In the Garden of Disgrace (10 page)

“Foolishness?” the earl drawled, rolling off
her and coming into a sitting position. “I’ve reveled in many
things foolish in my life, however, I hardly think these last
moments qualify.” Before she could respond, he said, “I suppose now
that you are mussed you’ll want to return home.”

“Do I look like someone who allows a little
water to ruin her day?” she asked, drawing away from him and
standing. “The way you said that you are accusing me of being
female. Well, I am female, but I’m no spoilsport. I do not intend
to go home until there are enough fish for dinner. You, of course,
are welcome to do as you please.”

“Then I am pleased to remain with you,” the
earl said, his attitude dogged in the face of her rejection. “Two
hooks are better than one.” He sent her an engaging smile, clearly
enjoying his own cleverness.

Jillian, in the midst of retrieving her
fishing pole, tossed him a look of displeasure. “Humph,” was all
she said.

*****

Jillian and Lord Wickham started home
shortly after noon. They carried eight fish, mostly perch and the
one trout, on a makeshift string fashioned from braided strips of
her petticoat, a discreet donation, naturally. Nevertheless, she
knew Auntie Pru would not approve of that resourceful
contribution.

“Are you always this unprepared?” the earl
asked as they turned their horses from the main road and onto the
drive that led to her aunt’s house. “I’d feel ridiculous if my
mates could see me now carrying home fish on a petticoat.”

“I think men worry too much about what other
men think,” she said. “Can’t be caught doing something womanly, oh
no. As a female I have the same problem. Fishing is not feminine so
I shouldn’t fish. And riding astride is simply not done. Well,
those are society’s rules, and society will no longer have anything
to do with me. Why should I bother?”

Lord Wickham shrugged. “Perhaps if you made
an effort they might let you come back.”

Jillian gave him an incredulous look. “Do
you really believe that?”

“Not as things stand, but if we can change
your situation there is a chance.”

She did not get the opportunity to answer as
they had reached the house. She was glad for the reprieve, for she
was not ready to talk about the change his words implied.

Aunt Prudence met them as they
dismounted.

“Jillian, where is your saddle?” she
fretted, wringing her hands. “Lord Wickham, you must forgive her
lack—” she stopped abruptly when she saw them, really saw them.
“What has happened to you two? You look as though you have fallen
into the river.”

The earl took the lead. “Miss Milford, I do
apologize for bringing your niece home in such a disreputable
condition,” he said, patently ignoring the disgruntled look Jillian
shot his way, “but we had an accident as we tried to land this big
fellow here.” He held up the string of fish, indicating the
trout.

“Oh, I see.” Aunt Prudence took in a gulp of
air. “B-but what is that holding the fish? It looks like it has
lace on it.”

This time Jillian did not give the earl a
chance to speak. “That’s just a piece of cloth, nothing to worry
about.”

“But it has lace in it, lace that looks
like…oh, dear me,” her aunt began to wail as she evidently put and
two and two together. She clamped her hand to her bosom. “Jillian,
what am I to do with you?”

“Now, Aunt Pru, Lord Wickham and I needed to
store our catch. I could have used my hat, though I don’t supposed
it would have held many fish. Besides, I’d already used it for the
worms.”

Her aunt stared at her in blank amazement.
She blinked, opened her mouth to speak only to close her it as if
unsure how to proceed. She tried once more.

“Yes…well, I…yes, I see what you mean.” The
effort must have been too much for her, for she gave up and turned
to the earl. “Lord Wickham, do you join us for dinner?” she asked,
all the while darting bemused glances at her niece.

The earl had maintained his composure,
although Jillian knew he was exercising great restraint. Perhaps
she was warned by the way he kept clamping his teeth together and
pursing his lips as though he were near to unleashing a gust of
laughter. He did not meet her gaze which was probably just as well,
as her own sense of the hilarious had begun to overwhelm her.

“I would be honored, ma’am,” he said, his
stoical expression still firmly in place.

“Good, good,” Prudence gushed. “I don’t know
what we have in the way of clean clothing for you, but we will find
something. Let me show you to your room, my lord.” Her aunt linked
arms with Lord Wickham, leading him and the string of fish inside.
At the front door she looked over her shoulder, eyes pleading.
“Jillian, I suggest you clean up as well, my dear.”

As if I didn’t intend to, Jillian thought in
irritation. She came in the house, ignoring the footman and the
housemaid who exchanged looks as she crossed the threshold.

She trudged up the stairs and entered her
bedchamber. Such a strange morning, she thought, as she peeled off
her damp clothing. What could go wrong had gone wrong. She had felt
foolish more than once—more than twice if she were honest. There
was something else she had felt, and her face burned with
mortification.

How could one kiss have had such an effect
on her? After Lord Edgeworth and she were engaged he had kissed
her, though it was usually a chaste little peck and she couldn’t
recall having been particularly moved by the experience. She had
sensed in Lionel a bridled passion, but he had always kept himself
in check, never crossing the line of propriety.

Not Lord Wickham. His desire had erupted
forth this morning, demanding a response from her. And she had
given it to him. It had never occurred to her that just touching
lips could be so beguiling, so intensely erotic. An odd shiver
accosted her when she remembered that moment right before he had
released her mouth. He had wanted her then. She guessed her love of
fishing had not disgusted him as much as she had hoped it might.
She didn’t know whether to be pleased or upset.

Now in her shift and drawers, Jillian was in
the act of ringing for her bath water when a knock sounded at her
door.

“Yes?”

“Jillian?” her aunt called to her.

“Come in.”

Aunt Prudence, puffing, bustled into the
bedchamber. Hannah came right behind her, carrying two buckets of
steaming water. The maid marched straight to the tub, quickly
emptied the buckets then departed the room for more of the
same.

“Were you afraid I did not intend to wash?”
Jillian asked, feeling mistreated. “I was ringing for my bath when
you knocked.”

The older woman ignored the remark as she
folded her arms over her ample middle. “Jillian, dear, we have to
talk. Do you have any idea how you looked just now when you arrived
on the step with Lord Wickham?”

“Aunt Pru, not another one of your lectures,
please. It was an accident, I promise.”

“Be that as it may, there are people
watching your every move. You may think gossip cannot hurt you
anymore but you delude yourself. And what about Simon and his
family? Don’t you think the talk hurts them as well? They live
close by and are privy to all your activities.”

“I cannot live my life for Simon,” Jillian
said, beginning to feel uncomfortable.

“I didn’t mean to suggest you should.”

“I suppose then you will be unhappy when I
say I intend to cook supper.”

“Jillian! I must insist you dress properly
and entertain Lord Wickham in the parlor like the young lady you
are.” The words were severe but by the expression on Pru’s face her
aunt already knew she was defeated.

“I won’t change my routine to suit Lord
Wickham. If he is to like me, he will like me for myself. You know
I enjoy cooking the fish I catch.”

Aunt Prudence merely stared at her, her chin
trembling.

“Oh, all right, if I promise to comport
myself with greater care when I’m in public, will you allow me to
be myself when in private?”

Her aunt nodded, visibly brightening.

“And, Auntie, please leave Lord Wickham to
me. You seem to fear I will scare him away. Have I not made it
clear that is exactly what I’m hoping to do?”

Hannah, arriving with more water, prevented
Prudence from responding. Probably for the best, Jillian thought,
because her aunt looked a bit like that poor trout that lay on the
bank this morning, gasping for air.

*****

In Prudence Milford’s guest bedchamber,
having recently bathed, Adrian tucked in the tail of his shirt. The
clothing he now wore was Simon’s, apparently left from an earlier
time. The trousers were a bit tight. In fact, when he looked in the
mirror he wondered if he were decent. Maybe he should leave his
shirt untucked. He shouldn’t complain, however. At least he was
dry.

His Hessians were still wet, though. The
only footwear Miss Milford had been able to find was a pair of old
boots donated by the gardener. So far he had been unable to force
himself to put on the smelly things. That made him doubly glad for
Simon’s old clothes despite the snug trousers, as he could not
imagine what the gardener would have loaned in that regard.

Did he dare go downstairs barefoot? He
doubted Lady Jillian would stand on ceremony, but her aunt? Miss
Milford was distressed by impropriety. He felt sorry for the older
woman, for he suspected she was subjected to unseemly behavior on a
daily basis. The earl looked at the distasteful boots one more time
and decided to risk the disapproval.

Adrian saw Jillian’s aunt when he reached
the landing at the top of the staircase. Prudence stood at the base
of the stairs in silence, her appalled gaze never wavering from his
feet as he descended. The earl could have sworn his naked
extremities began to tingle as she continued to eye them. When he
reached the last step, she finally looked up in stupefaction.

“Forgive me, Miss Milford,” he said. “The
boots you gave me looked as though they had been fermenting for
some time. I could not bring myself to put them on. I hope you
understand.”

“It doesn’t signify, anyway,” she said,
sounding almost tearful. “Jillian is not any better.”

“What do you mean?”

“Follow me. You’ll see.”

Adrian fell in behind the lady. She led him
past the parlor, past the morning room and to the back of the
house. To his surprise she waved him into the kitchen although she
did not enter with him.

“My niece insisted on entertaining you in
here,” Aunt Prudence said. “If you would like, I’ll bring you a
brandy.”

“Thank you. That would be nice.”

She retreated and the door closed behind
him.

A large wooden table filled the middle of
the kitchen, and Lady Jillian stood at that table, wielding a large
knife. Unless he was mistaken she was cutting off the head of a
fish. A woman he assumed to be the cook tended a kettle that hung
in the fireplace. The air was permeated with the odors of
cooking.

Evidently hearing his entrance, Jillian
glanced up. Though not overtly hostile her welcome was subdued, and
he saw the distrust that crept into her eyes. She took in his
unorthodox appearance, her attention resting on the tight pants—a
little longer than was necessary, he thought. He grinned broadly
when she brought her gaze back to his and she blushed.

“You brother’s clothes are somewhat small
for me,” Adrian said, forcing the subject into the open.

“You are a big man,” she responded.

“Indeed,” he drawled.

The sound of crockery hitting the floor
caused Adrian and Jillian to look at the cook.

“Excuse me,” Cook said, her damp, fleshy
face as red as an overripe tomato. “I-I don’t know what got into
me.” She cast a look of doubt mixed with reproach at the earl as
she reached for a broom.

“What’s the matter with her?” Lady Jillian
asked, clearly baffled by the servant’s attitude. “Pull up a chair,
my lord.”

“As you will, my lady.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, call me Jillian.”

“That’s not what you said earlier today,”
the earl said, sitting down.

“Well, I’m saying it now.”

She ran the back of her hand impatiently
across her forehead, pushing back a lock of hair that had fallen in
her eye. Then she tossed aside the fish she was working on and
reached for another.

“Then you must call me Adrian.”

Jillian looked up, a considering expression
on her face as though she had introduced a topic she now regretted.
She shrugged.

“Why not,” she said. “We’ve fished together
and we shall cook together. If that does not put us on a
Christian-name basis, what does?”

“How about a searing kiss?” he asked in an
undertone.

“Would you be quiet?” she spat.

She sent a nervous glance in the cook’s
direction, but the servant was busy sweeping the floor. Of course,
appearances aside Adrian knew the cook most likely was straining to
hear every word spoken between the two aristocrats in her
kitchen.

“What is it you expect me to cook? I must
warn you I’ve never even boiled water,” he said.

Jillian pursed her lips—soft, sweet-tasting
lips, he remembered. “Let me see then,” she said, pointing the
blood-smeared knife at him, “we’d better not give you anything you
can ruin. Do you think you can peel a potato?”

Adrian chuckled. “You really are serious,
aren’t you?”

“Naturally. You said we should get to know
one another. Well,” she said, holding her hands apart as she
indicated the kitchen, “this is part of who I am.”

He did not miss the challenge in her words.
Nor did he miss the insecurity that lurked beneath the poised
surface. What was she trying to tell him? Perhaps, he reasoned, it
was more what she was trying not to tell him.