Nearly a Lady (9 page)

Intrigued by the notion a feminine walk was something that had to be accomplished through trial and error, he’d watched as Winnefred strode up and down the dirt drive with all the subtlety of a line of infantrymen marching to battle.

The woman lacked grace, there was no denying it. But neither was there any denying that he found the proud tilt of her head and those brisk, purposeful strides absolutely charming. He found everything about the woman charming. No, more than charming. One found fresh flowers and scruffy kittens charming.

Winnefred Blythe was an unholy temptation.

The sight of the gold strands in her hair being lit by the sun had made his fingers itch to touch, and the way the soft breeze had formed her thin muslin gown to her curves had made him recall how she’d looked in trousers, bent over to pick up a fallen rail.

He wanted her. Just as urgently and as painfully as he wanted to leave her alone.

He’d turned away from the window that day.

He wondered if there was any possible way for him to sneak away now. He’d become rather good at sneaking away over the last week—to Enscrum, to the fields, to his room, or just out the door or down the hall when one of the ladies suddenly appeared in his line of vision. Why did they forever seem to be appearing in his line of vision? For pity’s sake, there were only two of them. How could it be that they were always in his path?

He took a step back, intending to make good his escape.

But then Winnefred sighed—not a wispy sort of sigh that indicated contentment, but a great heaving of shoulders and a long, hard breath that spoke of quiet misery.

Damn
.

He couldn’t walk away. Not now.

Resigned to at least offering a few words of support, or comfort, or whatever it was she needed, he coughed pointedly and stepped forward to close the distance between them.

“Claire isn’t much of a guardian, is she?”

Winnefred glanced up from the water as Claire trotted toward Gideon. “She’s better at being a companion.”

Gideon sidestepped the goat’s attempt to snuffle into his leg. “She is . . . amiable. What are you doing sitting out here by yourself? I’d have thought you’d be working with Lilly.”

“I’ve been granted a temporary reprieve.” She gave a small shrug. “We just completed another lesson.”

“And how did it go?”

“Poorly.” She bent down to scratch Claire’s head in an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact. “I’m going to embarrass Lilly.”

He took a seat beside her and caught the faint hint of lavender again. There was no scent of hay this time, and he found he missed it.

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,” he tried.

“It is. Yesterday, I tried serving tea.” She held a hand up, and for the first time, Gideon noticed a small white bandage on the palm.

Before he could think better of it, he reached out, took her hand in his, and rubbed the pad of his thumb where bandage met pale skin. He found a small line of calluses beneath her fingers. The feel of them made his stomach clench. He experienced the sudden, irrational need to smooth them away. He wished he could somehow go back twelve years and save Winnefred from the years of labor she had endured. When his time in Scotland was done, he decided, he was going to join his brother in the hunt for their stepmother. And when they found her, he was going to strangle the woman until the gnawing anger in his gut was appeased . . . or her eyes popped from her head, whichever came first.

“It isn’t a serious wound,” he heard Winnefred say softly.

He realized he was scowling at her palm. Surprised by his violent reaction to something as simple and common as a callus, he set her hand down on the rock carefully, as if it were something infinitely fragile and just as dangerous.

“You need to see a physician.”

When he’d lifted his head, she’d been looking at him with frank curiosity and—heaven help him—expectant interest. Now she only looked shocked. “A physician? But it’s nothing, little more than—”

“You’ll have one all the same.” Burns were painful. What if it turned putrid? What if a fever took hold? What if—?

She lifted her hand and pulled the bandage down to reveal a very small reddened patch of skin with no signs of blistering. “I do
not
require a physician.”

He frowned at the undeniably minor injury. “Perhaps not.”

“Even the bandage is unnecessary, but Lilly—”

“You’ll keep it on. And clean. And you will keep Lilly and me apprised of the healing process.”

She dropped her hand to her lap. “Oh, for pity’s sake. There is no need for—”

“Haven’t you poured tea before?”

That question was greeted with narrowed eyes that held a hint of humor. “A change of subject on your part does not constitute an agreement on mine.”

It did as far as he was concerned. “Would you rather continue the discussion of your injury?”

“No.”

“Then tell me about the lesson.”

She opened her mouth as if to argue, then shook her head and turned her eyes to the water. “I have poured before, but it’s different now. It’s not just Lilly and me sitting down in the parlor—it’s the whole of London. That’s how it feels to me. And instead of minding their own business, they’re all paying attention to see if I splash, or fill the cups too full, or not full enough, or let the china clatter.” She stood up but kept her eyes trained on the water. “It’s only hot water and some leaves. I don’t understand why the ton has to be so . . . so . . .”

She kicked at a small rock to send it tumbling into the stream.

“Ridiculous?” he offered. “Stringent? Pretentious?”

She blew out a short breath and smiled a little. “Yes, to all.”

“Well, try to remember that you’ll not be the only newcomer this season. Dozens of debutantes will be taking their first bows.”

“And will any of them scald their guests with tea, do you think?”

“Doubtful,” he admitted. “So you’ll let Lilly do the honors when someone comes to call. There are all sorts of ways to get around things when it isn’t just you trying to remember all the rules at once.”

“And if I can’t recall how to properly address a lord when introduced?”

“Try sneezing.”

She pulled her eyes from the stream to blink at him owlishly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Develop a sensitivity to cats, or flowers, or whatever happens to be nearby, and excuse yourself in a fit of sneezing.”

She choked out a noise that may have been a laugh but could just as easily have been a sound of surprise and disbelief.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Perfectly. You’ll have to be suitably contrite about it, of course, and affect a considerable amount of suffering. Garnering sympathy for your plight will be key.”

This time, it was clearly laughter. “I don’t know that I could summon a believable sneezing fit on command.”

“There must be something you’re good at. Focus on your strengths, Winnefred. Do you play an instrument?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Watercolor, sketch?”

“No.”

“Can you sing?”

“Not well.”

“Do you know any French?”

A corner of her mouth hooked up. “A bit.”

She cleared her throat. And then proceeded to recite a list of French invectives so extensive, so obscene, that she actually hit upon one or two he’d never before encountered.

He gaped at her for a moment. “It is a sad state of affairs, indeed, when a young lady can out-swear a sea captain. Or maybe just a curious one. I haven’t decided.
Where on earth
did you learn those?”

“Here and there.” Her grin spoke of pride and devilish delight at having shocked him.

“One does not pick up French curses here and there.”

“One can if there’s a prison not five miles away that used to have a wing filled with French soldiers.”

“Ah, yes.” He’d heard the townsfolk in Enscrum speak of the small and relatively new prison in terms both grateful and derogatory. They didn’t care to have the dredges of society at their doorstep, but they certainly appreciated the coin it brought in. “I suppose a few choice French phrases were bound to escape into town. Do I want to know how you managed to pick them up?”

“I rather doubt it.”

“I thought as much.” He rose from his seat and, placing a finger under her chin, tilted her face up for consideration. The color was back in her cheeks, and the dullness gone from her eyes. “Feeling better?”

She went very still at his touch. Her eyes darted to his mouth. “Yes.”

He shouldn’t have touched her again. He knew it even before he’d reached out with his hand. But he’d been unable to stop himself. Just as he was unable to stop himself now from brushing his thumb along the edge of her jaw and imagining what it would be like to taste her right there, where the skin was soft and tight. The light kiss, the brief flick of tongue, the gentle scrape of his teeth along . . .

It took an enormous act of will to let his hand fall naturally to his side. The urge to snatch it away was almost as strong as the urge to wrap his fingers around the nape of her neck and pull her close.

“My pleasure.” His voice sounded muted over the roaring of blood in his ears. “If there’s anything else you need, you’ve only to ask.”

He told himself the offer was little more than a formality. It was simply the sort of thing a gentleman said to a lady directly before taking his leave. The suspicion that he would agree to any request she cared to make in that moment was studiously ignored.

Winnefred said nothing, as if she hadn’t even heard him. Her eyes, he realized with ever-growing discomfort, were still fixed on his mouth.

He took a full step back. “Well, if there’s nothing . . .” His imminent departure seemed to pull her from her thoughts. Her gaze snapped to his.

“What?” She frowned briefly and, to his immense relief, appeared to regain her composure. “Oh, yes, wait, there is something I should like, if it’s not too much bother. Are you going into town tomorrow?”

“I could manage it.” An errand several miles away. He could most certainly manage it. “Is there something you need?”

“Chocolate. I’d not tried it before you came, but now that I have, I can’t seem to stop drinking it. I’ve never tasted anything so delicious in my life. I’m down to my last cup’s worth.”

“I’m afraid the little I brought was all Mr. McDaniel had in stock. His next shipment isn’t due for another . . . fortnight, I believe he said.”

“A fortnight? We’ll be gone to London by then.”

The disappointment in her voice tugged at him. She shouldn’t have to wait until London. Not after waiting twelve years to start. “I’ll make the trip to Langholm.”

“For chocolate?” She laughed and waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t be silly. I thank you for the offer, but I’ve not become
that
spoiled. I’ll wait and save the final cup for a special occasion.”

“Such as?”

“Well, I don’t know yet, do I? Something monumental. My first gracefully executed curtsy perhaps.” She watched him as he chuckled. When she spoke next, it was with enough hesitancy to make him nervous. “There is something else I should like to ask of you.”

He hoped it was another errand. “I’m at your service.”

“Would it . . . Would it be a great deal of trouble for you to attend meals now and again? I know you prefer eating in your chambers,” she hurried on as if she could guess the direction of his thoughts, “but if Lilly were to have a distraction from time to time, it would help ease her burden, I think, as well as mine. With nothing else to do or think on, she’s become a bit fanatical about our trip. I don’t think it’s healthy.”

“She’s devoted.”

“She’s nearing deranged. Lord Gideon . . .” She swallowed and looked at him with a hope he knew he wouldn’t be able to deny. “Gideon,
please
.”

It was just a meal or two, he told himself. Just an hour here and there, chaperoned and across the barrier of a sturdy oak table. He could do that.

“Certainly,” he heard himself say. “I’ll make a point of it.”

She beamed at him. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure will be mine, I’m sure.” So would the torture. “If there’s nothing else—”

“There is actually.”

He leaned on his cane, hard. “And what might that be?”

She shifted her weight and placed her hands behind her back as if to keep from fidgeting. “I realize this isn’t the best time for me to mention this, not after you’ve been so gracious, but I’ve been meaning to speak to you of it for days, and I’ve not been able. You’re so often gone or wishing to be left undisturbed.” She grimaced at her own words. “I don’t mean that to sound so much like a complaint, or a reprimand. It’s only—”

“I understand.” He
had
made it difficult, nearly impossible for her to speak with him. There was no denying it. “What is it you wish to say?”

“It’s . . . I should like to start by saying that I’ve become rather fond of you.”

He nodded, slowly. “I’m fond of you as well. Winnefred—”

“I want you to understand that what I am about to say doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for what you’ve done, or that I don’t like you. It’s only that I like Lilly more. She is, for all that we are not related by blood, my sister.”

His nerves quickly turned to bafflement. He nodded again, unsure of where she was taking the conversation. “Of course she is.”

“She is very excited about this trip.”

“I’ve no doubt that’s true.”

“She has built enormous expectations around it.”

“Only natural.”

“She has . . . This trip has . . .” She pressed her lips together in frustration. “She is now in a position of . . . a position to be . . .”

“Spit it out, Winnefred.”

“Right.” She nodded once, tipped her chin up, and stared him straight in the eye. “If anyone hurts or disappoints her in London, anyone at all, for any reason at all, I shall cut out your heart and eat it raw.”