Page 18 of Reforming Lord Neil

Mrs. Clapham cleared her throat, drawing his attention back to her. “I will have a list of chores for you tomorrow, Mr. Duncan.”

Manual labor was a small price to pay for peace of mind, and would serve to distract him from his problems. He had written a letter to his mother, informing her of where he was and how she might contact him. His letters would go to the Lost Mermaid public house and be sent from the same. Not that he anticipated writing with any frequency. He only needed to inform his mother of his good health and where she might send his reprieve, when the time came.

“I look forward to being of assistance, Mrs. Clapham.” He bowed, and she hesitated.

“Mr. Duncan, I think we should discuss one matter right away.” Her chin came up. “You are under my employment, even though it is unusual, and I require that you treat my family with respect.”

The woman had a commanding streak to her, it would seem. Neil knew exactly how to handle her, however. “Madam, have I done anything at all to indicate disrespect?”

She frowned. “No. However, I have noticed a certain air about you. I cannot explain it. I suppose it comes natural to one born to privilege.”

Neil had made her wary, despite his attempts to be nothing but charming and forthright. How interesting. Neil stepped closer; though their distance was still respectable it was on the edge of propriety. “I cannot understand what you mean, Mrs. Clapham. I am behaving as a gentleman, am I not?”

To her credit, she did not back away, but he did see her swallow and her cheeks flush in the lantern light.

As understanding crept into his thoughts, Neil chuckled. She found him attractive. Also interesting.

“What has amused you, Mr. Duncan?” she asked, her little pointed chin raising higher, her dark eyes flashing with irritation.

“Our situation, Mrs. Clapham.”

She scowled at him and thrust the lantern between them. “Here. Do put it out before you fall asleep.”

Neil purposefully brushed her fingers with his as he took the lantern by the handle. She shivered, much to his pleasure, and then tightened the shawl around her shoulders.

“Good night, Mr. Duncan.”

He bowed. “Mrs. Clapham.”

She whirled about on her heel and vanished out of the barn. He walked to the door, closing it only after he watched the door to the kitchen open, a woman’s shape slip inside, and close again.

With the woman gone, he allowed his shoulders to fall along with his pleasant expression. He faced the barn, scowling at his new quarters. Though he had made the choice to return to Bramble Cottage, it did not sit easy with him.

Neil had already put his belongings in the loft above, including a straw-stuffed mattress Mrs. Godwin had provided from some unknown corner of the house. How would a mattress stuffed with the dry hay prove any more comfortable than a pile of the stuff? Neil had the pillow from before, the mattress, two quilts, and his satchel.

He climbed up, somewhat awkwardly with the oil lamp in one hand. He put the lamp on the floor and stripped off his boots, trousers, and the cloth about his neck. The night was warm enough, he laid down on top of the blankets with one arm behind his head.

He put out the lantern, and moments later heard the soft footfalls of a small animal.

“Mew.” The cat had found its way up into the loft. It crept over to Neil, and he stretched out a hand where he heard the little one purring.

“Not in the mood to hunt mice yet, Puss?” Neil asked as the creature first sniffed at his fingers, then rubbed against his knuckles. “We both will have to work to earn our keep. I suppose that makes us partners, for now.”

The cat came closer and curled against Neil’s side, purring all the while. At least the creature did not seem to have fleas. Neil released a sigh and stared above, into the blackness.

Work the next day might well expel the more troubling concerns in his head. If he worked himself into exhaustion, sleep would come more easily than it did at present.

The only pleasant thought he could pick from all that flew through his mind was that Mrs. Clapham found him handsome. While she was not the first, it was certainly gratifying to know he still held some allure, even in his disheveled state. More amusing still, she was upset by whatever attraction he held for her. Why?

It was a pity, really. He had nothing to leverage from the widow. Her interest in him, whether or not she fought it, meant nothing. She had nothing he wanted, other than the shelter she had already given, and he had nothing to offer her. There were no games to play, no politics, nothing to win or lose. She was beneath him, socially, and he had no interest in romantic entanglements.

But watching her blush had been gratifying. Amusing.

Perhaps he might distract himself from his problems through more than the work of a farmhand.

Chapter Eight

Teresa paced the length of the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil for coffee. In her hand, she held a precious scrap of paper to write out, in pencil, all that she hoped Mr. Duncan to accomplish. Even if he was unfamiliar with farm work.