resist. Stifling a grin, she recommended that if he preferred to stay outside, he might seat himself on the old willow bench on the porch.
The same one, she recalled with a jolting flash of memory, on which he’d discovered her drying her hair that afternoon.
If he remembered the incident, too, he gave no sign. Thanking her, he inclined his long form on the bench and sat watching her.
At bit uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she donned her faded apron and a tattered straw bonnet. But after a few moments she fell into the familiar, satisfying routine, wholly absorbed in freeing the beds of weeds and snipping the leaves, stems and branches she needed.
A short time later he materialized at her side, startling her. To her surprise and amusement, there he remained, questioning her about each plant she weeded out or clipped to save, holding the trug for her to deposit the harvested bounty, and twice, over her laughing protests, carrying off a load of weeds.
After she’d finished, the earl fetched the picnic basket. Once more claiming it was too lovely to go indoors, he insisted on seating her beside him on the willow bench and unpacking the refreshments there.
Having abandoned them during the dull weeding process to sniff out rabbits or other pernicious vermin, at the first scent of food Misfit ambled back, waiting at Laura’s feet with polite, rapt attention for the occasional tidbit.
The golden afternoon dimmed to the gray of approaching dusk and the mild air sharpened. As if sensing his mistress would soon depart, Misfit trotted off and brought back a fallen tree limb, then looked up at Laura with tail wagging, an irresistible appeal in his eyes.
“All right, but only for a few moments,” Laura told him. With a joyful bark, Misfit dropped the limb and danced on his paws, awaiting her throw.
She lobbed it to the far wall, watching with a smile as the dog raced after, a dark streak of motion in the fading daylight. He bounded back, did a little pirouette before her, and dropped the stick once more.
Lord Beaulieu snatched it before she could, and after a grimace at its condition, threw it again, clear over the fence and into the brush beyond. The hound rushed to the wooden barrier and then out the gate.
“He’ll love that,” Laura said. “’Tis a shame he cannot hunt, for he dearly loves to retrieve. Keeps my vegetables safe, and provides hares for the stew pot several times a week.”
The earl gave his slimy hands a rueful glance. “He makes a rather messy business of it.”
“So he does. Thank heavens you were not wearing your gloves—they’d be ruined!” Laura rummaged in her basket for a rag. “Here, let me wipe them.”
He held out his hands. Without thinking, Laura grasped his wrist. Which, she immediately realized, was a mistake.
The warm touch of his skin sent a shock through her, while below the cuff of his shirt she felt his pulse beat strongly against her fingertips. Without conscious volition she raised her eyes to his.
He stared back. The air seemed suddenly sucked out of the afternoon sky, and she had trouble breathing.
She should look down, wipe his hands, step away. But she didn’t seem able to move, her body invaded by a heated connectedness that seem to bind her to him by far more than the simple grasp of his wrist.
Finally, with a ragged intake of breath she tore her gaze free and wiped his dog-slobbered hands with quick jerky motions. After achieving the barest minimum of cleanliness, she released his wrist and shoved it away.
Still shaky, she stepped back—and tripped over Misfit, who chose that moment to bound up to her, stick in mouth. Not wanting to step on the dog, she hopped sideways and lost her balance altogether.
An instant later she hit the ground in an undignified tangle of skirt and limbs, face up to the startled earl and the star-dusted sky. Her cheeks flamed with humiliation, but before she could speak, Misfit, delighted she’d apparently decided to join him at his level, put both paws on her chest and leaned over to lick her face.
“Stop … Misfit … down!” she attempted to command between swipes by his long pink tongue, all the while trying unsuccessfully to wriggle out from under his weight. After a moment the absurdity of her position overwhelmed embarrassment. Leaning her head back under a continuing assault of doggy kisses, she dissolved into laughter.
He ought to shoo the dog away, help her up. Instead Beau stood frozen, watching the arched column of long white throat, the chest quivering with amusement. All afternoon he’d been haunted by memories of her on the bench where he’d surprised her sun-drying her hair, where today she’d invited him to linger, where, separated only by a picnic basket, they’d eaten the cold meat and cheese and bread, sipped the wine the squire’s cook had packed. Which he’d eaten and drunk without tasting anything because it was her slender body, her wine-sweet lips he wanted to devour.
And now, while that ungrateful mutt dribbled slobber on her face, all he could think of was brushing the dog aside so he might kiss that throat, cup his hands over the breasts now prisoned by muddy paws, move over her and into her. It required another full minute and all the strength of mind he could muster to beat back the pulsing desire to gather her in his arms and carry her into the cottage.
But he was master of his appetites, and she was not ready for that. He called once more on the iron self-discipline upon which he prided himself, under whose guiding check he’d operated all afternoon, keeping the conversation carefully neutral, masking the desire she aroused in him with every small movement—the way she touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip when in contemplation, the subtle sway of her hips as she walked, even the tilt of her head as she gazed up at him inquiringly, like a little brown sparrow.
How unobservant people were, he marveled as he watched her tussle with her dog. How could any man look at Mrs. Martin, really look at her, and see only the drab exterior, miss the translucence of skin, the smoky fire of her hair beneath the ubiquitous cap, the sparkling brilliance of mind so evident once he finally got her into conversation. Dismissing the sparrow as dull and familiar without noting the intricacy and subtle shadings of color and pattern. Even the squire, though he’d not been totally blind, had perceived but little of her subtle allure, else she’d not still be a widow.
He was fiercely glad of that blindness, however. For she was his sparrow—his. The strength of that sudden conviction startled him, but it emanated from somewhere so deep within him he didn’t bother to question it.
It would be a novel experience, using his skills to entice a lady. He’d not previously done so, being too circumspect to dally with married women of his own class and too protective of his bachelor state to pay singular attention to a maiden. The strength of his wealth and title alone, he considered cynically, had always been more than enough to garner him the favor of any lesser-born female who caught his eye.
But he would use them now, his vaunted skills, to lure this little brown sparrow and tame her to his hand.
Mrs. Martin, with her long white throat and deliriously heaving chest and frothy petticoats thrown back to reveal shapely ankles, represented temptation strong enough to break the resolve of a saint. Not being one, he’d best bring to an end the torturous pleasure of watching her. Thank heavens she was too modest to let her glances stray below his waistcoat, else she’d have clearly defined evidence of his desire the sternest of will could not conceal.
Ruthlessly he disciplined his thoughts, reassuring himself of the intimacy to come by
