Authors: Heather Cullman
Shaking her head again, Sophie leaned over the stone bridge parapet and stared at the stream below, watching as trout after trout broke the surface to feast upon the floating mayflies.
In a matter of moments his lordship had gone from being an ugly, overbearing beast to an exceedingly fascinating man; a man who’d shown himself to have the same feelings, needs, and desires as everyone else. More eye-opening yet was the vulnerability he’d revealed by hiding his damaged cheek every time she looked his way. That he, a man of such vast power and daunting confidence, could be rendered self-conscious by a carelessly uttered insult revealed a sensitivity that was as surprising as it was touching.
It was that startling new view of him that made her long to see him. Somehow she couldn’t quite reconcile herself to the fact that he wasn’t the beast she’d assumed him to be. Indeed, she was convinced that she’d been suffering from some sort of perception-altering malaise last Sunday, and that she had only to see him again to confirm that fact. Unfortunately, she hadn’t seen hide or hair of him since the disaster with Miss Mayhew’s gown.
Cringing at the memory of the episode, she continued on her way.
Never in her life had she experienced such horror as she had when Miss Mayhew dashed from the church in her molting gown. Why, she’d wanted to die right then and there in her embarrassment for the girl. The only thing that saved her from doing so was her relief that her charge had insisted on wearing her queer inflatable “Buoyancy Breeches” and “Water Suspension Waistcoat,” as the viscount called his inventions, instead of the filmy undergarments she’d tried to coax her into donning. Were it not for those waxed sailcloth oddities, the girl would have been left next to naked.
Just remembering the debacle and knowing that it was she who’d caused it was enough to make Sophie long to weep. Though she’d exercised the utmost of care while “popping the crums,” it was apparent that she’d still managed to scorch the seams and thus caused them to split. Talk about feeling wretched!
Indeed, she’d felt so terrible that instead of feigning innocence, or concocting an excuse, or looking for a way to blame another, as was her usual way of dealing with such blunders, she’d chased after Miss Mayhew to confess her guilt and beg forgiveness.
As she’d run down the churchyard path, she’d naturally envisioned the worst sort of responses to her confession: a merciless — but well-deserved — castigation from the marquess, a blistering denouncement from the viscount, and hysterical recriminations from Miss Mayhew. As for Lyndhurst, well, she no longer knew what to expect from him.
Emitting a frustrated noise, Sophie skirted the topiary tableau of Sir George and the dragon, which marked the entrance of the castle maze, and descended the six shallow stairs to the upper grand parterre terrace. At any rate, when she’d finally caught her quarry, she’d witnessed the queerest scene.
The viscount and Miss Mayhew, both of whose faces were inordinately red, stood with their arms in the air, hands palm-to-palm, writhing like hooked worms as they chanted some sort of gibberish. To their left, their expressions almost comical in their bewilderment, where Lyndhurst and his father. As for Reverend Martin, he was slowly backing away, muttering something about heathens. It wasn’t until she’d come to a stop and listened to the Mayhews words that she realized that they prayed to some sort of fishing god. A moment later she understood why.
From what she could determine from their garbled speech, they attributed the destruction of Miss Mayhew’s gown to a fishing god named Aquaticus, certain that it was his punishment for her washing away her sacred angling aroma. By the fervor with which they keened, it was clear that they were terrified of his wrath.
Made all the more wretched by their terror, she’d at once blurted out her confession. As she launched into her apology, her tongue tripping over the words in her haste, the viscount had shaken his head and flatly refused to credit her guilt.
Never once pausing from his writhing, he then went on to explain how Aquaticus would have prevented the seams from being seared had “Mayfly” not desecrated his gift of angling aroma. Since, however, she’d done so by bathing, and in water profaned by forbidden carnation oil no less, the mishap could only be a sign of the mighty fish god’s wrath.
Rendered speechless by his addlepated logic, she’d looked to Lyndhurst and the marquess for help. The former simply shrugged and averted his cheek, while the latter shook his head. Both looked rather amused by the Mayhews display of pagan piety. As for the good reverend, well, he was long gone. No doubt he’d returned to the church to warn what was left of the congregation about the evils of heathenism and deviant worship.
As she’d stood there, glancing between the two parties, uncertain what to do or say, the glossy burgundy and gold Somerville barouche had pulled to a stop before the gate. Babbling something about seeking advice from an Irish salmon, Brumbly had all but tossed his still-chanting daughter into the vehicle. When he’d scrambled in behind her, Lyndhurst and his father sighed in unison and followed suit.
It was then, as Lyndhurst climbed into the carriage, that he met her gaze and said the most cryptic thing, “I shall deal with Mother.” And that was the last time she saw him. Exactly what he’d meant, she didn’t know. All she knew was that by evening her life had began its curious turn. She was just about to ponder that turn when she spied a man hunched over a flower bed several yards away.
Good. Someone to help her with the strawberries. Though she couldn’t tell which of the army of gardeners he was, for his upper body was hidden by a stone pedestal, it was apparent by the abundance of dust streaking his breeches that his position was quite low.
Picking up her skirts, she hurried toward him hollering, “You there, gardener! I need your help.” So what if it was considered vulgar for a lady to shout? She wasn’t a lady at the moment, she was a servant, and servants had no compunction whatsoever about raising their voices to each other.
A second after the words left her mouth, the man reared up and sat back on his heels.
She gasped and skidded to a stop a scant yard from where he sat. Oh, heavens! The man was no gardener, he was Lyndhurst.
And he was just as handsome as she’d imagined on Sunday.
For a beat or two she gaped at him, too stunned to do anything else. Then her wits returned and she looked away, blushing. Ready to melt beneath the searing heat of her embarrassment, she cast her gaze to the ground, desperately praying for it to open up and swallow her. Of course it remained willfully closed. Blast! Now what?
Well, unless she wished him to think her even more ill-bred than he already did, she must apologize for yelling at him. Not quite certain how to begin, she stole a glance at him from beneath her lowered lashes, trying to gauge his mood.
He sat staring at her through narrowed eyes, clearly awaiting either an explanation or an apology. Judging from the harsh set of his lips, he was in no humor to accept, either.
What was left of her composure fled. Though her feet itched to follow suit, she firmly ignored their prompting. Well, what did she expect, anyway? After the wretched way she’d treated him, she had no right to expect, nor did she deserve, anything but his enmity. And enmity was all she’d ever get, unless …
Unless she did something to mend the rift between them. That notion brought her up short. Did she truly wish to right matters between them? She looked at him again.
Her heart skipped a beat. Yes, she did. More than anything in the world. And the first step to doing so was to apologize. Thus resolved, she tendered the first of the hundred or so apologies she owed him. “Please f-forgive me for shouting at you so, my lord. It was a most … uh … improper display for which I humbly apologize. You see, um, I’ve never seen a … a … nobleman grubbing in the dirt before and thought that you were a … ur … g-g-gardener.”
She wanted to die the instant the words left her mouth. If she hadn’t offended him with her hollering, she most certainly had with her apology. Grubbing in the dirt indeed! And as if that rag-mannered slip didn’t reflect badly enough upon her, she’d stammered like a green girl at court. Oh, double blast! Now he could add tongue-tied hussy next to the dozens of other unflattering terms that no doubt preceded her name in his mind.
For what seemed like forever thereafter, a very tense, very miserable forever during which Sophie didn’t dare look at Lyndhurst, no one spoke. Just when she was certain that she’d muddled things past all prayer, he chuckled. At a loss as to what to make of his curious response, Sophie ventured a glance at him.
He nodded and murmured, “Apology accepted, Miss Barton.” The smile that accompanied the words effectively banished all thought, highlighting his faint dimples.
And, oh! What charming dimples they were … even more so than his brother’s more pronounced ones. For unlike Quentin, who clearly understood the power of his dimples and used them with wicked calculation, Lyndhurst displayed his, seemingly unaware of their stunning effect.
And she was most definitely stunned. So much so that she openly gaped at them, enthralled by how very dashing his scar looked bracketing the left one.
As she admired the cheek that had once so repulsed her, his smile faltered, then faded, and he averted his face. She, too, looked away, though what she truly longed to do was cradle that damaged cheek in her palm and tell him what a goose she was to have ever found it ugly. Instead she followed his lead and retreated into silence, doubtful if he’d either welcome or believe her apology.
One eternity passed, then another, and yet another. Still no one spoke. Just when Sophie was about to excuse herself, certain that he wished to be rid of her, he murmured, “So you’ve never seen a nobleman grub in the dirt, you say?”
She felt herself blush at his paraphrasing of her clumsy words. Wondering if he made sport of her slip, she peeked at his face. Though he still tipped his cheek from her view, his expression was one of strained humor, as if he sought to ease their tension with wit and was uncertain if the ploy would succeed.
What he succeeded in doing was touching her heart. That he, the rich-and-mighty Earl of Lyndhurst, was as uncomfortable in her company as she was in his made her chest ache with tenderness. Wanting nothing more at that moment than to reassure him, she laughed and replied, “No, my lord. I haven’t. Do you do it often?” He visibly relaxed. “Every chance I get.” A wide grin. “As you’ve probably ascertained by now, I have a passion for gardening, which, I can assure you, is considered a perfectly lordly pastime among members of the ton. Or haven’t you heard?”
His grin was infectious, and she smiled in response. “How could I not know after listening to the endless boasts of this lord or that about his latest rare tree or flower acquisition? What took me aback was finding you . . She gestured helplessly as she grappled for an elegant way to phrase his decidedly inelegant activity. “Grubbing in the dirt?” he supplied with a chuckle. She flushed, which seemed only to deepen his amusement. “I was going to say working the earth, but yes, grubbing in the dirt shall suffice. None of the gentlemen I know would think of soiling their hands with the actual labor of gardening.”
His smile faded then, and he grew rather sober. Certain that he’d perceived her last remark as a veiled insult, she hastily added, “Not that I see anything wrong with grub — ur, working the earth, mind you.”
He stared at her gravely for several beats, then heaved a sigh. “I’m afraid, my dear, that you’ve stumbled upon the dark Somerville secret … our madness, some call it, and rightly so.”
“Madness?” she squeaked, taken aback by his unexpected disclosure.
“Madness,” he echoed in a funereal tone. “You see, Miss Barrington, every Somerville heir — me, my father, his father before him, and so on down the line — has been born with an insane desire to dig in the dirt and make things grow. My father always says that Somerville blood isn’t blue, but green.”
Sophie returned his solemn gaze for a second, not quite certain how to respond. Then she saw the gleam in his eyes and realized that he teased her. Giggling, as much at her own gullibility as at his jest, she exclaimed, “Such a lot of gammon, my lord. A madness to dig in the dirt. Really!”
His laughter mingled with hers for a moment, then their gazes met, and held, and they both fell silent again, overcome by the unexpected intimacy of the moment.
It was Lyndhurst who looked away first.
Feeling suddenly awkward and flustered, Sophie blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Tell me, Lord Lyndhurst, have you a particular fondness for — ” she glanced at the flowers he’d been tending ” — daisies?” She shifted back to his face only to look back down at the flowers in dismay. Daisies? Oh, heavens! Could it be? Was he a daisy man after all?
Oddly enough, rather than alarm her, as it had before, she found the notion of teasing his bare flesh with one of the delicate yellow and white flowers rather … thrilling.
Thrilling? Oh, dear! Appalled with herself, Sophie tore her gaze from the flowers, and forced herself to look at the statue atop the pedestal next to Lyndhurst.
Her eyes almost popped from their sockets. The statue was of a Greek god; one with a beautifully sculpted physique and a graphically detailed —
Heavens! Wherever was his fig leaf? Utterly shocked, she gaped at his flagrantly brandished endowments, too stunned to look away. When her wits finally returned, she found herself too fascinated to do so. Feeling oddly warm and flushed, she let her gaze rove over the statue’s splendid form, glorying in every detail.