Nothing to Commend Her (6 page)

His brows rose, disbelief evident on his face. “You mean you wish for me to escort you on an outing—some sort of—picnic?"

"Although a picnic would be pleasant, I am mostly interested in the estate itself. The people, the crops, and so forth."

Magnus sat back and blinked—confusion, hope, and numerous other emotions swirled around his brain. She wished to be in his company, and after his snipe not a few minutes prior, words he wished he could retrieve, but he'd look more the fool for apologizing now.

"If you'd rather not, I understand,” she said. “Perhaps one of the servants, the head gardener for instance, could show me the grounds. Then you wouldn't be inconvenienced."

"No, I often ride out after breakfast,” he said absently.

She looked up from her barely touched food. “Then you wouldn't mind if I joined you?"

He gave a slight shake of his head. “No, I wouldn't mind."

Her eyes warmed and she smiled wide and bright, that same smile he'd seen so many weeks ago.

"Splendid,” she said. “I shall hurry and change.” She left the dining room while Magnus sat stunned. Could he be misinterpreting her feelings toward him?

He rose with a shake of his head. No, she would not wish for his touch, but perchance they would be able to sustain some sort of companionship after all, which was all he had dared hope for in the beginning.

Minutes later, she appeared in the hall in a simple riding habit, carrying a small satchel. He opened his mouth to inquire about its purpose, but decided to remain silent on the subject. Quizzing her was not the way to begin, and yet he wanted to know everything about her. He cursed himself for not courting her properly, learning about her likes and dislikes, but that was in the past.

He strode out the door behind her and climbed into the saddle. Mr. Skylar assisted her onto her horse and with a nod she fell in beside him as they made their way down the lane. Her gaze was on him, he could feel it, and was thankful she rode along his left side, his scars facing away from her.

She took a deep breath, and said, “It's a lovely day."

He looked at her and nodded, then could not look away. The sunlight danced in her hair tied in a neat bun at the base of her neck, showing streaks of dark amber. Her cheeks pinkened from his stare and he forced himself to look back to the road.

"Please tell me about the estate—unless you wish to ride in silence,” she added quickly.

Taking a steadying breath, he vowed not to look at her as he spoke. She would only distract his thoughts, and then he'd likely say something he'd regret. Like how desperately he wished to kiss her full rosy lips.

He cleared his throat. “It's a rather large estate,” he began, then listed the holdings, the people, the crops, as if he were explaining it all to a new estate manager, which he did not have. He preferred to handle things firsthand without interference. Once he completed his dissertation, he looked over to see her smiling.

"Thank you,” she said softly.

He shrugged, somewhat puzzled as to why she would thank him for his long boring oration, but for whatever reason, she seemed pleased, and that pleased him.

"I'd like to walk for a bit,” she said. “Do you mind?"

"Not at all."

He dismounted and moved to assist her from her horse, but she easily slid down. He tried not to take her actions as a slight, she did seem to be a bit of an independent sort, yet it rankled just the same. He took the reins of their mounts and they began to walk, the horses lumbering along behind them.

She pulled a notebook from her bag and scratched something inside, but he refrained from asking what she was writing. If she wanted to tell him, he had no doubt she would. She voiced her opinions when she liked, he'd had firsthand experience of that at Crittenden's ball. And yet, she'd kept quiet for the majority of their ride and was a bit tentative at breakfast. Perhaps his snipe at her regarding her duties had stolen her tongue. If only he could retract his words, but her question had struck him deeply. Innocent though it was, he knew why she'd asked about her duties. They were not a typical pair in a typical marriage, not even by the
ton's
standards.

She bent to the ground and dug at the dirt.

He moved closer. “Did you lose something?"

"Oh, no. I was just—curious,” she said, her face warming.

"About dirt."

"Um, yes. It's, um, rather dry. We've not had much rain in the area.” She rose, putting her notebook away, and dusted off her hands. “I enjoy gardening and was, um, curious as to the condition of the soil."

"I see,” he said, but in truth did not. The soil in the fields would be vastly different than the enriched soil in the gardens near the house. But so as not to hurt her feelings, he didn't mention it.

They returned to their horses and she allowed him to give her a hand up without recoiling, but he'd noted her shaking. There was no doubt she was still afraid of him, but at least she was attempting to endure his presence. He was grateful for that, and yet hated himself for putting her in such an uncomfortable position in the first place.

He directed them toward one of the crofts, and a family who'd had rough goings. Although the children were afraid of him, Alvin Spry and his wife were congenial.

"Who lives here?” she asked as they came to a stop in the small yard.

"The Sprys.” He dismounted and said, “I'll not be but a moment."

"Might I join you? I'd like to meet the people who work the land."

"I'm afraid Mrs. Spry will not be up to receiving visitors. She has been ill of late. She lost a babe some weeks ago."

"Oh, the poor dear. In that case, I insist.” She turned to slide from her mount and this time he caught her about the waist.

The shock on her face had him pulling back quickly. “You shouldn't jump down like that. You're liable to twist your ankle,” he grumbled.

"I am not fragile, my lord."

He noted the flush of her cheeks and the faint trembling of her hand as she adjusted her spectacles, and sighed. He shouldn't have touched her.

She glanced away and tugged firmly on her gloves, her lips pulled tight. “I am rather—sturdy and have perfectly good ankles."

He wasn't quite sure if the remark was meant to keep him from assisting her again, or merely a bit of female modesty. Although she was not fragile, she was a woman with succulent curves he longed to explore.

"I would never describe you as sturdy,” he said.

"Why not? It is the truth, after all."

"Not my truth."

She lifted her gaze to his and his heart lurched at the hopeful warmth pouring from the depths of her eyes.

Daft.
He had to be if he believed that is what he saw. He spun on his heels and strode toward the cottage before he acted on his imaginings and did the unthinkable.

Like kiss her.

Alvin Spry opened the door before he could knock. The older gentleman's features were worn, but more with worry over his wife than the years of hard work. Magnus noted the children huddled across the small cottage, as far from his as could be. They'd no doubt watched him arrive through the window.

"How is your wife?” Magnus asked without preamble.

"Not much better, your lordship, but I thank you for asking."

Agatha appeared at his elbow. “My wife, Mr. Spry, Lady Leighton."

"Good morning, your ladyship."

Magnus noted her gaze dart around the small cottage. “It's nice to meet you, Mr. Spry. I understand your wife is in poor health."

"Yes, your ladyship. She lost a babe a few weeks past.” The man blinked away the sudden damp from his eyes.

Agatha reached out to clasp Spry by the arm. “I am truly sorry for your loss. If you would allow me, I would like to help."

"Help, your ladyship?"

She glanced up at Magnus and made some sort of decision, he could see it in her eyes.

She jerked off her gloves and crossed into the house, a determined stride in her step. “Help, Mr. Spry. To begin with, this house needs a good scrubbing from top to bottom. And you lot,” she said, grinning at the children easing out of the corner. “You each look to me like you could use a bath."

All four pairs of eyes widened in terror and Agatha giggled. “And directly after, a large slice of cake. No bath, no cake."

"But your ladyship—” Mr. Spry said, his voice barely a squeak.

She clasped her hands together and looked about the room. “Now children, we shall need brushes, rags, and a bucket of soapy water to start with."

Magnus blinked for several seconds before realizing what a unique woman he'd married. She was kind, caring, and considerate. And yet she would never abide his touch.

Forcing his ever present problem from his mind, he signaled at the oldest of the children. “You there."

The boy snapped up straight, fear in his eyes, but determined to not show any sign of weakness in front of his father or siblings.

"Go to the house and tell Cook to send a few maids to assist Lady Leighton,” Magnus ordered.

Agatha spun and looked at him, her gaze searching.

The boy scrambled to the door and Magnus caught him by the arm. “And a large basket of food...including cake,” he added.

A slow grin spread over the lad's face then he darted out the door, his fear gone.

Magnus met Agatha's smile with a small grin.

"Well,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “If you gentlemen will assist us in removing the furniture so we may scrub down the floors, it would be a great help.

"Your lordship, I cannot allow you and Lady Leighton to do such a thing. The children and I'll manage,” Mr. Spry said, hurrying to help one of the boys move a chair to the far corner.

"Nonsense,” Agatha said, and hefted a footstool. “All of us working will have this room cleared in no time."

Magnus choked back his chuckle. “I'm afraid the lady has her mind set, Spry."

"But your lordship—"

He moved to step in Agatha's way and took the footstool from her hands. “However, she will leave the heavy lifting to the men.” She looked up at him as he took the burden, their fingers brushing.

"If you insist, my lord,” she said.

He nodded and turned away with the stool, relieved she'd not flinched in front of the children. He set the stool aside then began removing his coat.

Hands, somewhat tentative, eased his jacket down his arms and he almost leapt away in surprise. His wife's tremulous smile and look of adoration nearly brought him to his knees.

She spun away and went to hang his coat on a peg by the door. The smallest child, not yet five, appeared at his feet, pulling his gaze from his wife's retreating form. He looked down at the tawny haired girl with smudges on her face.

Her little hand lifted up and pointed at his scarred face. “Does it hurt?"

The house fell silent, all movement stopped.

"Gracie,” Spry hissed.

"No, it's all right,” Magnus said, and held up his hand at the father's rush to snatch her back and scold her.

Magnus crouched down at the child's level. “It doesn't hurt now, but it did when it happened."

Her face puckered into a frown. “Your mommy's kisses didn't make it feel better? My mommy's always do."

"No, I'm afraid I don't have a mommy."

"If it hurts again, then maybe her kisses can make it better,” she said, pointing at Agatha, who'd fallen still.

He looked at his wife. “I've no doubt they would."

The moment the words left his mouth, he knew they were the wrong thing to say, for her eyes widened and she blushed bright red, appalled and frightened that he might actually request a kiss from her.

A small dirty hand touched his scarred cheek, and he slowly turned his head, a lump in his throat. No one had touched him, touched his face in years.

"I'm glad it doesn't hurt anymore,” the child said.

Magnus grinned at the child. “So am I,” he choked out, then cleared his throat. “Now, what say we get to work?"

She smiled with a vigorous nod, then skipped across the cottage to help her sister roll up a rug.

He rose to his feet, thankful the room had returned to its hectic bustle, and turned to find Agatha staring at him. The blush gone, her eyes no longer wide but filled with an emotion he could not name.

The maids arrived, breaking the tense connection, leaving him more perplexed by her than ever. He didn't wish to dwell on her reaction, afraid it would feed his hopes far too much, and turned to move more of the furnishings.

With a word here and there, they managed to clear the floor to Agatha's satisfaction. He and Spry were then shooed out the door as the women took over the chore of cleaning the house and its occupants.

Nearly an hour later, Agatha emerged from the cottage with a clean Gracie on her heels. She squatted down and hugged the child and received a peck on the cheek in return. Gracie darted back into the house, and with a bright smile Agatha strolled to her horse.

"I've instructed Mary and Dorcas to stay a while longer, Mr. Spry. They're not to return until everyone is fed and all is set to rights."

"Thank you, your ladyship."

"You're quite welcome, and one of them shall return each day to assist with the children until Mrs. Spry is once again on her feet."

"Oh, but your ladyship, I can't ask you to—"

"Nonsense. Mrs. Spry needs to heal and that cannot possibly be accomplished by worrying over her family's welfare.” She tugged on her gloves and gave Spry a firm look.

"No, your ladyship,” he said with a worried frown.

She smiled softly at the man. “All will be well. I spoke to her, and I believe she is in better spirits now. Just give her some time."

"Thank you, your ladyship. Thank you,” he said, his eyes watery.

She gave the man a pat on the arm and turned to her husband. “Shall we return home, my lord? I have kept you from your business quite long enough, I believe."

He nodded and she stepped closer for him to assist her onto her horse. Taking her by the waist, he paused only a moment before lifting her up onto her horse.

What fool had ever given her the idea she was sturdy? Capable, intelligent...womanly, but never sturdy, and yet still afraid of him, as she trembled beneath his touch.