general. Or perhaps she brooded over some disappointment in love.
The powerful physical connection that flared between them did not support any of those theories. Besides, he sensed in her not aversion, disdain, or the despair of lingering grief, but … a wary watchfulness.
The hallmark of someone with secrets to hide.
He stopped dead, arrested by the conclusion. He might be wrong—occasionally he was—but he didn’t think so.
He continued his analysis, excitement accelerating the pace. Mrs. Martin apparently moved easily among—indeed, was sought out by—the community in and around Merriville, so she didn’t avoid all society.
Mrs. Martin the widowed healer met society, he amended. Mrs. Martin the woman hid behind shapeless gowns and voluminous caps. What could a lovely lady of gentle birth feel so obliged to conceal that she tried to make her person virtually invisible?
Beau couldn’t imagine. But with urgency thrumming in his blood and the goad of an imminent departure, he intended to bend every effort to find out.
Chapter Five
Her palms damp with nervousness on the wicker basket she carried, at precisely four o’clock Laura Martin walked into the entrance hallway to meet the Earl of Beaulieu.
Despite her exhaustion this morning, she’d lain awake wondering if there might have been some way she could have avoided this excursion. Before falling into a leaden sleep, she’d concluded there was none, save a blunt refusal that would have been as ungracious, given the concern the earl expressed about her well-being, as it was insulting.
She’d blundered badly again, being caught with that volume of Homer. No chance now of Lord Beaulieu believing her to be dull-witted. But a scholarly lady could still be a recluse of little social skill—indeed, before her marriage had she not been just such a girl? As long as she kept conversation to minimum and behaved with an awkwardness that, given the state of her nerves, she would not have to feign, the outing might pass off well enough.
But as she stepped out under the entry archway to await the approaching gig, Laura couldn’t help but feel a surge of gladness. The afternoon was as fair as the earl had promised, gilded with the special light that only occurs in late autumn when balmy breezes, teasing reminders of the summer just past, seduce the mind into forgetting the cold threat of winter to come. The sunwarmed herbs in her garden would greet her with a bouquet of piquant scents, the beds of mums and asters with a painter’s palette of russets, oranges, golds, lavenders and pinks.
After having been trapped indoors for nearly a week, she simply would not let the exasperating, unnerving seesaw of reaction the earl seemed always to evoke in her spoil her enjoyment of this perfect afternoon.
Given the paucity of her experience with men, it had taken her time to realize, with some chagrin, that at least part of the uneasy mix was an entirely carnal attraction. Once long ago, when young Lord Andrew Harper took her walking in her mother’s garden, she’d experienced the same quivery awareness and agitation. Acutely conscious of the muscled masculine form beneath Lord Andrew’s tight-fitting coat and buff breeches, she’d both longed for and been terrified that he might kiss her.
He hadn’t, though he’d looked into her eyes with the same searing intensity as the earl. Soon after that walk, her father informed her he’d accepted the distinguished and much older Lord Charleton’s offer for her hand, putting an end to titillating interludes in the garden.
Could the earl desire her, too? A flattering thought, though ludicrous. If the Earl of Beaulieu did find his brother’s dowdy nurse attractive, it would only be because gentlemen, as she knew well, were not particularly discriminating in their passions. Any minimally satisfactory female would do until a more appealing prospect happened along, and there were surely few prospects in Merriville.
She was still smiling at the notion of the Lord Beaulieu ogling the village baker’s buxom daughter when the earl pulled up in the gig.
Sunlight glistened in the burnished ebony of his dark hair and warmed the brown eyes to amber flame. Apollo cast in bronze, she thought, as a now-familiar slash of awareness stabbed her belly and quivered down her legs. She didn’t realize she was standing motionless, simply staring at him, until the earl addressed her.
“Should I call someone to assist you up? I’m afraid the horse is so fresh, I cannot leave him.”
“No, I can manage,” she replied, cheeks warming. The cat looking at the king, pathetic as the old nursery rhyme.
Transferring the reins to one hand but keeping his eyes on the restive chestnut, Lord Beaulieu leaned over to steady her elbow as she climbed in, his touch light and impersonal. Nonetheless, tension simmered between them as she took her seat.
“Is the day not truly as splendid as I promised?” he asked, and turned to give her a brilliant smile so full of comradely enjoyment she had to smile back.
“Indeed it is. Thank you for offering to drive me.”
“Let’s be off, then. Do you need to gather wild herbs as we go, or just those in your garden?”
“I need only garden-grown medicinals.”
“Nonetheless, if you spy anything on the way that you can use, let me know. This fine animal isn’t capable of blazing speed, so it will be no trouble to bring him to a halt. Squire Everett told me your uncle was a botanist, and you came to Merriville to be treated by your aunt. Had you worked with herbs before then?”
Laura tensed. “No.”
But his tone was easy, almost teasing as he continued. “I understand you were quite ill. A lady whose mind is active enough to acquire Greek must have found the forced inactivity of convalescence irksome. Learning about herbs would have blunted the frustration, I should guess.”
She glanced at him, surprised at his perspicacity. “Yes, it did.”
“A fascinating art, the business of healing. From time immemorial men have attempted to understand it, sometimes with appalling results. Imagine, recommending the ingestion of black powder and lead to relieve stomach distress!”
She laughed. “Barbarous indeed.”
“Did your aunt start treating illness at your uncle’s behest? Or out of her own concern?”
Laura paused, uncertain how to frame a monosyllabic answer—or whether, in truth, she needed to do so. Unlike the unnervingly probing inquiry he’d subjected her about her family the last time he drove her, these questions were less personal.
Perhaps, given his brother’s illness, Lord Beaulieu had developed a genuine interest in the practical use of herbs. What harm if she replied at more length on this relatively safe topic?
Cautiously, tracking his reaction with quick, cautious glances, she began, “My uncle studied the makeup of plants and how the elements in them affect healing. He believed, and my aunt practiced, that only natural materials, especially such long-utilized botanicals as willow bark, foxglove, rosemary, and the like be used to treat the sick, and then in small doses. ‘Tis best to intervene as little as possible, let the body’s natural strength heal itself.”
“That
