By Love Undone (4 page)

The marquis swept along the bank, swiftly closing the distance between himself and the pig. Miss Marguerite dodged sideways, and in response the marquis sent Aristotle forward in a sprint of speed, obviously trying to trap the pig between the horse and the stream. The maneuver would have been a sterling one, if not for the notorious mud at the edge of the water.

“Your lordship, be careful of….” Maddie trailed off, grinning delightedly. This should be interesting.

Aristotle reached the edge of the water. Feeling the ground give beneath his hooves, the bay balked and scrambled sideways to regain his footing. The marquis,
his attention on the swerving pig in front of him, never saw it coming. With a startled yelp he went over the hunter’s head, and, reins and hat flying, landed with a resounding splash in the stream.

“Damnation!”

The marquis swarmed to his feet, water cascading off his fine rust riding coat and filling his beautiful Hessian boots. Even with the spring melt, the water rose only as high as his hips, which she supposed was fortunate since he’d gone in head first. As he swept his wet blond hair out of his eyes, he issued several very colorful curses under his breath, which the morning breeze carried to Maddie’s ears. They were quite imaginative, and he actually rose a notch or two in her estimation.

She took a deep breath, trying to stifle the laughter welling in her throat. “Oh, no, my lord! Are you un-hurt?” she asked belatedly, coaxing Blossom closer to the stream.

He spun around to glare at her. “Yes. Quite.”

“How dreadful! I cannot imagine…Is the water very cold?”

“Yes.” Slowly he turned in a circle, then glowered up at her again. “Frightfully. Where is my hat?”

“I believe I saw it…floating downstream, my lord.” A chuckle erupted from her chest, and she quickly covered it with a cough. “Do you wish me to fetch assistance, my lord?”

“Absolutely not.”

He eyed her blank face suspiciously, then shook water from his honey-colored hair and waded toward the bank. In the slippery mud he lost his footing and nearly went down again, and Maddie swiftly turned away, biting her lip to keep from laughing aloud.

“I shall fetch Aristotle for you, my lord,” she said, and wheeled Blossom toward the stand of tall grass
where the bay stood looking embarrassed by the whole affair.

As soon as Miss Willits turned away to fetch his blasted horse, Quin scrambled ungracefully through the slick mud and made his way back up onto the stream bank. Water and mud squished coldly in his boots, and he sloshed over to a clear, sunny spot of field and sat down to pull them off.

The deuced pig was out of sight, but Miss Willits seemed to know where the beast was going. He’d be damned if he’d let Miss Marguerite escape after this. In fact, he fully intended to dine on ham for luncheon. He dumped the first boot out and put it aside while he yanked off the second. Maddie approached with the horses behind him, cutting off any further cursing. “My thanks, Miss—”

“Oh, my goodness!”

At her shocked exclamation he froze. Miss Willits had clearly viewed his tumble into the stream with no anxiety and a great deal of amusement, and he couldn’t believe that the removal of his boots would overset her. He turned his head.

Beside Maddie, with nearly identical expressions of astonishment on their pale faces, two young women, a brunette and a blonde, sat upon a pair of chestnut mares. Maddie’s intelligent gray eyes gazed at him steadily for a moment, something very much like amused triumph, and very little like shocked dismay, in her gaze.

Quin had already begun to regard Miss Willits with some suspicion. Now, as her lips trembled with the effort of not breaking into out-and-out laughter, he was nearly ready to think her capable of actual sabotage.

Abruptly she blinked and straightened. “Oh, pray forgive my momentary upset, my lord. I had no idea you were
en déshabille
. May I introduce the Misses Lydia
and Sally Fowler? Lydia, Sally, the Marquis of Warefield.”

Quin shook more water out of his hair and swiftly climbed to his feet. “Ladies,” he intoned, feeling completely ridiculous standing there in his stockings and with a sodden boot hanging from one hand, and even more distracted by the discovery that his uncle’s companion spoke French. “Charmed.”

“My…lord,” the brunette returned, blushing bright red and thrusting one hand in his direction. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

Stifling a grimace, Quin dropped his boot into the grass and stepped forward to grip her fingers.

“Lord Warefield, are you injured?” the blond asked, giggling nervously.

“Only my pride.”

“Surely not, my lord,” Maddie said warmly. “Not when the venture was as noble as this one, and not when your foe was so infamously and fiendishly clever.”

There it was again: that definite sarcasm even her lovely innocent expression couldn’t quite disguise. He’d been intrigued enough by her apparent dislike of him to suggest they spend the morning together. Obviously he’d underestimated the degree of her antipathy—no doubt because of the lust her mere appearance sparked in him. Even the very cold water had only managed to subdue his physical reaction to her.

“The venture was noble in thought, perhaps.” He met her gaze squarely. “But I’m afraid that the poor cabbage patch may be done for by now.”

Miss Willits’s lips twitched, and she suddenly seemed to feel the need to examine the skyline over her shoulder. The sunlight accented the red highlights in her hair, and the gray riding habit, demure though it was, in no way disguised the curving lines of her body. Quin didn’t
realize how long he’d been staring at her until he heard the Misses Fowler whispering together.

“Lord Warefield,” the older one said, “our home is just over the hill, if you’d care to dry your clothes.”

“A splendid idea, Lydia,” Miss Willits seconded.

An alarm bell immediately began ringing in Quin’s skull. He was no fool, and it was rapidly becoming apparent that whatever Maddie favored had little to do with his own well-being. “My thanks, ladies, but Miss Willits and I have a great deal to do this morning. The sun is shining, and I daresay I’ll dry soon enough.”

Maddie looked disappointed, which convinced Quin that he’d made the correct decision. “Are you certain, my lord?” she pursued. “The Fowlers’ cook makes a wonderful apple tart.”

“Oh, yes!” Sally seconded, and actually reached down to put a hand on his arm. “Mama says Mrs. Plummer is the finest cook in Somerset. She’s from Yorkshire, you know. It’s because of Papa’s sour stomach. He can’t abide seasonings or spices of any kind, for they leave him with a terrible case of gas.” She giggled.

Maddie made a sound in her throat, but when he glanced in her direction she had found a clump of grass to occupy her attention. “Are you well, Miss Willits?” he asked solicitously.

She started and glanced at him. “Quite, my lord. I was only thinking I should go see to Miss Marguerite before she completely decimates the cabbage crop.”

She intended to abandon him to the Fowler sisters, then. “Yes, you’re right,” he said, hurriedly bending down to collect his boots and hobbling toward Aristotle. “We must be off.”

“Are you certain you will not come to Renden Hall with us, my lord?” Lydia asked hopefully.

“My apologies, but I cannot.” He pulled on one boot, his stockings squishing unpleasantly.

“Then you must call on us for tea tomorrow,” Sally insisted.

Quin looked at her for a moment. Obviously she had no idea that only the head of the household was supposed to tender such an invitation, especially to a social superior. But he did not wish to appear as rude as she was. “Of course I shall,” he answered, inwardly wincing. He glanced at Maddie and found sudden inspiration. “Would it be too forward of me to ask Miss Willits along as my guide? She does seem fond of Mrs. Plummer’s tarts.”

“What a grand idea!” Sally agreed. “Oh, Lydia, perhaps we could ask Squire John and his sister, and then we might play whist.”

Quin watched Miss Willits from the corner of his eye. At the mention of this squire’s name, her annoyed expression cleared.

“We shall see you tomorrow, then.” Maddie clucked at her mare. “Come, Blossom, let’s find Miss Marguerite.”

Wondering if Uncle Malcolm was aware of Maddie’s apparent fondness for the local squire, Quin quickly stomped into his other boot and grabbed Aristotle’s dangling reins. “Ladies,” he said absently, reaching up to touch the brim of his hat, only to remember that by now it must be on its way to Bristol Strait and the Atlantic Ocean. Drat it all, he’d been fond of that hat. “Until tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow, my lord.”

“Yes, tomorrow, Lord Warefield.”

A moment later he caught up to Miss Willits, who’d abandoned him without a backward glance. “What have I to look forward to with the Fowlers?”

“I could not say, my lord,” she answered. The prickly annoyed female had returned, as though she hadn’t found the previous encounter even the least bit amusing.
“I don’t believe they have ever entertained a member of the nobility, my lord.”

Something in her tone, in her insistence on continually referring to him as “my lord,” began to make him wonder whether her dislike was personal, or something more. “Have you ever entertained a member of the nobility?”

She glanced at him. “I have no household and no standing, my lord.”

Neither had she answered the question. “Would they feel more comfortable if Uncle Malcolm accompanied us as well?”

“Mr. Bancroft cannot walk, my lord. Nor can he yet tolerate sitting upright for any length of time.” Again she looked briefly in his direction, her expression unreadable but her eyes snapping. “I’m certain, though, that the Fowlers appreciate your concern over their comfort. And Mr. Bancroft as well, of course.”

This time the cut wasn’t even veiled. Although no one besides his brother had ever insulted him so bluntly before, he was far more curious than offended. “My, my, Miss Willits,” he said mildly, “has your tongue ever caused anyone bodily harm?”

The muscles of her fine jaw clenched. “Not that I’m aware of, my lord. My most sincere apologies if I have in any way offended you.”

“No apology necessary.” A small farmhouse and a pig rooting through a cabbage patch came into view ahead of them. “I wish to ask, though, if I have in any way offended
you
.”

She kicked out of the stirrup and with easy grace hopped to the ground. “Oh, my lord, do not tease,” she said, with obviously exaggerated alarm.

For a brief moment Quin had the impression that if she’d been a man, they would have been selecting dueling pistols. “Do not think me a fool,” he returned,
dismounting and heading after Miss Marguerite before she could increase her cabbage carnage.

“Begging your lordship’s pardon,” Maddie said, moving swiftly to the far side of the cabbage patch to turn the determined pig back in his direction, “but why should you care what I think of you?”

“Why should I not?”

Maddie hesitated, an arrested expression on her face.

Just then the sow charged by him, squealing, and Quin nearly went down on his backside. “Dash it!”

Turning, he sprinted after the beast, abruptly angry at it—not for getting him tossed into the stream and nearly trampling him, but for interrupting the first genuine conversation he’d managed with Miss Willits.

Dirt and bits of grass and cabbage clung to Quin’s damp breeches as he ran, but the blasted pig was
not
going to elude him again. He dodged after the animal, swearing under his breath. When Maddie called out behind him, she was quite a bit farther away than he’d realized.

“No, Mr. Whitmore!” she shouted. “Lord Warefield! Duck!”

At her alarmed tone, Quin threw himself forward into the muddy grass without hesitation. Before he’d hit the ground, he remembered her tendency to disregard his best interests, though, and cursed at his continued stupidity. An instant later, a musket thundered and a ball whistled over his head.

Breathing hard, Quin lurched to his feet and whipped around to see Miss Willits forcefully wrench a musket out of an older man’s hands—one of the angry farmers he’d seen in pursuit of Miss Marguerite just the day before.

“Are you all right, Miss Willits?” he called, running back to the cabbage garden.

She quickly turned in his direction. “Yes, quite. And you, my lord?”

“No holes, thanks to you.” At least she appeared not to want him dead, which was a relief. He stopped in front of the red-faced farmer. “You would be Mr. Whitmore, I presume?”

Maddie cleared her throat and returned the musket to its owner. “My lord, may I present Mr. Whitmore, one of your uncle’s tenants? Mr. Whitmore, the Marquis of Warefield.”

“The Mar—oh, good holy God, I’m sorry, my lord.” Mr. Whitmore stumbled, blanching. “Terribly sorry.”

He jabbed his free hand out at Quin, who lifted an eyebrow as he shook it. “Mr. Whitmore.”

“I wasn’t aiming for you, my lord, oh, no. It’s just that blasted devil-spawned pig! That’s the third time this month the beast has gotten into my vegetables!”

The marquis slapped at the mud and vegetation which continued to cling to him. “I’m none too fond of the animal, myself. What say we help ourselves to a side of pork, eh?”

The farmer grinned and hefted the musket. “Aye, my lord.”

Miss Willits stepped forward and put her hand on the farmer’s shoulder. “If I might make an alternate suggestion, my lord,” she said hurriedly, “there will be piglets by May, and I’m certain no one would object if Mr. Whitmore chose the pick of Miss Marguerite’s litter for himself.”

The farmer scowled. “And what’s to keep her from taking the rest of my crop before then?”

“The new fence Mr. Bancroft will see that the Hartleburys put up, to keep her where she belongs.”

Mr. Whitmore eyed Maddie pleadingly, while Quin watched her with a great deal of interest. Langley didn’t at all look like a holding in dire need of aid and repair,
and he’d already begun to have a very strong suspicion why. Miss Willits spoke for his uncle readily enough, and the fanner accepted it as a matter of fact. And when, in frustration, Quin had skimmed ahead in the ledgers yesterday, the last few pages hadn’t been in his uncle’s indecipherable scrawl, but in a much neater, distinctly feminine hand. Maddie Willits was turning out to be quite an unusual mistress indeed.