The Reluctant Countess (27 page)

Sophie sighed as she leaned into his chest and raised her head for his kiss. After only one day she was a shameless hussy where her husband was concerned.

“I will come for you after I have completed some estate business,” Patrick said, his voice sounding deeper.

Sophie nodded, watching him head for the door looking smug, knowing that he had indeed won the battle of teaching her to ride. Perhaps it was a streak of mischief she never knew she had, but the words had spilled from her mouth before she could draw them back. “I have a matching nightdress in scarlet. Perhaps I can show it to you tonight, my lord?” Sophie smiled softly as she brushed by him, letting her breasts graze against his chest as she left the room.

Patrick’s eyes crossed with lust. Instantly, he was harder than the table leg as visions of Sophie’s lush body wrapped in red satin filled his head. Suddenly, night seemed a very long time away.

* * *

It was easy to see why Mrs. Gumbrill had earned the nickname Grouchy Gumbrill, Sophie thought as she eyed the cook warily. The woman’s mouth formed a straight line in her round face, and her small brown eyes and large nose did little to soften the picture. Wiry gray hair was pulled under a white bonnet and a starched apron was tucked under a large bosom and ran to her knees.
I bet
she rules her kitchen with a large wooden spoon
, Sophie thought, eyeing her hands, clearly those of a worker—they looked strong and capable, not manuicured like a lady’s hands.

“Would you permit me to enter your kitchen, Mrs. Gumbrill?” Sophie asked with a smile.

“There is no need for the lady of the house to enter such a place,” Mrs. Gumbrill said loudly, her back filled with starch, her mouth now forming a pursed circle.

Ellouisha Gumbrill eyed her new countess. A whippet of a thing she was, a good gust of wind would have her returning to London and that’s a fact. As she had told Ribble just last night, the earl bringing home a wife would only bring trouble for the staff. “She’ll be some upstart hoity-toity miss with airs and graces, who’ll be barking orders in no time, you mark my words.”

“I have no wish to interfere in any way with the running of your kitchens, Mrs. Gumbrill. The breakfast and luncheon you served today were the finest I have ever tasted,” Sophie said, still smiling, although now she was doing so through clenched teeth. “I merely wish to make sure your kitchen is equipped with everything you need and that there is nothing further that you require.”

“Well, as to that,” Mrs. Gumbrill said, wondering if perhaps she had been a trifle harsh on her new mistress. After all, she was the new countess and if she was trying to make changes, then who was she to dissuade her. As she had told Mr. Ribble over tea and scones this morning, “Never was one to bite the hand that feeds me, Arthur Ribble, no I ain’t.”

“I have replaced both the Timpkins’ and the Smiths’ roofs as you requested, my lord.”

“Excellent,” Patrick said, pushing his chair back from the desk and slapping the last piece of paper onto the pile before him.

“That will be all, Tom. I will ride over and check the fences you mentioned and we can go over the changes to the back pasture when I have more time,” Patrick said, shaking his estate manager’s hand as he left his office. Now he would find his wife and take her riding.

She was not in their rooms, so he hunted Ribble down, which also took time, but eventually Patrick ran him to ground in the library, a rather impressive room with wall-to-wall books dating back several centuries.

“Do you know the location of my wife, Ribble?”

“The kitchens I believe, my lord,” said Ribble, putting down his silver polishing cloth.

“Now, that sounds ominous.”

“I believe they are going over the preserves, my lord,” he added, picking up his jacket and sliding his arms into it.

“I can find my way to the kitchens, Ribble,” Patrick said, halting his butler’s movements with a wave of his hand. “I spent enough time sneaking into them when I was younger,” he said over his shoulder as he left the room.

Patrick smelled the kitchens before he saw them. He smiled as Sophie’s laughter reached him. It was a sweet infectious sound.

“You want to be careful up there, my lady.”

“I will be fine, Mrs. Gumbrill, I have been climbing ladders all my life.”

Patrick felt his stomach hit his feet as he rounded the corner to find his wife perched on the topmost rung of a very tall ladder.

“Ah, I believe these are your rogue peaches, Mrs. Gumbrill.” Sophie grunted as she pulled a large jar off the shelf.

“Well I never. Fancy them getting all the way back there,” Mrs. Gumbrill said, holding out two large fleshy hands to receive the runaway peaches.

“If you will allow me.” Patrick moved forward to take the peaches over the head of Mrs. Gumbrill and placed them in his cook’s hands.

“My lord!” the cook gasped, clutching her preserves and backing out of the room to allow him to move further in.

“What do you think you are doing up there?” Patrick was proud that he managed to keep his voice steady as he ignored the gaping cook.

Sophie looked down into the dark, narrowed eyes below, “I was assisting Mrs. Gumbrill, my lord. We were taking stock of the preserves.”

“Come down from there, Sophie.”

“I intend to, my lord, if you will just step to the side,” Sophie said, ignoring his outstretched hand and placing her foot on the first rung. Obviously she was not moving quickly enough for him, as the next instant Patrick had placed his hands on her waist and lifted her down.

“Is there some problem, my lord?” Sophie said as her feet touched the ground.

“You could have fallen and broken your neck amongst the pickled onions,” Patrick replied, feeling foolish now that his pulse had calmed and he had Sophie safely in his arms.

“That is where the tomatoes are kept,” Sophie said solemnly.

“You have a smart mouth, wife.” He tried not to smile down into her twinkling eyes, especially when she was laughing at him. It was a new experience; people did not usually laugh at the Earl of Coulter.

“And there I was, thinking you were going to be sweet and pliable,” he muttered, planting a loud smacking kiss on her lips, which elicited a small chuckle from Mrs. Gumbrill.

“Patrick!” Sophie gasped, trying to free herself. Had he been made of stone, perhaps it might have been easier.

“Come, Countess Coulter, I am sure Mrs. Gumbrill will be most pleased to be rid of you,” Patrick said, taking Sophie’s arm and leading her from the kitchen.

“My lord,” Mrs. Gumbrill growled when he filched a fresh biscuit as he walked past.

“Good lord! I was immediately transported back to my youth just then,” Patrick laughed, towing Sophie behind him as they left a chuckling cook behind.

It was a warm day, and only a few wisps of cloud marred the perfect blue sky as the Earl and Countess of Coulter walked toward the stables. Both were content with the silence and Patrick marveled at how good he felt having Sophie here at Plentiful with him. He did not fool himself that he would have everything his own way, yet she seemed to fit him and he her. They still had much to learn about each other, but right here and now, Patrick felt more content than he had in many months, in fact he was probably more content than he had ever been.

“Patrick?” Sophie said as she pulled off her glove and plucked a leaf from a large bushy tree as they passed by.

“Mmm,” he said, still deep in thought.

“Did my … ah … manner disturb you just now in the kitchens?” Sophie asked, looking up at her husband. “It was never my intention to make light of your words or embarrass you in front of Mrs. Gumbrill.” He was after all an earl, and Sophie wondered if she had overstepped the mark. It was of course his fault that her tongue had loosened; he had made her happy, happier than she had felt in a long time, and that in turn had made her relax.

Patrick stopped suddenly, his hands moving to steady Sophie, as she would have tumbled headfirst into a lavender hedge. Lifting her chin, he looked into her uncertain green eyes. “Never guard your true self from me, love. I have been surrounded by fakes and frauds my entire life, I would not have that from my wife.”

“Oh,” Sophie whispered. Patrick had noticed this was the word she often used when none other came into her head. He brushed his thumb beneath her eye where a tear fell.

“Why the tears, Sophie? I would have you happy, not sad,” he said with a gentle smile that seemed to make matters worse instead of better.

“ ’Tis merely the sun, my lord.” Sophie pulled away to continue walking toward the stables.
Coward
, she screamed inside her head,
tell him you love him, he is your husband
.

Patrick watched the gentle swing of her skirts and knew that she had been about to tell him something else. It would wait. After all, they would have a lifetime together, he thought as his long strides caught up with her.

Despite her intense dislike for horses, or any other large animal for that matter, Sophie was intrigued with Patrick’s stables, as she had never really spent any time in them. Her senses tried to make out the differing smells as they walked into the long low building. There was undoubtedly hay, plus horse, but also leather and other scents she could not define.

“My lord,” a large burly man said, walking toward them.

“Mac.” Patrick shook the offered hand. “This is my wife,” he said, introducing Sophie.

Sophie also offered her hand, which surprised Mac, but he accepted it all the same, and then she wandered off and left the two men to talk. She walked big half circles around the horses as they poked their heads over the stable doors to look at her. It was when she came to a pretty silver head with ridiculously long eyelashes that Sophie stopped. The little horse seemed so sweet, almost like she stood on her toes to peek over the door like her big companions. Pulling off her gloves once again, Sophie picked up a wisp of straw and walked slowly toward the horse. Giggling as the soft lips tickled her palm; she let the animal eat the straw from her hand and then, feeling brave, she rubbed her fingers down its neck. It was warm and downy soft and Sophie enjoyed the feeling, laughing as the small horse nudged her shoulder when she tried to stop.

Patrick watched Sophie out of the corner of his eye as she made a wide berth around every horse until she encountered Jezebel, his feisty little mare. She stood for several seconds just staring at the horse; he could almost see her thinking about what her next step should be.

“He should be arriving any day now, my lord,” Mac said and Patrick nodded, listening as his head stable master filled him in on the goings-on over the past few months.

He could see the outline of her spine and the round curves of her bottom as she bent to pick up the wisp of straw. Patrick remembered the satin smooth softness in his hands. As she stood, a long curl tumbled to her waist; he had wrapped that curl around his fingers last night.

“Rustus and Barnaby had foot rot, but I have a special mixture from Old Major Dimbley that seems to have done the trick,” Mac said, waving his hands around, as he often did when his excitement grew.

“Excellent, Mac,” Patrick said, more sharply than he intended. “Can you have Barnaby saddled for me, as I wish to take my wife for a ride,” he added as he walked to where she was feeding hay to his mare.

“Her name is Jezebel.”

“Oh no, Patrick, surely not,” Sophie said, stroking the long face of the little mare.

“She flirts and poses, then prances around showing off to all the male members of the stables, so believe me when I say she earned her name,” Patrick said, scratching behind one of the little mare’s long ears.

“She has the softest-colored brown eyes and the longest eyelashes, don’t you think?” Sophie said, feeling Patrick move closer behind her.

“Ah, the workings of a female mind,” Patrick whispered into her ear, then blew softly, which produced a delightful shiver through Sophie’s body.

Patrick walked away with a chuckle that could be best described as lewd.

She heard her name being called a few minutes later, so with a final pat on Jezebel’s nose, Sophie walked through the long hallway and once again out into the sunshine.

“Come, I will lift you up.”

Sophie took a step back as Patrick came toward her on a mean-looking black horse with flared nostrils and a flowing mane. She thought briefly that they suited each other, the large master and his equally large beast.

“Ahhh, Patrick, I just remembered that I needed to check something with Mrs. Gumbrill,” Sophie said, turning sharply on one heel and making a dash for the stables. She could hear his laughter and then she heard the sound of hooves and suddenly she was flying.

Patrick swung Sophie into his arms, then sent Barnaby into a canter and out of the yard. He urged the big stallion into the sunshine and directed him across the fields. In his arms, Sophie sat sideways with her fingers on his forearm in a white-knuckled grip. Her whole body was rigid. Looking down, Patrick noticed her eyes were clenched shut; he wasn’t sure she had yet drawn a breath.

“Open your eyes, Sophie, and look around your new home.”

She did, slowly, and eventually the death grip on his arm eased a little.

“Over there is Pudding Gully, named after old Squire Pudding, who rolled down it one day whilst hunting; seems he’d drunk too much beforehand and was inebriated. Took five men to roll him back up it, I believe.”

She listened to him, but didn’t say anything. Patrick shifted her to make her more comfortable against his chest as he continued to regale her with stories of his home. Finally, he managed to force a giggle from her and she even leaned forward when they passed a stream to look into it.

“Do you think you can talk yet? Or are you still scared witless?” Patrick drawled.

“There is nothing wrong with my wits, sir, I was just scheming on how to pay you back for your high-handed methods,” Sophie said.

“Admit you’re enjoying yourself, wife.”

“I will concede that it is much better than I had thought, but that is possibly due to the fact that I am in your arms and I know you will not drop me,” Sophie said. “However,” she added, “I don’t believe there will come a time that I will want to actually ride one of these,” she said, pointing to the horse’s head, “without you holding me.”