aloft by the breeze tossing the branches above their heads. All she could do was stare at his lovely mouth. She inhaled a shaky breath. ‘N-no. I was n-n…’ She swallowed, then closed her eyes, surprised when he didn’t finish the word. ‘I was not very polite. I am sorry.’
He bowed his head in gentlemanly acknowledgement. ‘Can I help you mount, my lady?’
Since when did assistant gamekeepers have elegant manners and glorious bodies? Every time he spoke, her knees felt strangely weak and she just wanted to stand and look at him. He made her want things young ladies were not supposed to think about. She wanted to touch him. Trace the curve of muscle and the cords of sinew. Feel their warmth.
And he wanted to help her onto her horse. ‘Thank you, Mr R-Robert Deveril.’
His eyes widened. ‘I must apologise for my earlier abruptness. I thought you an interloper.’
‘I had not heard the cottage was let.’ She frowned. She’d barely stumbled on her words. ‘We d-d-don’t have an assistant gamekeeper.’
‘I started on Monday.’
No one ever told her anything. ‘This is a lovely spot.’ She glanced around, drinking it in with a sense of sadness. She wouldn’t be able to come here any more.
‘Aye, it is. Even at this time of year.’ Slivers of amber danced in his dark eyes like unspent laughter. He really was outstandingly beautiful, despite the day’s growth of beard. Or maybe because of it.
‘You are not from this part of the country, are you?’ she asked.
An eyebrow flicked up. He smiled again, another swift curve of his mouth, instantly repressed, but still her skin went all hot and prickly. ‘I’m from the west. Dorset way.’
His accent had changed, broadened. He thought to trick her, but she always noticed every word, every inflection, in other people’s voices. How could she not? This man hailed from London, and had been educated well, of that she was certain. She mentally shrugged. It mattered little to her where he came from. She prepared to mount.
‘Allow me,’ he said.
He bent and linked his hands, then cast her a frowning look. ‘Don’t let me keep you from this place, milady. I shan’t disturb you again.’
A furnace seemed to engulf her face. ‘Th-thank you. And it is not my lady, just plain Miss Bracewell.’ She caught herself lifting her chin and tucked it back in.
His head tilted to one side as if considering her words, then his gaze slid away. ‘Yes, miss.’
She placed one booted foot in his cupped hands and he tossed her up without effort.
Tall and broad, straight and grand beside the horse, he planted his feet in the soft earth like a solid English oak. A man she would love to draw.
Naked.
The wicked thought trickled heaviness to the dark, secret place she tried never to notice. Little flutters made her shift in the saddle. Wanton urges. The kind that led a woman into trouble. Her gaze drank him in. Her heart sank. Was it any wonder she felt this way, when Slimy Simon loomed in her future? ‘Good day, Mr Deveril.’
She wheeled Pippin around.
She couldn’t help looking back one last time. He raised a hand in farewell. Her heart gave a sweet little lurch, which once more set her stomach dancing.
The horse broke into a trot and plunged into the trees. Robert could hear the sound of twigs snapping even as, utterly bemused, he followed in its wake. By the time he reached the clearing, the spirited gelding and its rider had disappeared.
A strange little thing, this Miss Wynchwood. In her drab brown clothing, she reminded him of some wild woodland creature ready to run at a sound. Certainly no beauty—her eyes were too large, the colour changing with her thoughts from the bluish-grey of clouds to the grey-green of a wind-swept ocean. Her tragic mouth took up far too much of her pixie face.
He’d wanted to kiss that mouth and make it tremble with desire instead of fear. He’d longed to release the tightly coiled hair at her nape and see it fall around her face. Pulled back, it did nothing to improve her looks. And yet she was oddly alluring.
Her style of conversation left much to be desired, though. Short and sharp and rude. Clearly a spoiled rich miss who needed a lesson in manners. Her Grace would not have tolerated such abruptness from one of Robert’s sisters.
A dull stab of pain caught him off guard. Hades. Even now thoughts of home sneaked unwanted into his mind. He stared at the mud splattering the door of his cottage. What a reckless little cross-patch to ride at such speed through the woods. He groaned. And quite likely to report him to Lord Wynchwood for taking her to task.
Damnation. What the hell had he said?
He’d been terrified she’d fall in the river, furious at her carelessness. He’d spoken harshly. He’d made her angry.
Angry and woman did not mix well.
He shouldered his way into the hut he called home and kicked the door shut. Damn, it was cold, but at least he had a roof over his head. He sorted through his bedclothes on the cot against the wall, found his jacket and shrugged into the coarse fabric. He stirred the embers to get the fire going and hung the kettle on the crane. He’d been making tea moments before running outside because he thought the walls were collapsing. Moments before he’d ripped into the girl whose family owned these woods like a duke’s son instead of a servant. He’d been scathing when he should have thanked her for the honour her horse’s hooves had paid to his dwelling, or at least kept his tongue behind his teeth.
Such a small, fragile thing making all that rumpus. A good wind and she’d blow away. And when he boosted her on to her horse, she’d weighed no more than a child. Her eyes, though, had looked at him in the way of a woman. And his body had responded with interest. He cursed.
This was the best position he’d found in over two years and he’d be a fool to lose it because of a slip of a girl.
He stabbed the fire. Sparks flew. His nostrils filled with the scent of ashes. If he wasn’t mistaken, once he’d cooled down, he’d treated her the way he treated his sisters, with amused tolerance. No wonder she’d been annoyed. No doubt he’d be apologising tomorrow. Unless she had him turned off.
Blast. For the first time he’d found a place with a chance for advancement and enough wages to start paying off some of his debts and he’d scolded his employer’s niece.
Would he never come to terms with his new position in life?
He poured boiling water into the teapot and took it to the table set with a supper of bread and cheese. He cut a hunk of bread and skewered it with his knife. He took a bite and munched it slowly.
If there was a next time, he’d be more careful. He’d remember his place.
Chapter Three
‘There you are, Miss Frederica.’ The butler, Mr Sniv-ely, emerged from the shadows at the bottom of the staircase. He gave her a small smile. ‘I thought I better warn you, Lord Wynchwood is asking for you. He is in his study.’
Frederica
