Heat rippled through her body,
right down to her toes, warming her all over despite the cool air. It happened
whenever she thought about Holt, about his kiss and the way he'd touched her.
She knew she should push thoughts of him aside, knew that thinking about him in
her bed would only lead to yet another mistake.
But it was impossible to ignore
him. He was like the taste of an orange—the sweetness lingered long after the
last bite. Running errands and chatting to friends was the only way to keep
thoughts of him at bay.
In the chandler's shop, she purchased
her candles on credit. "We know you'll pay." Anne Lane, the
chandler's wife, handed the box packed with a mixture of wax and tallow candles
to Bessie.
"In the meantime..."
Susanna pulled out a jar of orange marmalade from the basket over Bessie's arm.
"Oh, delicious!" Anne
cried, accepting it. "I hear you got some help over at Stoneleigh finally."
A gleam danced in her soft brown eyes. She pushed aside a box she'd been
packing candles into and leaned on the counter top. Her crossed arms propped up
her large bosom. "Quite handsome help too."
"I suppose so," Susanna
said, trying to control the heat rising to her face. "If you like dimples
and boyish looks."
Anne chuckled. "Oh, I like
'em. So does every silly creature in the village. He and that other stranger,
Mr. Monk, are all they talk about. Mind you, if the girls had to pick a
favorite, I'd put your Mr. Holt ahead. That other fellow's not as amiable, so
they say."
"He's not
my
Mr.
Holt," Susanna said, pretending to be interested in a brass lamp hanging
from the ceiling beam above her head. It dangled there among several others for
sale, near enough to touch and inspect but not to bang one's head on.
The chandler's wife chuckled and
returned to her task of packing the boxes. Susanna didn't mind her light
teasing. Anne might have grown-up children of her own, but she'd been a flirt
herself when she was younger apparently. She'd been a kind friend to Susanna's
mother, as had most of the village women, and that friendship had naturally
extended to Susanna. Her mother had always stopped to chat to the shopkeepers'
and farmers' wives when she could. As with Susanna, they had been her only
friends in the parish, and Farley hadn't minded his wife and daughter
socializing with them. Indeed, he had many friends among the Sutton Grange inhabitants
himself.
Phillip, however, had tried to
end her friendships. The village women were beneath the wife of a country gentleman,
he said. When she asked him who she was supposed to have for companionship he
offered up Margaret Cowdrey. The Cowdreys weren't as gently born as the Lyndens
and Farleys, but Phillip tolerated their friendship since the Cowdreys had become
richer than both families in recent years.
Susanna had not ended her
friendships, but it had been the cause of many arguments between her and
Phillip. Arguments and, once, a slap. It had been that slap across her cheek
that ended any lingering affection she'd harbored for her second husband. With
that slap, he'd become just like her first husband and that marriage was not
one she liked to think about. Ever.
But Phillip was gone and Susanna
was a widow. She intended to take full advantage of her status this time and enjoy
the relative freedom that came with it.
"What do you know of Mr.
Monk?" Bessie asked, resting her basket on the counter.
"I haven't seen him, but I
believe he's quite the handsome devil too," Anne said.
Bessie giggled. "I mean is
he friendly? Can he be trusted?"
Anne shrugged. "As trusted
as any man can be. Oh good," she said, looking past them and out the
window to the street. "Here comes Mistress Cowdrey. I'm always sure of
getting a sizeable order when she comes in. Pass me that lamp over there, Susanna.
The big one." Susanna lifted the large brass oil lamp onto the counter. Anne
picked up a cloth and began to polish it even though it shone brighter than any
other in the shop.
The door opened and Margaret Cowdrey
paused just inside. "Lady Lynden, I didn't know you were here."
"Mistress Cowdrey," the
chandler's wife said, coming out from behind the counter. "Come in, come
in. Is it still raining? Can I take your cloak and shake it out?"
Margaret waved her aside. "Thank
you but don't trouble yourself, Anne. I'm here for candles."
"Then you've come to the
right place."
Margaret rolled her eyes and
laughed. It was as brittle as the woman herself but not unkind. Her dislike for
Susanna didn't seem to extend to anyone else in the village. "Two dozen,
if you please."
"Wax?"
"Of course." The
Cowdreys did not need to economize and use the cheaper tallow like Susanna.
Tallow stank, which was why she only used it sparingly in larger, airier rooms.
Anne bent to look under the
counter where she stored extra boxes and crates. "We were just discussing
the newcomer up at Sutton Hall. Do you know anything about him?"
Margaret sidled in between
Susanna and the counter, blocking Susanna out. "A newcomer up at the
Hall?"
Anne straightened. "Aye, a
Mr. Monk. You haven't heard about him then?"
"No. The only stranger I
know of is Mr. Holt, your gardener," she said over her shoulder to
Susanna. "How long has this Monk been here?"
"He arrived in the village
on the same day as Mr. Holt."
"Did he? And what's the
nature of his business?"
"No one knows. He asked for directions
to the Hall and went there right away."
Margaret finally turned to
Susanna, as if she'd just given permission for her to join the conversation.
"Lord Lynden hasn't told you anything about him?"
"No," Susanna said.
"He doesn't confide in me."
Margaret took the boxes of
candles Anne handed to her. "How vexing for you."
Susanna was about to ask what she
meant but refrained. No doubt Margaret would say something Susanna didn't want
to hear, something bitter and sharp that was meant to wound. It was why Susanna
avoided her. When they were younger, Margaret had been even crueler, telling
Susanna that her mother loved her orange trees more than she loved her and that
her father was a wastrel who didn't know how to manage his ancient family
lands. She told Susanna her patched-up gowns were ugly, which they were, and
that people only liked her because she was pretty and a Farley.
It had been awful at first.
They'd been so close as little girls. Their mothers had been friends. They'd played
together and swapped doll clothes. But then womanhood arrived and Margaret
turned into a viper toward Susanna. At first she kept her barbs for when they
were alone, but when Susanna returned to Stoneleigh after her first husband
died, Margaret no longer bothered to keep her waspishness to herself. The
entire village knew of her dislike for Susanna and many had offered an
explanation—Susanna was the prettier of the two. She'd protested that Margaret was
not ugly in the least and while all agreed with her, they said it wasn't
enough. Not for Margaret. She was jealous, bitterly so. Susanna finally had to
admit they may be right. She could think of no other reason why such hatred was
directed at her and Margaret refused to discuss it.
"I saw your brother at The
Plough talking to Farmer Digby the other day," Anne said. "I thought
those two didn't get along."
If she was hoping to hear some
gossip from Margaret on the subject, her attempt failed. A shadow darkened
Margaret's brow but quickly cleared, and she simply shrugged in answer.
Anne didn't pursue the topic. She
picked up her cloth and began polishing the lamp again. "Can I get you anything
else, Mistress Cowdrey? This lovely piece just came in. The pattern in the
brass here is pretty and the style elegant."
"It
is
lovely, thank
you," Margaret said, hardly looking at it. "I'll take it." She
turned to Susanna. "May I walk out with you?"
She was so surprised, it took Susanna
a moment to gather her wits. "Of course." They waited until Anne finished
packing the lantern in a box then left together.
Out the front, Bessie climbed
into the cart and set the basket at her feet. Margaret pulled Susanna a little
aside out of earshot.
"My brother returned home in
a state earlier," she said. "Had he been to see you?" Her eyes,
already slanted because of the tightness of her hairstyle beneath her hat,
narrowed further. Her mouth was a mere slit.
"Did he say he had?" Susanna
was not going to make it easy for her.
"No, but you are the only
one who upsets him so."
"It wasn't intentional, I
assure you."
"He's infatuated with
you," she spat, as if the very notion disgusted her. "Until he comes
to his senses I think it wise if you avoid him. Please," Margaret added
quietly. "I don't ask much of you, Susanna, but I am asking this. It's
important."
It must be if she was pleading. She
had never asked anything of Susanna and certainly never begged. "Of
course," Susanna said. "But I cannot stop him from coming to see
me." Although she wished she could. Walter's visits always produced a stab
of guilt in her chest. Every time she refused him, it twisted deeper. All she
wanted was for him to leave her alone and treat her like a neighbor, not a
potential wife.
Margaret said nothing. Her gaze
skipped past Susanna to a point behind her. Susanna turned and saw what had
taken her interest. Two strangers rode up to The Plough Inn on the opposite
side of the street. One sported a portly belly and wore green livery. He was
dark in appearance but whether from too much sun or an exotic heritage, it was
difficult to tell. The other man was clearly a gentleman. He was slender
compared to his servant and wore a crimson cap with a peacock plume shooting
from the crown. The colorful eye at the top of the feather bobbed back and
forth as the gentleman pulled his horse to a stop. The servant dismounted
effortlessly despite his size, and his master bent to say something to him.
When the gentleman straightened, he flipped his cape back, flashing the crimson
lining of the elegant garment.
"More strangers,"
Susanna said. "I wonder why they're all attracted to Sutton Grange
lately."
Margaret stared unblinking at her,
her eyes like deep, still ponds. "Yes. I wonder."
CHAPTER 7
It was late when Orlando returned
to Stoneleigh, and supper had finished. Cook and Bessie were in the scullery
washing pots and Hendricks was helping Farley into bed. Susanna had retreated
to her rooms. Orlando knew because he'd seen light coming from her window and
he thought he saw her face peering out but couldn't be sure.
"It's about time," Cook
said when he entered the scullery. She wiped her hands on her apron and led him
back to the kitchen. "It's been dark for hours. Supper's cold."
"I've had cold suppers
before," Orlando said, pecking her on the cheek. "It's never stopped
me from eating every last crumb."
Cook chuckled and whacked him
lightly on the arm with a trencher before handing it to Bessie who'd followed
them from the scullery.
Bessie forked slices of mutton
onto it from a pot warming on the hearth. "We've been worried about you."
"Worried about me?" He
laughed. "That's new."
"You never had anyone worry
about you before?" Cook asked.
He thought about it. "My
mother used to. She said I ought to keep my mouth shut more and do as I was
told." Hughe and the others worried too of course, but only rarely and
they never admitted it. They never fretted if he didn’t return one night, but
they would search for him if he failed to show at a designated meeting time and
that in itself was a comfort.
"Seems her advice
worked," Cook said, piling peas on his plate beside the mutton. "You
always do as the mistress tells you."
"That's because she's a fair
mistress." And ravishing and because he needed to work at Stoneleigh so he
could investigate her. He took the trencher and sat down to eat.
"Aye, she is fair, but I'll
warn you she's in a bit of a state tonight. Don't be surprised if she's harsh
with you."
"Harsh with me? Why?"
"Because she was worried
about you, fool." Cook chuckled and replaced the lid on the pot.
"She was?" Well, well.
Could she possibly be thinking of him as much as he was thinking of her?
But his thoughts bent toward the
carnal, not the emotional. The only reason he thought about Susanna was because
he wanted to bed her, and once he'd done that, he could focus better on his
job. There were too many distractions where she was concerned, and it was time
to put a stop to them. Once he scratched that particular itch, the other
thoughts that plagued him would go away.
He intended to scratch it
tonight.
"We were all worried,"
Bessie added. "Don't stay out so late next time without telling us."
"Yes, ma'am."
Cook grunted and pointed a wooden
spoon at him but then she broke into a smile. "Ah, you're the devil you
are, with those dimples and blue eyes. I swear you just have to twinkle them at
me and I'll believe everything you say. No wonder the girls in the village are
all a-flutter over you."
"They are? I hadn't
noticed."
"Course you haven't."
"Where were you today anyway?"
Bessie asked.
"I went for a walk," he
said.
"All afternoon and into the
dark?"
"I got lost."
Both women seemed to accept his
explanation, something for which he was grateful. He didn't like lying to them.
It was akin to lying to his mother and although he'd done it easily enough as a
young lad, after his father died, guilt stung his conscience every time he told
her he was going to practice archery out at Finsbury Fields when instead he visited
a girl or attended the theatre.