beautiful enough, I’ll grant. And quite suited for the casual interludes you men seem to enjoy.”
“Is that what you think I seek?” Beau clapped a hand to his heart. “How wounding that my own sister holds my sex in such low esteem. I assure you, idle dalliance is of little interest to me.”
“Then your intentions toward Mrs. Martin are more … serious?”
Careful, Beau cautioned himself. Being not quite sure yet just what form his long-term intentions for Mrs. Martin might take, he had no intention of revealing anything to his deceptively disinterested sister. “Minx!” he said, tapping her on the nose. “Suffice it to say that I would never allow the lady to come to harm.”
Ellie’s air of detachment dissolved. “You value her that much? Oh, splendid, Beau!” She took her brother’s hand and kissed it.’ ‘I cannot tell you how relieved that makes me. Serene and competent as Mrs. Martin appears, there’s about her an air of such … fragility. I worry about her future, alone in that little cottage with no kin to assist her. But if you, dear brother, have decided to watch over her, I can rest easy. Who knows better than Kit and I how safe and comfortable you make those lucky few you commit to your protection!”
“You like her very much, don’t you?”
“Yes. And Catherine adores her.” At his grin, she added severely, “You’ll say a mama would dote on the devil, were he sufficiently attentive to her child, but I assure you, children are fine judges of character. Laura is so good with Catherine. How tragic that she lost a babe!”
Ellie paused, sighing. “What a sad life she’s had. No surviving family, apparently, and widowed so young.” She shook her head. “From time to time I’ve made reference to Arthur, how I miss him when we’re parted. Not once has she ever volunteered a word about her late husband.”
“Prying, dear sister?”
“Certainly not,” she retorted with some heat. “You men are close as monks about your feelings, but women often speak to each other of such things. That Mrs. Martin does not, leads me to believe her union cannot have been a happy one. As far as it lies within my power, I intend to see that her future holds the promise of better. You’ll assist me in convincing her to come to London next Season?”
Beau laughed. “If you can persuade the very independent Mrs. Martin to accompany you to London,” he offered, sure her future would have been decided in much different fashion by then, “you may tell your husband I’ll frank the expense.”
“We shall see her settled for certain.” Ellie gave him an impish grin. “But given the interest hereabouts, if you refrain from appearing to dally with her, I may well not need a London Season to achieve that goal.”
Did his sister mean the vicar? Instantaneous irritation ignited at the thought. Having Laura Martin wed the well-connected reverend was certainly not in his plans. Suppressing the sharp remark that vision engendered, he replied instead, “No matchmaking schemes, Ellie. Let the lady choose her own way.” Our way, he added mentally.
“Yes, brother,” she replied with deceptive meekness.
Best to depart before Ellie tried to tease any more reactions from him. “Tell Catherine I’ll ride with her before dinner.” After kissing her cheek, he escaped to his room.
It being absolutely unavoidable, he’d work through the day on his papers, he decided, pulling out the first of several document satchels. Though he had a strong desire to confront Mrs. Martin again before she left, prudence said it might be better to let her depart unopposed. Allow her to regain the tranquility of her safe haven—and carefully prepare his approach before seeing her again.
Despite that resolve he paused, paper in hand, a bleakness invading him as he envisioned the long expanse of afternoon and evening which, for the first time in more than two weeks, would not be brightened by the sight and voice of Laura Martin.
As soon as he’d processed this stack of documents, he’d set about figuring out how to change that. If you think me easily discouraged, you are mistaken, Sparrow.
Figure it out and act upon it. Tomorrow, he promised himself as he sorted the papers on his desk, as early as he could reasonably expect her to be up and about, he’d pay a call on the newly resettled Mrs. Martin.
Wiping her muddy hands on a rag, Laura sat back on her heels and surveyed the weed-free herb bed. Misfit dozed in an early morning sunbeam nearby, a hot pot of tea and a fresh loaf of bread waited her in the kitchen, and she ought to be quite pleased with the results of her first morning home in over a se’ennight.
But she’d found upon arriving yesterday that the snug cottage she’d regarded for two years as a welcoming haven had somehow lost its power to comfort. Though she could still sense the presence of her beloved Aunt Mary, the small rooms echoed with emptiness. The conviction that her guardian angel watched over her yet had as little effect in raising her sagging spirits as the sputtering fire had in driving two weeks of chill from the room.
Another voice whispered through her dreams now, bringing her to wakefulness time and again awash in poignant longing. Another face appeared before her eyes as, weary of attempting sleep, she rose early to busy herself with weeding, gathering and replenishing her supply of herbs.
She missed the earl, missed even more sharply the energizing possibility that she might at any moment encounter him—at breakfast or tea or out walking with Catherine. ‘Twas the height of foolishness to mourn the loss of a friendship which had never really been hers, yet she could not seem to banish the deep sadness that dogged her. Nor could she, to her mingled chagrin and shame, deny that the one spark of pleasure in this gloomy day was the knowledge that she would return to Everett Hall this afternoon to check Kit Bradsleigh, walk with Lady Catherine—and perhaps catch a glimpse of the child’s uncle.
Soon Lord Beaulieu must return to London, beyond the possibility of a chance encounter. Her foolish partiality, she assured herself, would then wither and die, as it must. She should be proud she’d had the sense to tear herself away before she committed some irretrievable folly.
She wasn’t.
A lick on her hand startled her back to the present.
Tail wagging hopefully, Misfit nudged her. With a short bark, he bent to pick up the stick he’d dropped at her feet.
Laura sighed. “Since you were the only one to enthusiastically welcome me home last night—even the cat having deserted me—I suppose I owe you a game.”
Prancing in agreement, Misfit released the branch, then stood eyeing it avidly. He tensed as Laura held it aloft and swung it behind her back.
The instant she released it the dog tore off. She laughed, thinking ruefully how simple a dog’s needs were: food, affection, an occasional game of fetch. Why could human vessels not be equally reasonable?
When after several moments Misfit did not return, she frowned, certain he could not yet have tired of the game. Then she heard his bark—the short, sharp one that meant he’d discovered something. Fervently hopeful that it wasn’t another from a litter of skunk babies he’d tracked several weeks previous, she set off in pursuit.
She rounded the corner of the cottage—and stopped short. Smiling down at the prancing dog, who offered him up a stick, stood Lord Beaulieu.
Beau
