“Still far short of your needs, though, isn’t it?”
He strolled away to help use ropes and pulleys to load the log into a waiting cart. She watched, not caring what others saw. The beauty of their false betrothal was that she was allowed to drink in the sightof his muscular body stretching and applying force like a magnificent animal.
For sanity’s sake she glanced away and saw the grinning woodsmen. They were enjoying the occasion, but there was nothing malicious there. The Bible said that you could judge a tree by the fruit it bears, something she’d always thought sound. In the navy, you could always judge a captain by his ship. Judged by his land, his servants, and his tenants, the Marquess of Rothgar was a good lord.
What of the Marquess of Ashart?
Once the log was on the cart, a long-necked jug of something went the rounds of the sweating gentlemen. Ash drank deep, his head thrown back, his strong neck rippling.
The jug ended with the woodsmen, who took hearty swigs and called, “God bless ye, merry gentlemen at Christmastide!” They took it with them as they climbed up on the cart and traveled off with the log toward the house.
The men began to reclaim clothing. When Ash strolled back to her side, Genova gave up his coat and gloves, and posed the question that concerned her. “Shouldn’t you be at your own estate for Christmas?”
“My grandmother takes care of everything there.”
“That isn’t an answer to my question.”
His look was all marquess. “Your question was impertinent.”
“Tell me anyway.”
He shook his head, looking astonished. Genova wasn’t daunted. In their new world, he wasn’t a marquess. He was a man, no different from the young naval officers who’d been her friends.
“My grandmother thrives on the work. She’d sink into a decline if I interfered.”
“But how did that come about?”
With an air of one humoring a lunatic, he said, “She married my grandfather sixty years ago, Miss Smith. Cheynings has been her life ever since. Grandfatherapparently had little interest in estate management. He was a soldier and courtier. My uncle and father cared nothing for their properties beyond the income they provided.”
“Your grandmother had the raising of her sons. She could have trained them to their tasks.”
“Do you never respect boundaries?”
She didn’t flinch. “Not with friends.”
Something—a frown?—flickered across his face and he looked away. “We’re being armed with weapons and baskets.”
Conscious of having said more than she’d intended, Genova went to pick up one of the baskets. When she turned, Ash was close beside her, a sheathed pruning knife in his hand.
“I don’t know how my uncle was raised,” he said, “but my father was never expected to inherit the title. His career was the army.” After a moment, he added, “I was only eight when my father died. It was as well that my grandmother was skilled at managing my properties.”
But the Dowager Lady Ashart hadn’t raised Ash to supplant her any more than she’d raised her sons to do so.
Genova phrased a careful question. “Does she not tire of the work? She must be Thalia’s age.”
“She thrives on it. What impossible thing are you thinking now, Genova Smith?”
She had to give him the truth. “That it’s time for you to relieve her of her labors.”
She was braced for dismissal, even for anger, but instead he looked away and she heard him say softly, “What if it’s like stealing her breath?”
Her understanding of him shifted deeper, as it had been shifting all afternoon. She wanted to take him in her arms. She wanted to sit and talk about these things until everything was resolved. She wanted…
Lady Arradale cut into her thoughts like a blade through silk. “And now for greenery!”
Genova looked around slightly dazed, even sick, asif she’d been out in the hot sun too long. All the ladies had baskets, all the men had knives. She thought vaguely that armed men could be dangerous.
She couldn’t bear any suggestion of danger to Ash. If she could, she’d wrap him in flannel and never let him take a risk again. She was mad.
