Wicked Angel (8 page)

Christian?" she said coolly, and hearing Mrs. Peterman behind her, turned and thrust the daisies into her hands, for which she received another disapproving frown.

"How do you do, Mr. Goldthwaite."

"I do very well, sir. I have not seen you here before. Are you a benefactor?"

Lauren groaned.

Mr. Christian politely ignored the indecorum of such a question. "Miss Hill very kindly brought me here after my horse went lame. I am off to Pemberheath now in search of help," he said, coming to his feet.

Lauren felt a moment of panic, and rushed too eagerly, she damn well knew it, to his side. "Rupert has not yet returned, Mr. Christian, but I am certain he shall be along shortly—"

"Nonsense! I should be happy to take Mr. Christian to Pemberheath! But I pray you, sir, we must leave at once. I should not have stopped as it is, but as I had the daisies, it would not do to let them wilt," Mr.

Goldthwaite said, and started immediately for the door.

"I should be most obliged, sir." Mr. Christian turned and smiled warmly at Lauren. "Miss Hill, I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality. Good day, Mrs. Peterman," he nodded to the unsmiling housekeeper, and followed Mr. Goldthwaite as he waddled quickly from the room. Unbalanced by a surge of unfamiliar emotion, Lauren looked helplessly to Mrs. Peterman, receiving a hapless shrug in response. Knowing she should do
nothing
but bid the gentleman a good day, Lauren grabbed his forgotten hat from a wall peg and rushed after him.

"Mr. Christian!" she called as she stepped out onto the drive. He turned, his green eyes sparkling with his smile. She thrust the hat at him. He grasped it with one hand and pulled lightly, but she did not let go.

"Ah… thank you, sir, for helping me out of a rather peculiar predicament," she said nervously. What in heaven's name was she
doing?

He chuckled softly. "I was hardly any help, Miss Hill."

"Mr. Christian, if you please!" Thadeus shouted from his curricle. Lauren scowled mightily at him then turned a winsome smile to her gentleman.

"If you should ever have reason to be in the area, it would please the children enormously if you would

call," she said, and instantly ashamed at her brazenness, nervously averted her gaze. "I, ah… they so enjoyed your tale."

"Miss Hill—"

"
Mr. Christian!
I really must be going!" Mr. Goldthwaite bellowed from the carriage. Good
God
, she would have liked to have knocked that stout little peacock from his perch and stuff him full of daisies!

"Thank you again, Miss Hill," Mr. Christian said. Yet he remained standing in front of her, his eyes crinkling in the corners with his smile.

"You are very welcome, Mr. Christian," she sighed, gazing up at him.

His smile turned into a charming grin. "Miss Hill… the hat?" Lauren looked down; she was still clutching the hat. Horrified, she let go of it so quickly that he took a step backward. Chuckling, he turned toward the carriage.

Oh, how very
grand!
She had succeeded in making a complete blockhead of herself! Mr. Christian looked at her again when he had settled onto the narrow little seat next to Mr. Goldthwaite. With a jaunty wave she hoped looked very carefree, Lauren pretended to be examining a tattered vine that had attached itself to the stone exterior of the house. When she heard the carriage pull away, she wished for a thousand deaths. For herself
and
Fastidious Thadeus.

Alex managed one last look behind him as the carriage raced away from the shabby manor house. His initial assessment was correct—she was an angel, and a very provocative one at that. As Mr.

Goldthwaite sent the carriage careening around a bend in the road, Alex grabbed his hat and the seat at the same time. "In something of a hurry, are you?" he asked dryly as the carriage righted itself.

"I have
many
pressing matters," the little man fairly spat out. "I should never have called today!"

"Have you known Miss Hill long?" Alex asked, knowing full well that she was the cause of Mr.

Goldthwaite's angst. He could hardly blame the poor man. She was as captivatingly beautiful as she was kind, the sort of woman that could bring a man to a state of blind devotion.

"I have been very well acquainted with Miss Hill for most of her life."

"I am sure she is a good friend," Alex remarked for wont of anything better to say.

Mr. Goldthwaite snorted loudly. "
Friend?
We are practically
betrothed
, sir!" he snapped angrily.

Alex had no idea what the understanding was between the two of them, but in his humble estimation, Mr.

Goldthwaite had a better chance of marrying Lucy than Lauren Hill.

With his feet propped upon a footstool, Ethan was sitting directly in front of the fire when Lauren marched into the drawing room carrying a tray of medicinal soup. The unusually warm weather had turned unusually cold, and Ethan had not stopped complaining since the first gray clouds had appeared.

Kicking the door shut, Lauren marched to where her uncle sat and placed the tray down with such force as to spill the soup.

"Don't be slamming that door, lass. I have a headache," he grumbled. Lauren said nothing as she poured

him a cup of tea. "What, are you still sulking over Rupert?" he sighed, and reached for his brandy, ignoring the tea.

"You promised me, Uncle Ethan," she reminded him sharply.

Ethan moaned his exasperation. "He is a grown
man
, Lauren. If he wants an ale, who am I to deny him?"

"Putting aside, for the moment, that the two of you could have been
killed
driving that old wagon in such a state, you know Rupert cannot absorb spirits like other men! It has taken him two full days to recover!"

"Do not bother me with that now," Ethan groaned. "My gout is flaring up again."

Lauren sighed loudly. There was no reasoning with Ethan. She supposed she should be grateful that as he so rarely left the drawing room, he was no real threat to Rupert's safety. Bless Rupert, but he thought Ethan had practically hung the moon. How his simple mind had concluded
that
was the biggest mystery of all. "Please eat your soup, Uncle. Mr. Goldthwaite gave me some herbs that should help ease your pain," she said, and bent to retrieve a discarded weekly paper.

"Goldthwaite! I do not like him sniffing around your skirts, do you hear me? The pillows, child…"

"Mr. Goldthwaite understands I do not return his affections," she lied, adjusting the pillows behind Ethan's back. Apparently, there was
nothing
she could say to convince Fastidious Thadeus
or
Mrs. Peterman of that. "But he is so terribly generous to us, I cannot ask him to stay away."

"Then
I
shall do it! I cannot make a match for you with that little hummingbird constantly underfoot,"

Ethan grumbled, and slurped from his bowl of soup. Lauren shook her head and began to walk toward the door. "Good God, what are you wearing?" he suddenly barked.

She paused and glanced down at the pair of trousers and heavy linen shirt Paul had outgrown many years ago. "Trousers." She continued to the door.

"Mind me, lass! There will be no man wanting to marry you in that!" he called after her. Mind him, indeed, she thought, and shut the door loudly. His constant talk of marrying her off—and it was
constant
—was beginning to wear on her. She marched to the foyer and removed a woolen coat from a peg. Everything was beginning to wear on her, she realized, as she plunged her arms into the coat.

"Where are you off to this morning?"

Lauren glanced over her shoulder at Paul as she pulled a woolen cap over her head. He limped into the foyer and leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. "I should salvage what is left of the pumpkins," she muttered.

"Have Rupert do that. There is no need for you to toil."

"Thanks to Uncle Ethan's superior choice of a drinking partner, Rupert is behind in his chores. And I am in great need of a solitary task," she said sharply, reaching for gloves.

"Is anything wrong?" Paul asked.

Immediately regretting the unleashing of her foul disposition, Lauren smiled weakly. "Nothing that a little time alone will not cure, I assure you." She walked out the door before he could question her further.

She had no hope time alone would cure her. It wasn't that Ethan had allowed Rupert to get so incredibly intoxicated, although she was still quite angry about that. It was just—
everything
. Everything had turned

upside down since Mr. Christian had come to Rosewood two days ago.

Damn it, she could not stop
thinking
about Mr. Christian.

She dreamed about him at night, thought about him all day, and yesterday, at a distance, had even mistaken the vicar for him. That was laughable, since the vicar was nearly seventy years old. Never had anyone had such an impact on her. She had never been so much as smitten that she could recall—unless she counted Donovan Williams, who had sparked her great admiration by pulling her hair when she was eight.

But even Donovan Williams could not possibly hold a candle to Mr. Christian, She had never met such a handsome, masculine,
kind
man. He liked poetry, he liked the children, and he did not even seem to object overmuch to Lucy. And beyond those admirable traits, he made her skin tingle in a strange sort of way, made her giggle for no apparent reason, and when he looked at her, dear
God
, her knees turned to water. Lauren sighed miserably as she tromped the path to the pumpkin field, pulling a battered wooden cart behind her.

All right, so she was smitten. What exactly was she to do about it? Mope about like some lovesick schoolgirl? Mr. Christian was not coming back. He was probably at home right now, probably with a
wife
for Chrissakes, and probably had already forgotten the whole thing.

If only
she
could forget.

"Miss Lauren!"

Lauren closed her eyes and moaned softly before turning to face Leonard as he came bounding down the path. "Paul said I should help you."

It took every ounce of energy Lauren had to muster a smile. Damn Paul! Now that he was twenty, he had decided it was his duty to look after her. Sometimes he treated her as if she might break with the slightest breeze! She loved Leonard with all her heart, and at any other time, would have welcomed his company. But not today.

"All right. You may watch for pirates while I pick what is left of the pumpkins." She took his hand in hers, and pulling the cart with the other, continued her march to the pumpkin field.

Leonard did a fine job of guarding her after finding a stick that made a suitable sword. For nearly an hour, he climbed again and again onto the fence and leapt to the ground, shouting
en garde
before he tackled a swarm of imaginary pirates. Despite her miserable mood, Lauren could not help smiling at his exuberance. Tossing the last pumpkin in the cart, she quickly counted. There were fourteen in all, which would pay for only one month's supply of tallow. It was not enough; she needed at least two months supply, if not three, to last the winter.

As she stood in the middle of the field pondering that little problem, Leonard ran up behind and punched her in the back with his stick. Startled, Lauren shrieked and whirled around.

"Arm yourself!" he cried.

Lauren's hands found her hips; her brows snapped into a foreboding vee. "All right, you brigand," she said, squatting to retrieve a stick. "
En garde!
" Much to Leonard's delight, she lifted her stick, assumed a fencing position, and stabbed at the air. She pushed Leonard backward, then allowed him to advance on her. Back and forth they went, laughing gaily at their play.

"Miss Hill?"

Her head snapped around at the sound of that voice. She had just a glimpse of his handsome face before Leonard drove his stick into her unguarded belly. Startled, she toppled onto her rump with a bounce, knocking the breath from her lungs.

"Dear God, are you quite all right?" Mr. Christian asked, suddenly on his knee beside her. He put a steadying arm around her shoulders as she gasped for air.

"Mr. Christian," she rasped, "I have concluded you are quite determined to see me slain in a pumpkin field."

He laughed. "And I believe you are quite determined to give me every opportunity!" His arm slid around her and she was suddenly lifted to her feet. Her breath still would not come, but it had nothing to do with her tumble. Mr. Christian bent over her, peering into her face, a slight frown creasing his forehead. God, but his hand covered the whole of her ribcage. She smiled sheepishly as his strong arm slid away from her. His green eyes flicked to a point past her shoulder, and she suddenly remembered Leonard and turned.

The boy was gaping at her, clearly mortified by having toppled her. "I am sorry!" he cried. "I thought you were looking!"

She laughed, tousling his hair. "You will be the finest pirate yet, Leonard. My goodness, but you are
very
quick. That is very important in sword play, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Christian?"

"I would consider it more important than footwork or strength," he agreed solemnly.

"There, you see?" She smiled, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him lightly on the forehead. "Do you think you could pull the cart to the barn?" she asked sweetly.

"Are you truly all right?" he asked, his eyes revealing his worry.

Lauren laughed. "I am perfectly fine, darling. It will take much more than a tumble to harm me."

Leonard looked skeptical, but accepted it. He turned to Mr. Christian and mumbled, "Good day, sir,"

and ran off to wrestle with the old cart. Lauren and Mr. Christian stood side by side, watching Leonard pull the cart up the path. Well, Mr. Christian was watching. She was trying very hard to hide the fact that his physical presence was making her shiver. That, coupled with her sheer mortification at having been found playing pirates in a pair of boy's trousers, caused her to unconsciously wrap her arms around her middle.