“Viscount Everdene,” she said, dipping into a curtsey, not a hint of shyness or uncertainty in her face. One had to admire her courage.
“Lady Grace.” Lucien bowed stiffly. “To what do I own this unexpected pleasure? After our encounter by the lakeshore, I hardly expected you to appear on my doorstep.”
A dimple flashed in her cheek. “Actually, I am only here as a chaperone.” She rapped on the side of the coach and three small boys edged out. Garbed in suits of solemn black, they clumped together.
“Avery, Ethan, and Bennet are the ones who have come to see you,” she said, gesturing to each lad in turn. They might have been facing a tribunal, their faces as sober as it was possible to be when one was plagued with a button nose and cowlick.
Avery took a round tin from the Elliot’s footman and stepped forward. The cloth covering it rustled slightly. “My lord, we’re here to apologize for throwing mud at you, and to bring you this. It’s to show how very sorry we are.”
The two youngest Elliots looked appropriately repentant. The eldest—Avery—did not. There was a subtle tilt to his head that made Lucien question his sincerity.
Lucien took the peace offering and peeked beneath the cloth as if expecting to find a rat trap. Instead, he found what appeared to be a rather lumpy pastry.
“Grace says this is penitent pie,” Ethan added. “Full of berries Grace made us pick for hours!”
“You needn’t worry, my lord,” Bennet assured him. “Grace watched us every minute. Even if we wanted to put pebbles in it, we couldn’t have.”
The reassurance should have been more comforting than it actually was. “Thank you,” he said, then muttered sotto voce, “I think.”
“Grace, did we apologize well enough to see the horses?” Bennet asked hopefully, then turned a pleading gaze to Lucien. “She said if we were very sorry, we could visit the horses. I brought this, just in case.” Bennet dug into his coat pocket and produced a lump of sugar with bits of lint clinging to it. He held it out to Lucien with a sticky hand.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Grace said. “We saw a groom working one of your beautiful horses when we drove up. The boys were entranced.”
The trainer in question was Simon’s friend and partner, Jamie McLeod, no doubt. After years in the army and being a prisoner of war, the Scotsman had no more use for company than Lucien did. He never spoke of what happened between his capture and his stunning return from the dead. It remained a mystery. Those years left him with little patience for anything, save the exotic horses he and Simon were determined to breed in England.
Lucien handed the pie to the footman. “Take this to the kitchen with strict orders that no one is allowed to cut into it but me.” This caused Bennet to grin as if given some sort of culinary accolade. The truth: Lucien wasn’t risking someone breaking a tooth—despite the assurances he’d received. He turned back to the lads and gave them the stern look that had sent members of the opposition into full retreat. “Do I have your word as gentlemen that there will be no more flinging of mud, or waylaying travelers?”
“Yes, my lord,” the boys chorused.
“Then you may go to the paddock if your sister allows it. Do not make noise or startle the horse,” he warned sternly.
With a chorus of whoops, the three bolted off.
“So much for not making noise,” he observed with a grimace.
Grace sighed and toyed with the ribbon streamer on her bonnet. “You’d think they’d be exhausted. I made the wee rogues pick the berries themselves, and they groaned the entire time because I would not allow them to eat their harvest.”
A tender, wistful expression softened her face. Lucien took it in, the peach color on her high cheekbones, the freckles dusting her nose. She’d eschewed gloves, he noticed, and there was a purple stain on one knuckle. Berry juice from the pie, he deduced. He had an absurd impulse to raise that hand to his mouth and suck the juice off.
He shook himself inwardly. He wasn’t the kind of man who went about licking young ladies’ hands willy-nilly. Not even those of his former mistress. What the blazes was wrong with him? Taking stern hold of such impulses, he withdrew his handkerchief and offered it to her. “Lady Grace, something seems to have spilled on your hand.”
She looked down. “Oh, bother! The piecrust was leaking on the way here. The jolting of the carriage, you see. I was holding the pan and didn’t want to spoil my gloves, so I stripped them off.”
She dabbed at the mark ineffectually with the linen square, then turned her face away, to hide what she was doing. But Lucien still glimpsed her raising that stain to her lips, her small, pink tongue dampening it before she wiped the juice away.
His throat went dry. He searched for a way to change the subject before the front of his breeches became an embarrassment. To his great relief, Grace turned toward the stables.
“I’d best keep an eye on my brothers so they don’t get into any more mischief,” she said. “I’d hate to see one of them climb up on those remarkable horses you and your brother raise. Perhaps you could keep me company until I can tear them away? Unless, of course, you’re too busy.”
He was. Busy. Always. He made sure of it. He certainly didn’t have time to be chasing after a pack of rambunctious boys who threw mud pies at those unfortunate enough to cross their paths. One shuddered to imagine what they might find to launch at him in the mews.
“I could say I will accompany you to put a damper on any wild schemes,” he said, and they fell into step together. “But…”
“My lord?” she said, looking over at him.
“The truth is, you pique my curiosity. After our disastrous encounter at the lake, most ladies of my acquaintance would either hide any time they saw me or cry ruin.”
“Ruin?” She laughed, and he felt a strange sensation, as if he’d just taken that first drink of superior brandy. He wanted more. “You could hardly ruin me with my three brothers looking on!” she said. “As for hiding…Mama taught me to always face mistakes instead of pretending they don’t exist.”
