His eyes were aimed at her mouth, and she couldn’t quell her physical response. Her nipples throbbed, her pussy dampening. His hypnotic gaze sucked her back into the night of passion, the joy of her own surrender…
“The oatcakes are ready!”
Mrs. Ellerby’s voice slapped Bea back to her senses.
“Move back, you oaf.” She shoved at him.
This time, he stepped back. “It would be rude to make our hostess wait.” His eyes gleaming, he swept her an elegant bow. “We’ll continue our negotiations at a later time, angel.”
“We’re not continuing anything,” she said in a furious whisper. “Stay away from me.”
She marched off, praying he didn’t see her shaken state.
8
When Bea arrivedat the fields the next morning, the farmers were at work collecting the sun-cured hay. The sky was a bright blue canopy as she rode her mare, Zeus loping along by her side. It was a day that exemplified the proverb, “Make hay while the sun shines.”
Bea had always enjoyed taking part in the communal harvest, and today, more than ever, she needed a distraction. Needed to get her mind off that blasted Wickham Murray.
It’s just a scar. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re a singularly beautiful woman.
She told herself that he couldn’t have meant those words. He was glib, a man who knew how to charm and get what he wanted. At the same time, she’d come to the grudging conclusion that his proposal hadn’t been prompted by mercenary reasons.
His affront had been genuine when she’d accused him of wanting to marry her for her land. Moreover, a confirmed bachelor like Murray would probably sell his soul rather than give up his freedom. With his negotiation skills, he had to believe that there were easier, and less permanent, ways of achieving his goals.
That left his honor as the motivating factor for his offer.
As much as it pained her to admit it, her interactions with him thus far supported that he was, indeed, a gentleman. He’d intervened at the masquerade when she’d been accosted. His manners toward her and her friends had been annoyingly faultless: Fancy, Mrs. Ellerby, and even little Janey had seemed to fall under his spell. In contrast to his amicability, Beatrice felt like an ill-tempered shrew.
How else was she to behave? Her grip tightened on the reins. She couldn’t let his compliments or her dashed attraction to him distort reality. And the reality was this: she’d lost Croydon because of the scar. Her parents and her brother soon thereafter. Her entire life as she knew it had disappeared the instant her horse had sliced open her face.
She’d learned her lesson: if beauty was a broken promise, then love was an outright lie.
Now she had a new life, one she’d built for herself that had purpose and meaning. She wouldn’t let any man—no matter how courteous, handsome, and attractive he was—take it away from her. She wouldn’t open herself up again to pain.
With proficiency borne of practice, she shut out the troubling thoughts, returning her attention to the surrounding fields. Haymaking was a laborious task. Earlier this week, the men had cut the grasses, spreading them out to dry and raking once more to ensure even curing. Now they were collecting the hay, using pitchforks to pile the stuff onto horse-drawn carts. It would take two full days of work to stack and store the fodder in the barn, ensuring the livestock had feed for the winter months.
Arriving at the refreshment tent her servants had set up earlier, Bea dismounted, leaving her mare to graze. Zeus followed her to the tent. Beneath the striped awning that provided shade from the sun, Mrs. Ellerby and her fellow farmwives were organizing the food and drink.
“Good morning to you, Miss Brown.” Mrs. Ellerby bobbed a curtsy, as did the other women.
“Hello, ladies.” Eyeing the trays of sandwiches, Bea asked worriedly, “Do you think there’s enough? Shall I send for more?”
“There’s plenty, miss,” Mrs. Haller said, smiling. “Enough to feed an army, I’m sure.”
When Sarah Haller had first come to Camden Manor, she’d been starved and desperate, a former prostitute with no means of feeding herself or her bastard child. Now her blonde curls were shining, her blue eyes bright, and she had the wholesome prettiness of a doll. She also had one hand resting on her aproned belly, and Mrs. Ellerby was right: itwasdifficult to tell whether the Hallers might be expecting a new bundle of joy.
Mrs. Ellerby snorted, setting out a platter of cheese and cold mutton. “You best beware feeding the men too much o’ this fine food, miss. After a meal like this, they’ll be wanting a nap.”
“One couldn’t blame them.” Looking out into the fields, Bea saw the groups of men, the powerful and tireless arcs of their pitchforks sending hay soaring into the carts. “It must be hard toiling in the sun.”
“Toiling, my arse. They’re amusing ’emselves with a game.”
This came from Mrs. Gable, another of the wives. Beneath her cap, her ginger curls poked out haphazardly, curls that she’d given to her son Billy who was pouring lemonade into tin cups under her watch. He did so with meticulous care, filling each cup with the precise amount, his attention fixed on the task.
At twelve, Billy had yet to speak a word and avoided looking people in the eyes. Bea had the sense that he lived in his own world, marching to the beat of his own unique drum. Mrs. Gable had confided that, in the prior village they’d lived in, the boy had been mercilessly bullied for being different. To her and her husband’s relief, the residents of Camden Manor were far more accepting of Billy’s oddities, and she’d been bringing him more and more to public functions.
Bea thought this was good for the lad. Today he did not reply to her soft greeting, but he did cast her a quick, side-long glance. Knowing what an improvement that acknowledgement was, she gave him a warm smile of encouragement.
