“Why not?” Murray set his cup down on the refreshment table. “I’ll take a sandwich with me.”
“That’s the spirit. Get the man a sandwich, will you, luv?” Mr. Gable asked his wife. “And another one for me while you’re at it?”
Her gaze aiming upward at her cap, Mrs. Gable went to fetch the food. The others were busy eating and palavering. Bea saw her opening.
“Mr. Smith,” she said in an urgent undertone, “before you go, I should like to—”
“Now, Miss Brown, you heard Ellerby. Hay doesn’t collect itself.” Murray’s eyes gleamed with humor. “I’m sure there will be plenty of time to chat tomorrow night at the ball.”
“Theball?” Her voice rose sharply. “Surely you aren’t going—”
“Who’s not going to the ball?” Mr. Ellerby ambled over.
“Don’t look at me.” Mr. Gable hitched his thick shoulders. “You knowIwouldn’t miss the finest celebration in the county. But seems like Smith ’ere might not be going.”
“Not going?” Ellerby’s rugged features pulled taut, as if the notion of not attending Bea’s party was tantamount to sacrilege. “Smith, Miss Brown’s harvest ball ain’t to be missed. There’ll be food, drink, and dancing…and I’ll be bringing some o’ Ellen’s cider. Finest you’ll e’er taste.”
“Is Mrs. Ellerby’s cider as good as her oatcakes?” Murray inquired.
“It’sbetter.”
“Then I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Good man,” Ellerby said approvingly. “Best be getting back to the fields, then. The hay—”
“Won’t collect itself,” Murray and Gable said simultaneously.
The two men chuckled. They slapped each other on the back, like two schoolboys congratulating each other on a trick well played and headed back toward the fields.
Mystified, Bea watched after them.
I’ll talk to him at the ball, she told herself.Then I’ll settle everything once and for all.
9
The eveningof the harvest ball, Wick was getting ready at his suite at the inn. He’d just stepped into the copper tub when he heard a knock. Assuming it was his valet Barton, he called out, “Come in” as he sank into the hot sudsy water.
Christ, that felt good. He was a fit man, one who excelled at boxing and other gentlemanly sports. But two days of farm work had nearly killed him.
The footsteps on the other side of the dressing screen didn’t sound like Barton’s. Wick saw why when a female stepped around the wooden panel…the maid who’d brought up the water for his bath. She was buxom and seemed to be missing the fichu she’d been wearing earlier. Her breasts were nearly spilling from her neckline.
“May I, er, help you?” he asked.
She held up a tin jug. “Wanted to see if you needed more ’ot water, sir. And if you be wanting me,”—her eyes wandered boldly over his wet chest, lingering at the point where the suds just covered his groin—“to ’elp with your bath?”
The Pig & Whistle had advertised that their lodgings came with “all the conveniences,” but Wick hadn’t expected this particular one. Nor had he any interest in it. He refused the maid’s services, assuaging her pout by telling her to collect a coin from his valet on her way out. When the door closed behind her, he lay his head back against the tub’s edge, his well-used muscles relaxing in the silky water.
There’d been a time in his life when he would have taken the maid up on her offer without thought. In his early twenties, he’d been a shallow, arrogant bastard, one who thought only of himself and his own pleasures. His behavior had been the height of irresponsibility…and he and others had paid the price.
His signet ring gleamed wetly on his right hand, a reminder of what his excesses had cost. Of the woman whom he hadn’t loved but whose heart he’d recklessly broken. Monique had died a decade ago, and while he hadn’t killed her, he bore responsibility for her death.
As always, when he thought of that ignominious period of his life, he thought of the people he’d hurt. Back then, he’d blamed everyone else for the consequences of his feckless behavior…especially his older brother Richard. He still didn’t know how Richard could forgive him for being a selfish cad—and for causing waves in Richard’s courtship of Violet. Luckily, everything had turned out happily for the pair, but Wick knew he didn’t deserve the love and support the couple gave him so unconditionally.
He expelled a breath and reached for the bar of soap, specially blended for him by an apothecary on St. James’s Street. There was no changing the past. In the intervening years, he tried to make up for it by getting his financial affairs in order and making amends where he could. He’d adhered to a strict code of behavior…until the masquerade. As he ran the soap over his chest, he thought wryly that it was just like him to find a virgin at a bloody orgy.
And not just any virgin but Beatrice Brown.
The most entrancing and exasperating lady he’d ever met.
