Page 67 of Make Mine a Marquess

Sarah handed him a bucket of nails and a weathered box full of tools. “These were left behind by my husband.”

“He died?” Phoebe asked, drawing attention to herself.

“No. He left.” Sarah’s voice was flat.

Landon glimpsed inside the bucket. “These will do just fine.”

“And the fireplace grate?” Sarah asked. “We’re afraid to light the brazier for fear it will fall and injure one of us.”

A frown marred his handsome face. “I checked and the grate is worn and won’t stand. I don’t have the necessary tools to fix it. I’ll arrange for the village blacksmith to make the repair and bring it when I return.”

He turned his attention to the loose door. “This, I can fix.”

“I’ll leave you to it then.” Sarah entered the house.

Phoebe’s heart did a little leap, and she clutched her skirts. He intended to return? As she watched, his brow furrowed, and he seemed to check off a list in his mind. Phoebe had planned to see to the women’s needs and fully expected the marquess would be in the way. How wrong she’d been.

Using the screwdriver, he removed the screws from both door hinges.

She watched him as he worked. “How can I help?”

He never looked up. “The hinges are bent. It’s dirty work.”

“You don’t seem to mind.” Once again, she eyed his sullied shirt and trousers. He must have dirtied them checking the fireplace grate. “Tell me what to do.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Hold the screws and the hinges as I remove them. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to hammer the hinges without needing the services of a blacksmith. We already require his services for the grate.”

He began to remove the hinges with the screwdriver and, one by one, handed her the screws. Dressed in his shirtsleeves, his shoulder muscles bunched as he reached up to loosen the top hinge. After loosening both hinges, he removed the front door, carried it outside, and placed it on two blocks of wood he’d found in the yard. She followed.

“Now let’s see if I can hammer the kinks out of these hinges.” Holding a hinge with pliers, he began to hammer the iron.

The afternoon summer sun was warm, and he was sweating, the hair at his neck damp and the fine linen of his shirt clinging to his broad back. She watched as he worked, fascinated, and handed him tools as needed, speeding up the process.

“Where did you learn how to do these things?” she asked.

He flashed her a smile as he tested one of the hinges. “I was raised unconventionally. My mother sent me to stay with her brother in Lebanon one summer. My uncle had been a saddle maker and talented leather worker. He worked as an apprentice before opening his own shop. He believed I needed to learn to work with my hands, no matter my title. He often scoffed at my English tutors and mocked that they couldn’t sew a button or swing a hammer.”

His uncle was most likely right. She also found his skills attractive. Awareness rushed through her, and her cheeks grew warm as she imagined what else he was good at. He could kiss, for one. She shivered just thinking of his skillful lips.

Stop! She seemed powerless to cease her thoughts. Or her perilous attraction for him.

“It looks good,” he said. “But the true test is yet to come.”

One by one, she handed him the screws and he reattached the hinges. Sunlight glinted off his hair as he worked, and the damp, dark locks curled at the ends. Her fingers twitched with the urge to touch him.

He carried the door up the porch steps, set it in place, then secured it to the frame. Last, he greased the hinges. The door opened and shut perfectly.

Phoebe clapped. “You fixed it!”

He wiped the grease and dirt from his hands on a cloth. His dark eyes lit, and his lips curled in a smile. “Your enthusiasm is all the praise I require. We make a good pair, don’t we?” The warmth in his voice sent her pulse into dangerous territory.

Her heart did a little somersault, and she was momentarily speechless. The truth of the statement resonated in her gut. The statement also had long-term implications. Did he mean for it to sound like that? Or was he simply saying they made a good pair for the day?

Looking into his dark eyes, she couldn’t guess. She could only acknowledge the pang in her heart. And that was the most dangerous emotion of all.

Chapter Eighteen

Rowboats lined the bank of the lake, and a picnic lunch had been set out by footmen al fresco style. Tables and chairs awaited guests to sit, eat, and chat. After a delicious cold luncheon comprised of cold beef, buns, cake, and a variety of seasonal fruits, including rare oranges and pomegranates from the estate’s orangery, some strolled around the lake while others preferred to be ferried on the lake in rowboats. Thoroughly enjoying themselves, the younger gentlemen discarded their jackets and rolled up their shirtsleeves to row the ladies in the boats.