Page 34 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

Nash nodded to Micklefield, who came at a run with more of the inn’s best ale. “I cannot imagine.” He shook his head and raised his glass. “You seem to take it in stride, however.”

Smith shrugged. “It’s in me blood, so to speak. You can’t deny what’s in yer blood.” Alfred Smith could trace his lineage all the way back to the tenth century in Wrotham, every generation producing at least one smith to carry on the family name and tradition.

It boggled Nash’s mind to think of so many hundreds of years of Smiths all in the same village. His family couldn’t be traced back half so far. And they certainly hadn’t remained in the same place nor taken the same occupation, though he had carried on in his father’s footsteps until the death of his uncle and cousin had thrown him into the business of estate management.

Nash grunted acknowledgment and sipped his ale. He’d come to like his role at Wrotham Hall more than he’d expected to. Although he’d never before planned for planting or harvesting or animal husbandry, he too had taken it all in his stride, read books and asked questions of the estate manager, and had gotten along fairly well last year. Surprisingly, he actually enjoyed the cyclical life, bound to the land. Perhaps this love of the land flowed in his blood, begun somewhere back along the line of St. Claires.

“So you’ve begun the preparations for the harvest home already, Mr. Smith? Last year’s celebration impressed me quite a lot. I’m looking forward to an even better one this year.” Nash leaned back in his chair, the memory of happy villagers clear in his mind. “Have you chosen your lord of the harvest yet?”

“Aye, we have. Michael Thorne’s the lord this year.” Smith’s smile split his face from ear to ear.

Nash winced inwardly. The lord of the harvest negotiated wages for the harvesters and Thorne had a reputation for being a sharp bargainer.

“You’ll be partin’ with a bit o’ brass this year, my lord, if I don’t miss my guess.”

“If Thorne lives up to his reputation, I’ve no doubt of it.” Nash chuckled ruefully.

The door to The Bull opened behind him, a loud chatter of many voices invading the otherwise quiet pub. Nash twisted around to see what the commotion was all about and froze as Lady John Tarkington, Lady Stephen, and Lady Cavendish, followed by the rest of the party from Lyttlefield, entered with the bright enthusiasm only ladies on a party excursion possessed.

Nash groaned. He’d not expected to meet the lady quite so soon after their tête-à-tête in her library last night. Especially while he was so hard pressed to know his mind about the woman. Just as he’d concluded he’d been mistaken about her, her obvious penchant for assignations had confirmed his fears.

Of course, if she had accepted his proposal in the heat of the moment, he wouldn’t have cared who she’d been seeking originally. Sheer folly, unless he could persuade her to marry him quickly and save her from her own baser nature. Or channel them only toward him. He closed his eyes as his blood rose at the thought of her warm, soft body pressed against him. At least he now knew she would warm his bed spectacularly. This unexpected and intense desire for her, however, might prove inconvenient while convincing her to marry him.

She turned toward the bar, and something in her graceful movement recalled the image of her lightly clad body and bare feet. Why he’d acted so rashly became perfectly clear. Thoughts of her lusting after another man had roused a jealous streak hitherto undiscovered. He’d wanted her for himself, plain and simple. And now most likely impossible if she truly meant her words last night. He turned back to Mr. Smith, who seemed to enjoy the parade of Quality.

“Have Thorne come see me on Monday, Mr. Smith. I doubt this harvest will be as good as last year’s with the cold weather we’ve had. We may need to postpone it for a bit, so I need to prepare Thorne and the harvesters for that possibility.”

“Aye, my lord. I’ll speak with Michael directly.” The smith rose, tipped his cap, and moved to the door just as Lord Brack and Georgie brought up the rear of the party.

Brack’s gaze swept the room, coming to light on Nash. “Ho, Wrotham!” He guided Georgie over to his table. “Didn’t expect to see you here after our late night.”

Nash rose immediately. “Lady Georgina. Brack.” He bowed and smiled. “How nice to see you once more.”

The young woman seemed less frightened of him than she had last night, when she could barely string two words together to greet him. “Lord Wrotham. It is a pleasure, to be sure.” She blushed, though Nash had no idea why. Perhaps a deep shyness afflicted her.

Micklefield hurried toward them. “My lord, my lady. Your party has settled in one of the private parlors. Would you care to join them?”

“Excellent,” Brack said, shepherding Georgie toward the doorway the innkeeper indicated. “Join us, Wrotham. We’d be delighted if you would.”

Every grain of sense Nash possessed screamed at him to decline. Coming face-to-face with Lady Cavendish would likely be disastrous on many fronts. A quick but respectful refusal and he could be on his way back out to the fields.

“Thank you, Brack. Much obliged.” Like a moth driven to seek the flame, he could not stay away from the woman. Hopefully, he would merely be singed and not immolated outright by her wrath.

He fell in line just behind Lady Georgina. If he walked in with another woman he could pretend interest in her was his major objective. Perhaps his lady would then think she had a rival. Women often did not perceive a man as desirable until another woman found him so.

That might be the key to his campaign to get Lady Cavendish to accept his suit. He meant to turn her head from thoughts of Alan Garrett and fix her attentions on him. And what better way to achieve that than a little harmless flirtation with another woman? He prayed Georgina could play the role. Now if only he could do his part justice, perhaps he’d win himself a wife.

Chapter 11

When Nash strolled into the largest private parlor The Bull boasted, only a step behind Lady Georgina, he sensed someone immediately to his right, almost behind the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Lady Cavendish, looking like a vision this afternoon. Her straw bonnet with a jaunty feather on the side allowed only one shiny chestnut curl to escape, a ringlet that hung to the left side of her face. Her green- and white-striped gown, with a tight-fitting Spencer in matching green, accentuated her breasts.

Nash gave an inward groan. Why did the woman insist on torturing him like this? Thank God she wore no more provocative clothing or he’d be undone in the middle of The Bull. He fought the impulse, but in the end he gave in and glanced down at her feet. They were, of course, encased in sturdy half boots. Had he expected her barefoot in public?

He must get hold of himself.

With a deep breath, he slowed and turned toward his hostess. “Lady Cavendish. Such a wonderful surprise to see you all here. I trust you passed a pleasant morning?”

Her face paled, then flushed. “Lord Wrotham. I . . . I did, thank you.” The hectic color in her cheeks approached the hue of a ripe strawberry. Obviously she remembered their early morning meeting as well as he did. Nevertheless, she curtsied, her lips pursed. “Will you join us, my lord? We were about to take some refreshment before exploring the village.”