Chapter Ten
Acton reined in his horse and stared up the grassy slope at an unexpected sight. High above him on one of his hills sat Miss Whitney Crewe, pink gown spread about her, red hair shining like a beacon in the sunlight after a day of dreary rain.
Alarmed by her presence on his land, and this field in particular, he turned his mount toward her.
“I’ll return shortly,” he called to Thompson, who’d been helping him drive his cattle into this very field.
He urged his mount up the steep incline, intent on removing Miss Crewe immediately.
Whitney was sketching in a large book, obviously without thought to her surroundings. He had not spoken to her since the night of her arrival. Whitney Crewe had been keeping to herself—painting the portrait of their mutual friends.
He tied his horse to the twisted branch of a nearby tree and rushed toward her. This high up, the views were breathtaking and Whitney appeared enthralled. The lower part of the field, however, was full of his hungry cattle grazing on lush, fresh grass and doing the usual things cows did. Whitney did not look around, but the slight hitch to her posture suggested she knew he was there.
He crouched down a few feet away, keeping one eye on the herd, and waited until she lifted her hand from what she was sketching. “Good morning.”
She scowled. “How have you managed to hide what you do for so long?”
He blinked. “I’m not hiding. I am moving the herd.”
She huffed. “I spoke with Lady Brighthurst a few days ago,” she told him, frowning at her drawing. “She invited me to visit her again and take tea. Should I go?”
Acton was on his knees before Whitney the next moment, pulling the sketchpad from her hands and looking closely at her appearance, her pretty face. She did not appear sick or fevered yet. Of course, he could not check her temperature without first removing his gloves, which he absolutely would not do. “Are you mad, woman?”
“Good God, no,” Whitney said, finally meeting his gaze with displeasure written all over her face. She pulled away. “But she must be by now.”
He backed away slightly. “Where did you say you saw her?”
She looked down her nose at him. “At Rose Cottage, of course!”
“Damn,” he muttered. “What the hell where you doing on my land?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said as she smoothed her page. “Perhaps I wanted to know how far to trust you. I had to discover if my friends are safe or not. Shame on you!”
“They are safe,” he promised. “Emily cannot leave the garden unless someone lets her out. And no one should have let you enter.” He drew back a little more, worried that his instructions had been ignored. “Did she cough on you?”
“Of course not.” Whitney scowled again. “Your servants followed your instructions to the point. A very sharp and pointy pitchfork, actually. I was warned away. Your sister favored me with conversation but we only spoke through the wall.”
He slumped in relief. Whitney was safe, but that did not excuse her for trespassing. He jabbed his finger at her. “I apologize if you were frightened, but never visit her again.”
“Concern, Acton? It’s a little late to worry about me after the way you behaved the first time we met.”
Her remark set him aback, and he stared at the woman he’d lost his head over one wild night. He’d often wondered what she thought of what had happened between them, but this was the first time she’d ever alluded to it. It might be unwise, but he wanted to get the topic out in the open at last. He was tired of waiting for her to reveal his indiscretion to his future bride. There was no one to hear them today. No one to know if they argued about it, should the conversation go that way.
“I recall the terms of our first meeting were quite openly discussed,” he said quietly. “You wanted me that night, and I wanted you.”
“True, and then I discovered your plans for matrimony. Now it is an encounter best forgotten,” she promised. She began packing things away in her little painter’s box, and then frowned at him again. “But do not change the subject. Surely you have a heart. How frightened will young Christopher be when he discovers your sister is living so close to his home? My cousin has let enough slip for me to know she tried to harm the boy.”
Everett closed his eyes in a bid to be rid of his family shame. He’d hoped no one else would learn what his sister had tried to do to Christopher, but of course, Lord Louth must have told his cousin. He could barely believe Emily capable of such villainous acts himself, except he’d seen Christopher’s terror with his own eyes. Emily’s feeble attempts to explain had only convinced him it was entirely true. She’d tried to kill the boy. It was only because of Taverham’s kind heart that she’d not been put on trial.
Lately, though, she’d given up any veneer of innocence on the matter.
“He will not find out, and it will only be for a while.”
“A day or a year will make no difference to the boy. He is still afraid,” she protested, and then narrowed her eyes. “Does Lord Taverham know she’s there?”
“No,” he admitted, hating that he was lying to his best friend. If Taverham and Miranda had stayed in London, as he’d expected them to, Everett wouldn’t be in this situation. Emily was too weak to be moved now. It was safer all around if she came into contact with as few people as possible, which was why she was confined.
“His mother does.”
“The dowager knows everything that goes on here,” he told her. “I used to think she had the sight.”
Whitney snorted, an inelegant sound that strangely set him at ease. “Then why is Lady Brighthurst still here? Miranda told me the night of my arrival that Lady Brighthurst had gone to Bath.”
“Emily was in Bath, and then she returned to me.”
“Do your promises mean nothing?”
“I am well aware of the promises I make.” He slumped in defeat. “I do not wish to talk about the matter.”
“Well, I gave you a chance to explain.” Whitney began to get up. “I have no choice now but to warn my friends about your sister, and let them know they have been put in danger.”
“Don’t!” Everett unwisely caught her hand and prevented her flight. A shock of sensation shot up his arm at the contact. He pulled her back down to sit close to him. “Wait.”
Whitney lifted her chin, and when their eyes met, he was filled with an unreasonable surge of yearning for this eccentric woman. She was so fierce in her loyalty to their friends. Passionate about everything that mattered to her. But it was the unexpected rush of desire for her that nearly took his breath away, reminding him of the way they’d been together at the Fairmont Ball. His attraction to her had been instant and overwhelming that night.
Whitney must have felt something too, because her expression softened. “Wait for what?” she whispered.
“I want you to understand.” He forced away his desire ruthlessly. “Something has happened to my sister, and that is the only reason I keep her at Rose Cottage.”
She blinked. “What reason could there possibly be to explain your lies?”
He released Whitney. “Emily is ill. I’d hoped she’d improve in the country air and familiar surroundings but…they say it is consumption.”
Whitney stared at him in horror then scrambled away. She flipped open her box of paints one-handed and removed a black cloth. “You fiend! Are you trying to harm me now?”
She held the cloth across her nose and mouth.
“Of course not.” He winced and put his hands back into his lap. “I am very careful. My London physician explained what steps I might take to protect myself and others. I bathe after each visit with Emily, scrub my hands with lavender and rosemary oil, and never wear the same clothes around other people. These gloves are entirely new, too.”
“There are other ways it spreads,” she warned. “A breath, touch, intimacy.” Her eyes widened in horror.
Was she thinking they had been very close the night they first met?
He winced. “I believe you are safe. She was not ill when we first met, and it was your wish that we did not kiss.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And what of Miss Quartermane, then? You would have certainly kissed her a dozen times by now. What have you told her about your family?”
“I’ve not kissed Miss Quartermane, so she is safe,” he promised quietly. Given Whitney’s reaction just now, he decided it might not be wise to risk trying to kiss his bride for a while, either. He had not considered that when he’d announced their wedding date. “How can I tell her about Emily’s crimes when I barely understand how I could not have known what she was doing?”
Whitney slowly lowered the black cloth, sitting back on her heels as she faced him across a greater distance. “You must tell her. You must tell everyone to take precautions.”
He nodded, knowing she was right but dreading the confession. Emily wasn’t getting better. If Whitney had stumbled upon Emily, then it was possible Miranda and her son, or one of their gossip-loving guests, might too one day. Consumption was said to be easy to catch if one was young or unwell. He didn’t want anyone to suffer a similar fate to Emily. “I will.”
“Today,” she insisted.
He scowled her. “You go too far, Miss Crewe.”
She shrugged, shook out her black cloth and began rolling it up.
He stared at the material without realizing what he was seeing for a long moment. “What is that?”
Whitney shook out the material again and waved a pair of paint-smeared black silk breeches under his nose. “Have you missed these, my lord?”
His lost breeches. He reached for them, but Whitney was quicker. She packed them away in her little box. “You cannot have them back now. They’ve come in quite handy.”
“You shrew,” he whispered in horror.
“If I was a shrew, I’d have already told your intended what you were doing the night before you met her,” she warned.
He looked away, feeling guilty and ashamed. The one night he’d been incautious of his honor in society was the one time he’d truly felt free. Having the woman turn out to be Whitney Crewe, cousin of an earl, an acquaintance of his intended bride, was a source of embarrassment to him. If he’d known her name, connections, he’d never have touched her. “Why haven’t you?”
“I’ve never particularly enjoyed sharing my mistakes with the world,” she admitted. “My cousin would have locked me up and thrown away the key if he’d learned of that night.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he replied.
He stood quickly, glancing down the hill as he suddenly remembered why he’d rushed to Whitney’s side.
The herd was meandering up the hillside now, cropping long grass as they went. He scanned the herd for the bull and saw him sniffing round one of the females. For now the beast was distracted, but soon…
“You have to leave.”
He glanced down, just as the pages of Miss Crewe’s sketchbook fluttered, revealing glimpses of her art. He focused on that. A hand, an eye, the line of muscle down a long leg. From this angle, she seemed quite accurate. He twisted to see more. A man’s leg, perhaps, thigh bare and knee bent.
Whitney snapped up the book and tore out a different sheet. “Here. You might as well have this.”
He stared at the sheet in shock. It was a portrait of a naked man without a face. “Are you mad? Who is this scoundrel?”
She laughed. “It is funny that you don’t recognize yourself. I thought it a fair likeness.”
He glanced at the sketch, noting certain private parts were drawn in great detail. It did look a bit like him, but she’d flattered his figure quite a bit, he felt. “Why would you draw me like that? When did you draw it?”
“I drew it today. I’m unfortunately cursed with an excellent memory, and sometimes I must draw what is in my head and not my heart, in order to move on to other things.” She pulled a face. “Like all expectant brides, Alice seems nervous about the wedding night. Perhaps a sketch of what her future holds might calm her anxiety about the future.”
He choked. “Any gently reared young woman would faint to be shown such an image of their intended before marriage. It couldn’t possibly calm Alice.”
“It should,” Whitney murmured, and then straightened, holding her box to her chest. “The human body is a thing of beauty and grace, and you have nothing to be ashamed of, my lord. Anyway, give it to her whenever you like or do not. It makes no difference to me.”
Everett tore the drawing into tiny pieces and threw them to blow away on the wind. “Do not draw me again.”
“Believe me, I never want to.”
He raked his hand through his hair, hoping she meant it. “How can you call yourself her friend and draw that sketch of me? We don’t even like each other.”
“True,” she said with a soft laugh. Whitney stood, tucked her paint box under her arm and clutched her sketchbook. “Goodbye, Lord Acton. I expect to learn you’ve confessed your sins to Lord Taverham by the end of the day, or I will do it for you.”
He heard the bellow, and shouts of alarm from his men, before Whitney had moved out of range. “Damn. Come here.”
He caught her arm in a tight grip, urged her to his horse, and then tossed her up into the saddle before she had time to protest his rough handling.
“Is that sound what I think it is?” Whitney immediately swung her leg over the horse’s neck so she could ride astride. She looked around as he set his foot to the stirrup. “Why didn’t Taverham warn me his bull had been put out with the herd?” she complained, eyes wide on the approaching animal as it began to run up the hill toward them.
Everett mounted behind Whitney and settled her closer against his chest before urging his mount around. “Because that is my bull, my herd, and you’ve mistakenly wandered onto my land. I came to warn you.”
“Took you long enough to tell me,” she grumbled. Whitney leaned into him, holding her belongings tightly to her chest. “Can we please go now? He looks very cross.”
“He always is,” Everett murmured as he kicked his horse to a gallop, swept down the other side of the hill facing the Taverham’s estate. The bull would tire long before half a mile had passed, but he headed for the nearest boundary, a high stone wall and ladder gate through which Whitney could use to return home safely.
When he finally saw the boundary, he risked a quick glance over his shoulder. The bull hadn’t pursued them far, as his own men had managed to cut off the beast and were driving it in the other direction.
With the danger past, he slowed to a walk and loosened his hold on Whitney.
He grinned as she tugged her gown over her bare knees.
“There,” he said. “Safe again.”
Even as he said the words, he knew he was stretching the truth a bit. He hadn’t noticed when it had happened but he now sported an erection. The movement of Whitney’s shapely derrière against his crotch was the most maddening sensation. He tightened his grip around her waist to hopefully lessen the friction.
Whitney stiffened. “I must admit, I don’t feel very safe in your arms right now. Is that…?”
“Yes. My apologies,” he said, cursing his body under his breath. He stopped when they reached the ladder gate, swung off the horse, and lifted his hands up to Whitney. “I promise to behave.”
His wayward organ twitched again at the very sight of Whitney riding astride his horse. It made him imagine other things, pleasures and positions he’d never share with her.
He bit his lip, determined to hide what he was thinking.
A ghost of a smile twitched over Whitney’s full lips, then she fell into his arms. Everett lowered her gently to the ground and stepped back. Whitney immediately started smoothing her skirts.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said, then wrinkled her nose. “I always seem to look a little rumpled no matter what I do.”
He considered suggesting she shouldn’t drive a carriage and four in the dark as she had the night of her arrival, if that was so, but he suddenly didn’t want to ruin the peaceful moment between them.
“You always look lovely,” he promised.
Whitney punched her hands to her hips. “That sounds suspiciously like a compliment, Acton.”
“It was sincere.” He blinked in surprise that he was not helping himself by revealing he might find her attractive. What was he doing, saying nice things to her anyway? He shouldn’t be complimenting Whitney Crewe. He should save that sort of business, flirting and such, for his future bride.
He felt his cheeks heating and fiddled with the reins as guilt filled him. Whitney may occasionally look a little windblown, especially when compared to Alice’s pristine perfection, but such untidiness suited her, particularly in the countryside. “Walk up that rise and you will see the main house not far away. I’m sure you can find your own way home now.”
He mounted his horse.
“Acton,” Whitney called. “Thank you for your aid today.”
“A pleasure,” he promised. He tipped his hat. “Until we meet again, Miss Crewe.”
Reluctantly, he glanced her way and saw her smiling up at him, a pair of distracting dimples on full display. “Until our next misadventure, my lord,” she promised.