A Country Affair (9 page)

"So you had planned to conceal the fact that your name was Payley?"

"Yes, sir," Augustus answered miserably. "But we did not want to do it. My father would have been strongly against it, for he always insisted he had done no wrong, and we were not to be ashamed. But Selina could think of no other way to get me into Cambridge."

With these last words, Augustus glanced back towards the house and spied Selina. "My sister is waving us in to dinner. You will not tell her anything I've said?"

"You have my word."

Although—Richard thought as he slowly unbent and stretched his back—he would rather ask what their father had been accused of. It was hard for him to believe that the man who had produced two such courageous children could have done anything abominable. Payley must have been a remarkable fellow, else his offspring would not have turned out so forthright. And certainly proud, to have insisted upon keeping his name if a scandal had attached to it.

Richard nearly limped into the kitchen where Selina had stoked the fire to a roaring blaze. The table was set with her old silver. It made a curious mixture with the chipped platters containing bacon and cheese, a laborer's meal, and that perfidious cherry wine, which he saw was propped at his place.

The sight of it made Richard want to groan. Loath to appear weak, he bit back an oath as he settled himself down in his chair. It was all he could do to conceal the pain in his lower back from bending over those trees.

Augustus seemed not the least bit affected as he scurried into his seat, all eager for food, but, of course, the boy did this sort of work everyday. Same as Selina, who still managed to look radiant, even though she had been up for hours and had suffered a major disappointment.

Hard work must be good for the digestion, Richard decided as he piled bacon in heaps upon his plate. Good for the complexion, too, as he stared the length of the table at Selina. Her color heightened under his regard, but he did not pull it away. He would be gone soon, and he meant to drink his fill of such a pretty sight.

The truth was he was also loath to leave. Whether curiosity had kept him there or a desire to help or something altogether different, he did not know, but despite his aches and pains, he was not yet ready to go. He ought to be committed to Bedlam, perhaps, but he had found the physical labor spiritually rewarding. He found he enjoyed his bacon even better when it came upon a deprived palate. All his senses in fact seemed to have been heightened by this experience, which would explain his acute awareness of the woman sitting at the foot of the table.

Selina's breast rose and fell more rapidly whenever his gaze was upon her. He admired the generous curves he could detect beneath her modest gown. Her lashes trembled and fell against her high cheekbones. Though Richard knew of several ladies who used this movement as a device to attract men, he somehow knew that she employed it unintentionally. It did not take an experienced man about town to know that she was not used to the attention she deserved.

But, much as she deserved it, for him to give it to her would not be fair. It would be far from right under these troubled circumstances. He had not come under an alias to seduce an innocent maid.

Why, then, was he finding it so hard to refrain from doing so?

Chapter Six

Selina was having difficulty swallowing. It was hard to eat when Mr. Lint was looking at her. She couldn't be certain why he was staring in just that way. He had done so before, but never quite so obviously as now.

She was nearly certain she had washed all the muck off her face, so it couldn't be that. And she dared to hope that his comments earlier in the day, about her breeding and so forth, might rather be the cause. He had made rather pointed remarks about her appearance.

The temptation to blush was almost irresistible. Mr. Lint had none of the mooning airs of a lover, the way Romeo, to her infinite distress, often did. But then, Mr. Lint was nothing at all like Romeo Fancible. He was far too urbane to let his inclinations show.

She had a fleeting wish that he would make them a little more obvious. Then, she took herself to task for indulging in worthless daydreams. She knew nothing at all about Mr. Lint, although he had said something today that had made her prick up her ears. He had referred to himself as a gentleman with an estate.

But, Selina's cautious nature reminded her, he also suggested you might like to marry someone else.

"Augustus—" she would not let the man's scrutiny put her out of countenance any longer—"would you pass Mr. Lint the cheese?" He had completely polished his plate, and there was nothing left on the table but a small hunk of Stilton.

Augustus complied, saying with a wink at Mr. Lint, "He wants us to call him Richard."

Richard. The sound of their visitor's name gave Selina a strange, cosy feeling inside, as if an oven had been lit deep within her bones. Then, abruptly, she recalled her upbringing, and her earlier fears came back to caution her.

"We mustn't presume to be so familiar, however," she said cordially, so as not to sound as if she were dealing him a rebuff. "We've only recently met." She felt the need to remind them all, for in many ways it seemed much longer.

Augustus laughed, and Richard joined him in a private joke.

Taken aback, Selina scolded herself for even thinking of him as Richard.

Augustus explained, "I told Richard you would not like it at all."

"It is not that I do not like it! I only see no reason for abandoning the conventions when one is hardly acquainted."

Richard was laughing at her with his eyes, which caused her to become more discomfited. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and would not be denied.

"There is no reason to call me Richard other than that it would oblige me greatly if you would do so," he said, gazing at her with a gentler light in his eyes.

"But why?"

He lifted one shoulder. "Let us just say that I do not care overmuch for the name Lint."

Selina chuckled at him and stared. She could not tell if he was teasing her or not.

"And you need not fear an equal familiarity on my part, if such a thing would displease you," Richard promised. "I shall always call you Miss Payley, if you prefer." He seemed to be challenging her.

Ruffled, she said, "That would be nonsensical in the highest degree. If you are to be Richard, I must also be Selina." She squared her shoulders when she said this.

A quirk of his lips told her that he was still amused, but he only inclined his head.

"For after all—" she raised her nose in the air—"if one is going to muck about with pigs with one, then one—"

Richard gave a hoot of laughter that was matched by Augustus. Before Selina knew what she was about, she was holding her sides and giggling along with their guffaws. She had not laughed so hard in years—had scarcely laughed at all, in truth, since their father died.

The thought of him now brought back her disappointment of the morning, the blow the Garter's letter had struck her. Was it not wonderful that Richard had been here to give her something to be glad about?

But time was getting on. She couldn't dally over her meal when there was work to be done. She shouldn't really ever dally at all.

She rose reluctantly. Richard would pick out his trees today, however few or many, and be gone.

She felt the smile fading from her face, but she bolstered it so as not to show how dismal this eventuality made her feel. "Shall we conclude our business now?" she asked overly perky.

Richard started up from his chair, then bent and uttered a groan.

"What? What is it?" Selina rushed to help him and, in her concern, placed a hand upon his shoulder.

But he was already laughing at himself. "I'm afraid I'm not accustomed to this sort of exercise. Hunting and riding, yes, but not bending over trees."

"You should not have been pruning our trees." She threw a baleful glance Augustus's way. "That was not your work to do."

"You mustn't blame your brother. It was entirely my idea. You see, I—" Richard broke off as if a thought had crossed his mind. "Yes . . . " he mused aloud, seemingly pleased. "It would be much to my advantage to prolong my stay."

"To do what?" Selina was conscious of a leaping in her chest. She didn't know what he meant, only that he had talked of staying.

"Yes . . . ." Richard turned his head and looked up at her, smiling. A curious gleam was in his eye. His dark hair shone, so close she could almost reach out and touch it.

All at once, Selina realized that her palm was still resting upon his shoulder. She was near enough to touch his hair, his lips, his chiseled face, if she wished.

Clearing her throat—embarrassed in a way far beyond her own experience—Selina made as if to dust off his coat. Then, as she did, she remembered that he had not taken a spill, that instead, she had come around the table to search for his injury.

Feeling jesterish, she took a healthy step backwards, stammering, "I am not sure what you meant, Rich—Mr.—" With an exasperated sigh, she left her sentence unfinished.

"What I meant," he said, politely ignoring her confusion, "was that my purpose in helping Augustus was to learn to prune trees. This plan of mine to start an orchard is quite recent, you understand. I know nothing at all about fruit trees. It would be better—if it would not inconvenience you greatly—if I were to stay and learn from you. Then, I could instruct my own people."

"People? You have people—I mean, servants?" Selina nearly squeaked over the word. Then, realizing what a fool she must sound, she tossed her head. "But, of course."

Sure that Richard would be laughing at her now, she turned away as much to keep from seeing his amusement as to conceal her own delight. "Well . . . ." She feigned to think about it. "No-o-o." She shot him a glance for his reaction, but Richard was sitting in his chair as confidently as before.

"No-o-o," she said again, drawing out that one syllable. "It would not be too great an inconvenience. I suppose you would be willing to lend us a hand about The Grange? By way of recompense for teaching you?"

Richard inclined his head. "Indeed."

"It would be like—" Selina warmed to the topic—"it would be rather like an apprenticeship!"

She nearly giggled at the struck look upon his face.

"Rather like," he said, less cocksure now.

"Then, it is agreed." Selina extended her hand to seal their bargain.

Richard had fully regained his composure now. He stood, and, taking her hand in his, bowed over it, pausing long enough for Selina to wonder if he might kiss it again. Breathlessly, she waited.

But something seemed to make him change his mind. He straightened his back with all trace of amusement gone.

"I had forgotten," he said grimacing, "just how much it hurts to bend."

"Oh!" She covered her mouth. "You needn't bow, you know. I do not require it."

"No, I know you don't." Richard grinned, so she could not take any offense at his next words. "You are a most extraordinary girl."

While this comment flustered her, she recovered sufficiently to agree that it would be best if he did not undertake any more work today. Richard promised to be at The Grange bright and early next morning when he supposed his soreness would be diminished.

Selina watched him depart, her heart all in turmoil, her pulse beating in irregular waves.

He was going to stay. For how long. . . to do what, she did not know, just as she had no idea where he had come from.

All she knew was that he was handsome and charming and amusing and rich. And to top it all off, he was tall!

* * * *

Richard had no trouble drifting off that night in spite of his aches and pains. The country air was good for him. It made his whole body tingle. Or, at least. . . being with Selina did.

So did thinking about her. And if all he did was think, he reasoned he could sleep with a clear conscience, for he had managed to stop himself from kissing her hand.

He slept the sleep of the dead, until a vague noise from downstairs made him turn over in bed. Another sound, and he opened his heavy eyelids. A series of muffled shouts, and he was on his feet. He pulled on his breeches and boots, threw a shirt over his chest and went to investigate.

Someone was making a frightful row in the taproom. As soon as Richard entered it, he spied who it was.

Lucas.
That master of all trades, that bulwark, that prop, who was holding the Payleys up by the Grace of God, was far more than three sheets to the wind. He was staggering and swearing, and looping drunk. He was—to put it like a Colonial—smashed.

Clenching his jaw, Richard approached the wrangling pair—Lucas, who seemed to have forgotten where he was, and poor Mr. Croft, who was protecting his tankards from being tossed about.

"How long has he been like this?" Richard asked, collaring the culprit.

"Too long, sir." Mr. Croft wiped his forehead upon his sleeve, seemingly grateful for the intervention. "I've been trying to get him to leave. I don't want the constable down upon my house.

He bent to shout into Lucas's deaf ears. "Go on home, y’old fool! Ye see what ye've done? Ye've roused m' best customer."

Lucas twisted his neck to give Richard a searching look. "Never seen 'un," he mumbled. "Don' know this 'un."

"Yes, ye do, ye ass." Mr. Croft hunched a shoulder Richard's way. "This here's the swell that's been up t' The Grange, these past two days."

Mr. Croft turned to Richard and spoke in a confidential tone, "You'll forgive me, sir, for speaking o' ye like that, but this'un's such a fool, he don't understand anything else."

"Not at all," Richard said, and indeed, if he had seemed taken aback, it was only because the knowledge that he had spent but two days in Uckfield had surprised him so. It seemed like years.

Not in a negative way, except for his aching back. It was rather that he felt he had known the pair at The Grange for many weeks, so fast had their intimacy grown. He felt he knew them better than he did any gentleman in his London clubs.