An Arrangement of Sorts (39 page)

Mrs. Jackson must have sensed her discomfort, for she patted her knee and offered a smile.

Moira tried to return it, but found herself unable to do so.

The coach came to a halt and she heard Jackson jump down, then the door was opened. “Beverton House, Miss Dennison.”

She swallowed and allowed him to help her out, then looked up at the house before her. It was, without a doubt, the most majestic house she had ever seen. The windows were tall and stately, the entry grand and elegant, and the overall effect the imposing edifice had on the eyes and the mind was really quite stirring. It was a glorious masterpiece of a building, though it was a good deal older in appearance than she had expected it to be. It was in need of repair, which she could see was in process, but it was warm and welcoming nonetheless. And the grounds were absolutely breathtaking. The house sat amongst some of the finest hills and valleys and beauty of nature that Moira had ever seen.

Though she was delighted to have arrived, she hesitated, unbearably ill at ease. “Wait here for me, will you, Jackson?” she asked in a small voice.

“Of course, Miss Dennison,” he said with a bow.

She nodded, then walked the last few meters to the stairs that led to what had to be the largest door she had ever seen. It could very well have been a drawbridge, for all she knew. How appropriate, for she was suddenly feeling as though a dragon and a moat of lava would make her more comfortable.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward and rapped the knocker on the door, then shuffled backwards quickly and waited.

She shifted around anxiously, glancing behind her at the Jacksons, who smiled cheerfully at her. With a loud creek, the door opened, and a middle aged butler with a pleasant face and a very full head of graying hair appeared.

“Yes?” he asked with a kind smile. “Can I help you?”

“I am Miss Moira Dennison,” she said, feeling slightly more encouraged by his gentle manner. “I was hoping to speak with the earl, if he is at home.”

His eyes twinkled just a touch, though his expression never altered. “Are you acquainted with the earl, Miss Dennison?”

She nodded, though she would rather have laughed out loud. “Yes, I am. We are… that is to say… he and I…”

The butler flicked a smile at her. “It is none of my business at any rate, Miss Dennison. I am Rosemont, the butler, and I run the household here at Beverton House. The earl is, unfortunately, out on business at the moment, but we do expect him in the near future. Would you like to come in and wait for him?”

Wait? Moira would rather do anything in the world but wait any longer. She sighed in frustration and looked up at the sky, then around at the grounds, and finally back to him. “No, thank you, Rosemont. I should rather go for a walk. It has been a rather tiresome ride in that coach, and I feel the need to stretch my legs, if I may.”

He nodded, his smile having been retracted, but not from his eyes. “Of course, Miss Dennison. If you walk directly down that path there,” he said, leaning out a bit and pointing, “you will find some very pretty trails leading to the village. The earl has been taking quite a good deal of care to assist his tenants with repairs and the like, and he walks this way very often.”

A fond smile formed on her lips as she imagined him doing so. Of course, he did. It was so like him. What a fine earl he must make. She turned back to the butler, who was now watching her. “Your master is quite the best of men, is he not, Rosemont?”

“Quite, Miss Dennison.”

She smiled at him and his frank reply. “I think I like you very much, Rosemont.”

“Thank you, Miss Dennison.”

She turned and walked back down the stairs and began on the path Rosemont had indicated, removing her bonnet and holding it by the ribbons as she walked, swinging it absently. She took a deep, cleansing breath of the fresh air, and exulted in the peace it brought to her mind and heart. If she had it her way, this would soon be her home, and she, too, could go walking down these paths and revel in the glory of nature as it presented itself in this piece of the world.

There were simply too many hours in the day.

Nathan rode Galahad hard through the countryside, heading back towards the village from a neighboring estate, where he had been conferring with other landowners in the area about ways to improve their farming estates. It was a necessary meeting, but it took far too long, and he had little enough to say about the subject. He cared about his tenants and those who worked his lands, but he did not want to spend an entire day with a bunch of puffed up, spoiled men who didn’t even know their tenants, let alone really care what they could do to improve the way things were done. The only man of sense among the group was the Viscount Blackmoor, and he was not a particularly loquacious man. Nathan had met the man’s eyes more than once, and knew immediately he felt the same about the situation.

He had escaped the moment he could, thinking that surely it was nearly dark, but it had not been. It was only mid-afternoon. He shouldn’t have been surprised. With only his friends for company and working with his tenants for distraction, each day back in Hampshire had been as long as a month. His nights were equally as painful, and far less pleasantly spent. Days had distractions. Nights had memories.

He urged Galahad on faster, growling in the back of his throat as he attempted to shove away the alluring image of Moira as it flitted into his mind. He would never be able to move on if he was going to sabotage himself in this matter. He needed to stop, needed to push her out of thought and feeling, if he ever wanted to regain clarity of self again.

But he didn’t want to let her go.

He saw his friends up ahead, working with some of the tenants to repair another cottage and chop wood for a widow who lived in it. Manual labor, that would drive this madness from his mind.

“Well, if it isn’t his mighty earlship!” Geoff called out as he approached, setting his saw aside and wiping his brow with a rolled sleeve.

“How did the meeting go?” Duncan asked, sitting on the ground next to the bucket of water they used for drinking.

Nathan only rolled his eyes and dismounted, yanking at his cravat.

“I know that look,” Derek said with a laugh as he came over, carrying a rail on his shoulder with one of the older sons of the Widow Martin, whose house they were fixing. “Nathan needs an axe and some wood and a good deal of space.”

Nathan tossed his cravat aside, stripped off his coat and his waistcoat, and took the axe Colin handed him, rolling his sleeves as he did so. “I didn’t know my expressions were so eloquent, Derek,” he grunted, as he headed for the pile of logs waiting to be cut.

“They’re not. But you forget that I know landowners, and know the inanity of large groups of them.” Derek grinned. “Wasn’t Blackmoor there?”

“Of course, but
…
”

“But getting that man to speak is rather like asking a pig to quack,” Colin overrode, his brows snapping together in a rather un-Colin-like manner.

“You know him?” Geoff asked, standing and shouldering his saw again.

“Vaguely, but Kit does, and likes him very much.” Colin shrugged, and the cloudy expression passed. “My twin has impeccable taste in people.”

“Are you going to stand around talking about Blackmoor, or are you going to work?” Nathan muttered as he began splitting logs.

Colin grinned. “Says the man who spent an entire week on a whirlwind romantic trip, then got his brother engaged in London, and has hardly done anything remotely resembling work in weeks.”

Nathan stopped and glared at him, but Colin only laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “I will just go see if Widow Martin wants me to clear out her chicken coop, then,” he said, backing away.

“Wise notion, Mr. Gerrard,” Nathan growled. Then he turned to the youngest son of Mrs. Martin. “Tommy, would you take Galahad back to my stables, please? And have Parker show you the new foals while you are there.”

The boy nodded and raced off, practically dragging the horse along behind him.

Nathan almost smiled, but went back to his logs instead as his friends scattered with the rest of the men to various parts of the yard. Some climbed on the roof to patch it, some worked a two-man saw, and some mended the pens for the animals. All were suddenly busy and talkative and laughing with each other, but they blessedly left Nathan alone.

At the moment, he didn’t want to see or speak with anyone, let alone pretend that all was well with him.

It could not have been more wrong.

The warm sun of the day beat down upon him mercilessly as he worked, splitting log after log, until there was quite a decent sized stack of wood next to him. But he kept going, loving the feeling of power from something so raw and primitive as physical exertion. He swung his axe again, releasing the slightest hum of pride as the log split cleanly.

He grabbed another, wiping at his perspiring brow with his sleeve. His shirt was starting to dampen in various places, and he enjoyed the sensation. It was proof of his strength and hard work, and it felt good. The fine linen of his dress shirt was not ideal for this, but he didn’t care. It was just a testament as to the type of earl he was; one who dressed as nobility, but would rather split logs instead.

He would have given anything to be a common man, to marry whomever he chose whenever he chose without having to answer to anybody. He swung the axe again, grunting in annoyance as it split the log unevenly. He shoved the smaller piece aside and adjusted the log again.

Moira and her husband were no doubt enjoying their new life as married persons. He hoped the git was treating her like the queen she was. He hoped she was happy with her life. He hoped he never had to see her again. That wasn’t true; he hoped he never had to see her with
him
again.

The axe swung down again as a barbaric cry was torn from his throat, and the log split so powerfully that both parts shot from the block off into opposite directions.

Nathan sighed with irritation at himself and set the axe down, then retrieved the stray pieces of wood. He needed to at least attempt to be calm and contained. Raging about something he had no control over was hardly going to help the situation at all.

He set the logs in the pile, and took up one more. He prepared to swing the axe, but halted as a sudden, all-too familiar scent drifted by. He closed his eyes and groaned. Why was she forever invading his senses? He was trying to move on, damn her! “Get out, woman,” he growled, hefting the axe again.

He swung the axe down with another savage cry and grunted in satisfaction at the precise splitting. He did another four pieces with equal force and precision, then set the axe aside, chest heaving a bit, now perspiring more than ever. He picked up the pieces and set them into the pile, then examined his work for a moment, hands on his hips. It was a fine afternoon’s work, but he wanted to do more. He needed more. He wiped his sleeve over his brow again and turned to pick up the axe another time.

But as he turned, a sight met his eyes that, even in his wildest daydreams and most desperate nightmares, he could not have conjured up.

Moira stood there, her new grey coat that he had picked out fastened over the blue dress he had seen in Madame Guilford’s shop, the one he had instantly known would match her eyes. They suited her far better than even he had ever imagined. Her bonnet was in hand, leaving that beautiful hair of hers uncovered and, as always, threatening to tumble completely out of its holdings.

Her expression was one of shock, interest, hurt, and dare he say hope? Her eyes, wide and amazed, were trained on him, but they darted to varying bits of his person, taking in the entire, disheveled state of him. He couldn’t breathe as she stared at him, and his tongue felt as though it was swollen to three times its size.

Gradually, he realized that there was no sound about them at all. The men that had previously been so apt to chatter and laugh as they worked were now unnaturally silent. Part of his mind, a very small part, wanted to turn and see their expressions. But while she was here, staring at him like that, he would look nowhere else.

He could not.