Page 29 of Vanquishing the Viscount

“And what exactly have you been doing?”

“Clearing the hedgerows.”

“Then you must allow me to assist,” he said decisively, shouldering out of his jacket. “It’s no job for a lady.”

A peculiar growl erupted from her throat.

He gazed at her in astonishment, and the sound, accompanied by a flash of her hazel eyes, reminded him she was no milk-and-water miss. She was a young lady of very decided character, with a temper not to be trifled with.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t capable.” He wondered how many more apologies he’d have to make before the day was out. It might be safer if he didn’t speak, at all.

She seemed to remember her manners then, for she said very politely, “I will accompany you to Tresham and present you to my father. But first, could you give me some privacy to put my shoes and stockings back on? I’d prefer not to walk along the lane in bare feet.”

As he turned his back, he thought of offering to put her up on Lawrie. His mind taunted him with the image of a barefoot, bare-headed maiden sitting on his horse, her hair draping her body like the legendary Lady Godiva.

“I’m ready now, my lord.”

He gave up on correcting her formal address and turned around. “Do you wish to ride?” The prospect of placing his hands around that slender waist to lift her up was exceedingly tempting.

“Thank you, no. I’m quite happy to walk.”

To his disappointment, her luxuriant locks had all disappeared inside a bonnet, and she looked quite respectable. Even so, the image of her as a water nymph refused to go away.

Taking hold of Lawrie’s reins, he fell into step beside her, matching her pace easily with his long stride, his mind hunting frantically for a topic of conversation that wouldn’t require him to apologize.

“This road seems well cared for, the fields and boundaries well tended. And I’ve never before seen such superlative hedgerows, so remarkably free of brambles and weeds.”

She laughed at this, as he’d hoped she would.

But the smile didn’t last. She gave him a long, assessing look and asked, “How is Philippa Keane?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I wondered if you’d heard anything of Miss Philippa. If she’d written to you from Brighton?”

“I should say not. I’m not much of a correspondent. I so rarely have the time.”

Her expression became one of suspicion. “So, you’re not corresponding with Miss Philippa?”

“Exactly so.”

“Are you, perhaps, devoting your time to the entertainment of your cousin, Miss Jemima Pitt?”

He stepped around a pothole, brushing accidentally against Emma. She seemed not to notice, intent as she was on her inexplicable line of questioning. He, however, felt the thrill of that brief touch stampede through his body like a herd of buffalo.

He coughed to distract himself. “I don’t devote myself to Jemima, no. Mama sees more of her than I do.” He glanced over at Emma curiously. “Am I somehow falling short of your expectations in not corresponding with, or finding ways of amusing these young females?”

The sway of her next step brought her toward him again, and their elbows touched once more. He groaned softly to himself and hoped that it was not too long a walk to Tresham.

She was clearly in the midst of some internal conflict, for her eyes darted toward him and quickly away again, and her breast rose and fell with her rapid breathing.

He waited patiently, keeping pace with her while his horse walked obediently alongside.

Suddenly, she stopped and turned to face him. “I’m sorry. I just have to say this. You should not lead one lady on while at the same time courting another.”

He came to an abrupt halt, gaped at her, then grasped Lawrie by the bit and stroked the animal’s silky nose, giving himself time to think. Whatever was she talking about?

Thinking didn’t help.