colored today,
high-necked, long-sleeved and form fitting. In it, she nearly
disappeared into the shaded grove. Only her eyes shone, whites wide
and vivid next to sky-blue pupils lined in midnight. He stepped
into the shade with her and it was like they’d disappeared into a
different world. Beyond the line of trees lay light and reality.
Somewhere nearby he could hear Aurelia crooning to her new pet. But
here . . . there existed only sizzle in the soft air, tension
stretching between them—and her.
“Miss Ashburn has all the advantages of birth
and wealth. She’s well-spoken and well-educated.” He cocked his
head. “Yet so are you.”
She shook her head but he continued,
relentless. “She is likely to be a darling of the beau
monde . She possesses the right family, the right clothes, the
right air of sophisticated ennui . Yet that girl and her ilk,
none of them hold a candle to you, Miss Moreton. I cannot imagine
her acting as champion for an orphaned girl she’s just met. She
could never work alongside my high-in-the-instep servants and win
their hearts at the same time. She would never walk into my filthy
laboratory and see a birthplace instead of a mess.”
“Please,” she whispered.
He held his place, not wanting to frighten
her, yet holding her captive with the force of his gaze. “Those
girls do not have your grace or generosity. They don’t come within
a mile of having your spirit. You, a girl acting as a servant in my
home, are the lady that she is not. Your good birth has been
apparent since we met and has shone through more every day since. I
want to know. It’s time you explained. Who are you? What were you
doing alone in the British Museum with your portmanteau?”
She held utterly still, tense and on the
verge of bolting. He cursed himself for pushing too hard—but then
she relaxed. Looking away, she answered.
“Running,” she said.
“From what?”
“Marriage.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yet you just felt
comfortable enough pushing me in that direction.” Was every female
born with that compulsion?
“It’s not the same!” she protested. “You can
choose anyone you like. Miss Ashburn might be unpleasant, but
surely there are worthy women in Society.”
“There are no women like you.” Words
unbidden, yet no less true.
But she didn’t take it as the compliment he
intended. Bitterness tinged her short laugh. “Yes, so I have
repeatedly heard.” She whirled away. “And it’s not true! I might have been out last year or this. I might have been in
Society. You might have been introduced to me here, during the
fashionable hour, or perhaps even at tomorrow’s garden party.”
The thought arrested him. He imagined her
smiling, dancing, chatting. He pictured her in a soft, filmy gown,
her hair elaborate and soft arms and rich décolletage exposed to
his eye—and that of every other useless ton dandy’s too. His
blood, already simmering, surged to a sudden, insistent flood, even
as his mind protested.
“Tell me,” he insisted.
She let her head rest against the rough bark
of a tree.
“Cattle,” she said.
She’d managed to surprise him. “What?”
“Cattle. Do you remember when you wondered
why I did not take Aurelia to Green Park? It’s because the
guidebooks say they keep milk cows there. And right now, I find
them to be a distasteful reminder.”
“Of what?” he asked, mystified.
“Of my misery.” She sighed. “Let me tell it
properly, if you please.”
“I do.” He waved. “Please.”
“Two years ago, I was nearly eighteen and
looking forward to my first Season, when my father died.”
“I’m sorry.” He waited a moment before
prompting, “His heir?”
“My brother, William. Willie. He was five at
the time.”
“Ah.” All of their conversations rolled
through his head. “So you took on . . . what? Everything?”
“I already ran the household in my mother’s
stead. I took over the home farm and the stables. We hired a land
agent to help
Janwillem van de Wetering