green cashmere shawl, carrying sketch pad and pencil, she followed a winding path that first led past a bright meadow full of hay, then through shrubs of bird cherry, hazel and baneberry, and into the thick woods, stepping lightly on a thick, spongy blanket of sphagnum mosses. Her spirits rose when she noticed all the birds. Wheatears–skylarks–meadow pipits–oh, so many more—each giving away its presence by its characteristic call. Perhaps she might even find a new species of bird or two.
She walked deep into the thick growths of trees that intertwined their branches above. Finally she spied a log, half hidden by
a tangle of undergrowth, on the other side of a gurgling brook so narrow she could easily leap across. She did so, without giving it a thought. Soon she had settled herself on the log and quietly waited until...she held her breath as a yellowhammer landed on the top of a nearby bush and began to sing. How beautiful! What a rare opportunity! She had seen only a few of the tiny birds before, and this one, as bright yellow as a canary, looked as if it might linger.
Oh, if only Papa were here
. She started sketching quickly, having long since learned it was best not to dawdle when drawing a bird. Luckily the yellowhammer seemed to want to stay for a time. As she sketched, she heard bird sounds from above. She looked up and saw a V-shaped formation of large birds flying by. How graceful they looked! How—
A shot rang out, so loud she jumped and nearly dropped her pencil. The yellowhammer departed in a yellow blur. In another second, Lucinda heard a loud “plop” beside her. She flinched in dismay, repulsed at the sight of a dead bird
—some sort of pheasant it looked like—that had fallen near her feet.
“Fetch it, Thor!” boomed a man’s voice. From out of the tangle of trees and undergrowth, there appeared a large, brown and white spotted dog. When he spied the bird, he barked and pointed his nose, breathing heavily, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. His whole being seemed focused on the bird. If he sensed her presence, he showed no sign.
Lucinda sat frozen, appalled by the swift departure of her tiny yellowhammer, which had been, in a manner of speaking, replaced by this pitiful dead grouse, or pheasant, or whatever sort of game bird it was, that had dropped out of the sky. Before she could gather her wits, the nearby shrubs parted and a man in buckskin pants, white shirt, shooting jacket and a simple stock, carrying some sort of gun, came crashing through. Spotting his dog, he said, “Ah, there you are, Thor. Good job, boy.” He bent to pat the animal, then reached for the bird. As he did so, he caught sight of Lucinda’s half boots. “Good lord!” He straightened and looked at her. “Where did you come from? You’re not hurt, are you? I hope I didn’t—?”
“I am fine, sir.” Lucinda stood and regarded him coldly. “Luckily you shot the poor bird, not me.”
Douglas opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. After seeing the girl was all right, his first impulse was to inform her she was on his land and had no business here. Then, disconcerted, he hesitated. Before him stood a lovely girl with fair, smooth skin, a determined chin, and a fine figure—tall, with the sweetest of curves. Her large brown eyes, gleaming with bold intelligence, were regarding him with a satiric look, as if she had already concluded he was an oaf and a fool. He was not fool enough to miss the implication.
He instructed his German wirehaired pointer to sit, then took up the bird with one fell swoop. He unslung a canvas bag from his shoulder and dropped the bird inside, where lay several of its companions that had already met the same fate. Alas, she saw them, wrinkled her nose in distaste, and took a step back. He inquired, “Are you offended for some reason?”
She tilted her nose in the air and replied, “If you’re shooting those poor birds just for sport, then, yes, I am offended and find you most predacious.”
“Predacious,” he repeated, slightly put off by this young woman who was, after all, on his land. “I must confess to ignorance of the word. What, pray, means predacious?” He grinned, pleased with himself for having just thought of a fine way to goad her. “Or did you just make it up?”
“I most certainly did not,” she replied. “Predacious means predatory. In other words, victimizing, plundering, or destroying for one’s own gain.”
Douglas feigned astonishment. “Good God, you make me sound like a monster. The truth is, this ‘poor bird’ as you call him, will provide one of my tenants and his family a fine supper tonight.”
She cast a significant look at his canvas sack. “So you’re killing birds all in a good cause? Then I suppose I must offer my apologies,” she said begrudgingly. “Perhaps you’ll understand why I’m a mite upset. It’s not every day a poor dead grouse, or whatever the poor thing was, drops at my feet.”
“Not a grouse,” he corrected. “Grouse are moorland birds and there’s no moorland around York. It’s not a pheasant either, it’s a partridge. To be exact, a Grey Partridge.” Ah, how he admired that sweet curve of her breast beneath her simple gown. Damme, who was she?
“Oh,” she answered, looking slightly embarrassed at her lack of knowledge of game birds. Good! he thought, feeling a small triumph that he’d gotten the better of this sassy chit. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so blunt about it, though.
She regarded him with those big brown eyes which now had softened a bit. “Would you like to know what has me truly upset?”
“I am all ears,” he said, not bothering to conceal his amused smile.
She held out her sketch pad. “I was sketching a yellowhammer.” She frowned at the shotgun he was holding. “You frightened it away with that gun.”
He didn’t like the downright disparaging manner in which she had said
that gun
. “I’ll have you know this isn’t any gun. It’s a double barrel sporting flintlock shotgun.” He waited for her expression to change, not to one of wonderment, perhaps, but at least she could look slightly impressed. She didn’t. “It’s made by Thomas Manton,” he added. He couldn’t believe he actually felt the need to defend himself. “As I’m sure you must know, Thomas Manton makes only the finest of guns.”
He might as well give up. The young lady was decidedly not impressed. Ah, well. He solemnly took her still-proffered sketch pad and examined it. “Not bad, but it’s not finished.”
“Of course it’s not finished, thanks to you,” she answered testily. “It’s not every day one sees a yellowhammer. Now he’s gone. Probably forever.”
“A pity,” he answered. She was so annoying the devil got the better of him. “Tell me, was it worth a shot?”
She looked totally bewildered. “What do you mean, was it worth a shot?”
He managed to keep his face straight. “I mean, perhaps it was edible. Did I miss my opportunity to bag a delicious side dish to accompany my tenant’s partridge?”
She drew in a shocked breath. “Most certainly not, sir! How could you be so calloused? I—” she must have seen the devilish gleam in his eye and realized he was only teasing. She wasn’t laughing, though. She looked mortified. “There are some things that are simply not amusing.”
“Perhaps I had best introduce myself,” he said, thinking the teasing had gone far enough and it was best to change the subject. “I’m Belington.”
The heavy lashes that shadowed her cheeks flew up in amazement. She looked stunned. For a moment she stared wordlessly. “Douglas, Lord Belington?”
“The same. From Ravensbrook Manor.” He nodded in the general direction of a wooded rise to the south. “Which is directly over the hill, I might add. And who are you?”
As Lucinda regarded this rugged-looking stranger standing before her, Edgerton’s dire warnings ran through her head. It was difficult, maintaining her composure as coolly she replied, “I am Lucinda Linley. I have come to stay with some of my family for a time at Southfield. The Linleys? I believe you’ve heard of them.”
She noted his little smile of amusement had disappeared. An impermeable mask settled over his face as he nodded briefly. “Oh, indeed, I’ve heard of the Linleys. So Edgerton must be your...?”
“First cousin,” she filled in, “and Pernelia is my aunt.”
“I see.” He studied the sky a moment. “When did you arrive?”
“Yesterday.”
“Then surely you must have heard by now that you must never, never speak to a Belington.”
She could not lie. “It was made quite clear to me last night. I was told not to tread upon your land, although I don’t know why. Just the same, I was careful not to do so.”
“So they haven’t told you anything,” he commented, almost as if to himself.
“Not yet.”
“You’ll find out soon enough. He regarded her thoughtfully. “Will you be staying long?”
“I shall be acting as companion to my aunt,” she answered promptly. “Recently she fell and hurt her hip.”
Concern filled his eyes. “Sorry to hear that. Lady Linley is a fine woman. I have always wished her the best. Despite the tragedy, I never...” He paused, as if considering whether or not to continue his line of thought, then decided against it. Light amusement filled his voice as he remarked, “So you watch birds and you sketch them. I’d wager that a young lady as attractive as you will also be taking in the social delights of York.”
“I shall go to my first ball tomorrow night. Lady Perry’s ball.” She knew she shouldn’t ask, but somehow blurted, “Will you be there?”
“I? At lady Perry’s?” He burst into laughter. When he calmed, he said, “Forgive me. Obviously they’ve kept you in the dark. No, I won’t be going to Lady Perry’s ball, or any of those social events of York so dear to the ton. You’ll find out why soon enough.”
She regarded him with somber curiosity, dying to ask,
find out what
? But she managed to refrain, telling herself she would appear much too forward if she asked. Besides, she did not want to give him the satisfaction. As if she cared whether he came to the ball or not! “I suppose I shall find out in due course,” she responded, as indifferently as she could. It was difficult, though, to remain indifferent toward a man as attractive as this one. She gathered up her sketch pad and pencil. “I shall be leaving now. ‘Twas my pleasure to meet you, Lord Belington.” She started away.
“One thing before you go,” he called after her. She turned. He was standing in a very masculine way
—legs apart, one hand clutching that “very fine” shotgun of his, the other resting on his hip pushing back his jacket so that she could see how well-muscled his chest was beneath his shirt and stock. Her heart beat a touch faster. With an odd smile he said, “You were mistaken concerning your location. You are standing on my land, not Linley’s.”
“But that’s impossible. I was careful not to
—” Suddenly she remembered the little brook she had leaped across without a thought. That must be the creek Aunt Pernelia was talking about. She had thought it much too small to be a creek, it was merely a tiny brook, but obviously she was wrong. How embarrassing. “I see my mistake. Sorry, it won’t happen again.”
He awarded her with one of the most devastatingly charming smiles she had ever received. “It’s quite all right, Miss Linley. If you’d care to come back, perhaps the yellowhammer will visit you again.”
Was he mocking her? She wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. She only knew she should get away from this overpoweringly masculine man before she made a fool of herself. “Thank you, but perhaps my yellowhammer will see fit to visit the Linley side of the creek, so I shall have no need to cross. Good day, sir.”
Douglas watched, enchanted, as the tall, trim figure disappeared down the path.
Lucinda Linley
, he repeated silently. What was there about her that caused a tug of desire deep within himself? For one thing, she was beautiful with that creamy white skin, shining chestnut hair that hung freely down her back and bounced when she walked, and those deep, wide-set brown eyes. But what was beauty? In London, he’d met dozens of young belles, all attractive, for whom he felt nothing but indifference. Give him an older woman every time. Like Rose. What she’d lost in looks she’d gained in wisdom and maturity.
This Lucinda Linley, though... He kept seeing that wise, assessing look in her eye. No doubt she was a very bright young lady, despite being pretty. He tried to assess how old she was
—he’d wager well into her twenties—and wondered why she was not married. Not for lack of suitors, surely...
But why was he even thinking about her? Memories of the old tragedy cut through his thoughts and he let out a burst of self-deprecating laughter. Fool! Of all the women in this world not to get involved with, Miss Lucinda Linley would be at the top of the list.