She learned to be stupendously boring with one, bland to the point of invisibility with another. With some she’d talk incessantly. With others, she was silent. Sometimes she became absentminded and easily distracted. Sometimes she persisted in failing to recognize a man she’d met time and again. And more than once she’d led her suitor to another woman.
This last maneuver wanted extreme care and subtlety.
They all did, actually. No matter what technique she used, she must always appear sweetly obliging.
It was uphill work for an attractive, rich girl not to get married and not get caught not getting married.
She ought to be ashamed of herself for deceiving him, but the shame of the truth was many times worse.
“Lizzie and I have made a list of fellows we believe you will find agreeable,” her father said. “In a month’s time, these gentlemen will arrive at Lithby Hall for a fortnight’s stay. Naturally, some of your girl cousins and friends will come as well, to make up the numbers. In this way, you’ll have a better chance to get to know the gentlemen. In turn, spared the distractions of Town, they will have a better chance to win your regard.” He beamed at her.
Lord Lithby’s beams were not confined to a smile but, like the sun’s rays, seemed to radiate from his very being.
Charlotte smiled back. How could she not, when he was so pleased with his terrifying idea?
“If it does not work this time, we shall try again in the hunting season,” he said. “It is not as though we would not be entertaining guests in any event.”
Though he added no “buts,” Charlotte heard one all the same.
He had his heart set on her finding a husband by this method, and whatever he said, he was confident it would succeed the first time. He would be dreadfully disappointed if it didn’t.
It would kill her to disappoint him.
It would kill her to do as he wished.
“I am sure it will work, Papa,” she said. “Of course I trust your judgment completely.”
“There’s a good girl.” He patted her shoulder.
That settled, and sublimely unaware of the bomb he’d set off inside her, he went on to other topics: something about the adjoining property…Chancery suit settled with miraculous speed…but Lord Hargate always…his sons…Carsington’s paper on salt…foot rot in sheep…
She tried to pay attention but the noise inside her head made it impossible. Her mind bounded from one panicked thought to the next, one unwanted memory to another. She stared at the pig and wished for porcine contentment. She wished for Hyacinth’s utter certainty of her place and function in the world.
Then Lord Lithby set out to talk to his head gamekeeper, and Charlotte went her own way, taking her tumultuous mind with her.
Lord Lithby had been trying to tell his daughter about the property next door and its new occupant, Darius Carsington.
Because Darius made no scandals and Lord Lithby paid little heed to gossip, he did not know—and if he did, probably would not care—that his new neighbor was a rake, impersonal or otherwise. All Lord Lithby cared about was that Lord Hargate’s youngest was a fellow member of the Philosophical Society who had authored several exciting papers on animal behavior and a number of remarkable pamphlets about livestock. Lord Lithby owned every one of these pamphlets. The one on pig farming, in particular, he considered momentous.
Naturally he was delighted to have this brilliant fellow in charge of the derelict property on his western border.
To his daughter Lord Lithby had explained about the Chancery suit and Lord Hargate’s astonishing feat in getting the case settled after a mere ten years. He spoke enthusiastically of Mr. Carsington’s studies of foot rot in sheep and his views regarding salt in livestock diets. He would call upon his new neighbor this day and invite him to dinner, he announced.
His lordship might as well have addressed his remarks to the pig.
Meanwhile, two miles away, Darius—who had as little to do with Fashionable Society as possible and would rather be gutted with a rusty blade than set foot in Almack’s—knew nothing of Lord Lithby’s plans, enthusiasms, or daughter.
Lord Hargate’s aggravating son had arrived late the day before and spent the night at the Unicorn Inn in the market town of Altrincham, not three miles away. Though his mother had insisted on sending servants ahead to make the house, if not ready, at least habitable, Darius intended to ignore it.
Restoring the building was illogical. It would only cost money; it would not bring in any. Staying at the inn was cheaper and easier. He need only pay his bill. He needn’t hire any servants in addition to his valet, Goodbody. He needn’t repair anything. Servants, supplies, and maintenance were the innkeeper’s problem. Furthermore, his land agent, Quested, had his office in Altrincham.
The land was the priority. Thus, first thing this morning, he and the agent had made a tour of the estate.
Matters were more or less as one would expect. With the property in dispute, nothing could be done legally to it or with it for ten years.
Insects, birds, and assorted small animals had invaded many of the outbuildings, which were in varying stages of disrepair. The gardens had reverted to wilderness, the plantings overgrown where the weeds hadn’t strangled them. The wildlife seemed to be flourishing as well, although the vermin population was smaller than he’d expected.
The great surprise was the home farm. This was not the abandoned ruin he’d envisioned. Someone—his father, most likely—must have circumvented the red tape and hired men to look after it.
Nonetheless, when Quested left some hours later, he carried a long list of assignments, mostly having to do with hiring workers.
Letting his brain rest from the weighing, measuring, and calculating, Darius took a walk through the jungle that used to be a landscaped park and made his way along an overgrown path to a stagnant pond. Here, spying dragonflies, he paused.
One of the fellows of the Philosophical Society had written an article on dragonfly courtship that Darius considered fanciful. Insects, except for those troublesome to livestock, were not a particular interest of his. Nonetheless, he spared a passing glance for the dragonflies. Then, as so often happened, curiosity got the better of him.
In a moment he was stretched out on his stomach amid the tall weeds, all his fierce intelligence focused on the fairylike creatures skimming over the water. Intent on trying to distinguish male from female without aid of a spyglass, he was deaf, dumb, and blind to everything else.
A herd of stampeding bulls might have got his attention at this point, if it happened to be an especially large herd.
Which explains why he was so slow to notice.
He was distantly aware of muttering before it finally penetrated his mind. A moment later, he heard a twig snap. He lifted his head and turned that way.
It was a girl, not ten feet away, and when his head came up out of the weeds, she shrieked and leapt straight up off the ground. She stumbled, and her arms flailed like confused windmills as she tried to regain her balance, but the ground was slick there, and she slid, heading straight for the mucky water. He was already on his feet and hurrying toward her while the birds flew up from the trees, their squawking drowning out the insects’ gentle drone.
He got his arms round her middle as she slid downward, but she shrieked again when he touched her and nearly dragged them both into the scummy pond. He yanked her back, and the heel of her half boot hit his shin. In spite of his own boots, he felt it, and had to struggle for balance. He swore.
“Calm down, curse you!” he snapped. “Do you mean to drown us both?”
“Stop squeezing my bosom, you—you—” She pushed at his hands, and they began to slide again, toward the water.
“I am not—”
“Let me go!”
He pulled again, hard, dragging her back toward level ground.
“Let go! Let go!” She squirmed, shoving her elbow into his stomach.
He let go so abruptly that she stumbled.
She flung out her hand and grabbed his arm to keep from falling. “You beast! You did that on purpose!” She bent over, gasping for breath, still clutching his arm.
“You told me to let go,” he said.
She lifted her head then, and he found himself staring into an extraordinary world of blue that was her eyes. Everything else went away while he tried to take it in: the flawless oval face, as perfect as a cameo…the ivory skin brightening to pink along the delicately sculpted bones of her cheeks…the sultry pout of her parted lips.
He watched the endless blue world of her eyes widen, and for a moment he forgot everything: where he was and who he was and what he was. Then he dragged a hand through his hair and wondered if he’d hit his head without realizing.
She looked away quickly, down at her gloved hand clutching his arm. She pulled her hand away, giving him a little shove as she did it.
He could have stepped back a pace, as she clearly wanted, but he held his ground, standing too close. “That will teach me to rescue damsels in distress,” he said.
“You had no business hiding there and jumping out at me, like a—like a…” She put her hand to the tumbling mass of champagne-color hair piled upon her head and frowned. She looked about her. “My hat. Where is my hat? Oh, no.”
Her hat, a silly bit of straw and lace, had tumbled to the water’s edge.
He swallowed a smile and started that way.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” she said, and hurried toward the hat.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.
His long stride easily overtook her nervous little trot, and they both bent and reached for the hat at the same time. Thanks to his longer arms, he captured it first, but as he came up, his head hit hers.
“Ow!” She sprang back, clutching her forehead. Her feet slid out from under her, and down she went, in a swirl of petticoats. She started to scramble up, but not too quickly for him to miss the handsome calf briefly on display.
This time he planted his boots firmly onto the sloping ground, reached down, caught her under the arms, and pulled her upright, then hauled her firmly against him as he backed up the slippery embankment.
Her round backside pressed against his groin. Along with the smell of pond muck he detected a sweeter, distinctively feminine scent. He noticed a tiny spot of mud on the nape of her smooth white neck. He caught himself in the nick of time—half a heartbeat before his tongue could flick out to…groom her?
She stomped her heel on his boot and shoved with her elbow.
He let go. “If you persist in this behavior, I shall be obliged to summon the constable,” he said.
That turned her around sharply. “The constable?”
“I could bring charges against you for trespassing,” he said. “And assault.”
“Tres—
Assault?
You touched my—my—” She gestured at her bosom, which was a fine one and which his hand had encountered during the tussle, perhaps not completely accidentally. “You put hands on me.” Her face was quite rosy now.
“I may have to do it again,” he said, “if you continue to blunder about the place, alarming the wildlife.”
He had not thought her blue eyes could open any wider but they did. “
Blunder about?
”
“I fear you have disturbed the dragonflies during an extremely delicate process,” he said. “They were mating, poor things, and you frightened them out of their wits. You may not be aware of this, but when the male takes fright, his procreative abilities are adversely affected.”
She stared at him. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“Now I understand why none but the hardiest of the livestock remain,” he said. “You must have either frightened them all away or permanently impaired their reproductive functions.”
“Impaired their—I did
not.
I was…” Her gaze fell to the hat he still held. “Give me my hat.”
He turned it in his hands and studied it. “This is the most frivolous hat I’ve ever seen.” Perhaps it was and perhaps it wasn’t. He had no idea. He never noticed women’s clothes except as obstacles to be got out of the way as quickly as possible.
Still, he could see that the thing he held was an absurd bit of froth: a scrap of straw, scraps of lace, ribbons. “What does it do? It cannot keep off the sun or the rain.”
“It’s a
hat,
” she said. “It isn’t supposed to do anything.”
“Then what do you wear it for?”
“For?” she said. “
For?
It’s…It’s…” Her brow knit.
He waited.
She bit her lip and thought hard. “Decoration. Give it back. I must go now.”
“What, no ‘please’?”
The blue eyes flashed up at him. “No,” she said.
“I see I must set the example of manners,” he said.
“Give me my hat.” She reached for it.
He put the nonsensical headwear behind his back. “I am Darius Carsington,” he said. He bowed.
“I don’t care,” she said.
“Beechwood has been turned over to me,” he said.
She turned away. “Never mind. Keep the hat if you want it so much. I’ve others.”
She started to walk away.
That would not do. She was exceedingly pretty. And the breast that had more or less accidentally fallen into his hand was agreeably round.
He followed her. “I collect you live nearby,” he said.
“Apparently I do not live far enough away,” she said.
“This place has been deserted for years,” he said. “Perhaps you were unaware of the recent change.”
“Papa told me. I…forgot.”
“Papa,” he said, and his good humor began to fade. “That would be…?”
“Lord Lithby,” she said tautly. “We came from London yesterday. The stream is our western border. I always used to come here and…But it does not matter.”
No, it didn’t, not anymore.
Her accents, her dress, her manner, all told Darius this was a lady. He had no objections to ladies. Unlike some, he was not drawn exclusively to women of the lower orders. She seemed a trifle slow-witted and appeared to possess no sense of humor whatsoever, but this didn’t signify. Women’s brains or lack thereof had never mattered to him. What he wanted from them had nothing to do with their intellect or sense of humor.