haunted her. Accustomed to daily exercise tending her garden, walking out to gather supplies of wild herbs or to let Misfit ramble, she felt stifled after having been confined to the squire’s manor for nearly a week.
She considered taking the air in the garden, but unsure of the earl’s schedule, reluctantly dismissed that notion. The intricate arrangement of alleys and shrub-shrouded pathways would make it difficult to spot someone far enough away to avoid them, and should she chance to encounter the earl, he would doubtless feel compelled to invite her to stroll with him. Though she might simply refuse, with brutal honesty she had to admit the draw of Lord Beaulieu’s stimulating presence and the beauty of the fall flowers would likely prove a combination beyond her power to resist.
Why not visit the library instead? She’d become acquainted with its rich treasures two years ago when the squire had offered her a book to beguile the tedium of her long recovery. Given free rein thereafter, she’d been delighted to explore the excellent collection it contained. That decided, she headed for the front stairway.
Though Kit Bradsleigh was out of immediate danger, he remained seriously ill, and Dr. MacDonovan thought it prudent he still have care both night and day. Quite cleverly, she thought with a touch of smugness as she descended, she’d arranged with the physician to take the night watch while the doctor and Lord Beaulieu provided medical treatment and diversion during the day. She had further requested, since she would be eating at odd hours, that her meals be served in her room.
Yesterday when she’d returned to her patient, she’d discovered that Lord Beaulieu’s cot had been removed from the sickroom. Naturally, with his brother on the road to recovery, the earl would resume sleeping in his own chamber. So it appeared she would not see him again during his stay, since she’d neither meet him at mealtime nor encounter him in the sickroom during her night vigil.
Her relief at avoiding his too-perceptive eye mingled with a touch of what might almost be…regret. He affected her so strangely, setting her skin tingling with a sort of prickly awareness, as if some vital essence about him telegraphed itself to her whenever he was near. She found that entirely involuntary reaction both exhilarating and frightening.
Like that touch to her shoulder, the morning he thanked her for saving his brother’s life. Close her eyes, and she could almost feel it still, his fingers’ imprint branded into the sensitive skin of her collarbone.
How…peculiar. And a warning to her to be doubly on her guard.
After peeping ahead to ascertain no one was in the front hallway, she scurried to the library. Safely over the threshold, she paused to breathe in the comforting, familiar scents of beeswax and leather bindings before walking to the bookcase that shelved the complete Milan set of the Iliad and Odyssey. Her self-imposed confinement would seem much more tolerable if, after her rest, she could look forward to an afternoon among the heroic cadences of Homer’s poetry.
Impatient to inspect the treasure, she selected a volume and carefully smoothed open the manuscript. Just a few pages, she promised herself, and she would slip back to her room.
Within moments she was completely entranced. Eyes avidly scanning the verses, she drifted across the parquet floor, shouldered open the library door—and stepped smack into the tall, solid body of the Earl of Beaulieu.
Chapter Four
Beau was striding briskly down the hall, invigorated by his dawn ride, when a figure popped out the library door and slammed into him. The slight form rebounded backward, a book spinning from her hands.
Swiftly recovering his balance, he grabbed the maid’s shoulders to keep her from falling. His automatic irritation over the girl’s inattention evaporated instantly as first his fingers, then his brain registered the identity of the lady in his grip.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Martin! Are you all right?” Delighted with this excuse to touch her, he let his hands linger longer than absolutely necessary to steady her, reveling in the rose scent of her perfume.
As soon as she regained her footing, she pulled away. “Fine, thank you, my lord. And ’tis I who must apologize, for not watching where I was walking.”
With regret he let her go. “Are you sure you’re uninjured? I’m a rather large obstacle to collide with.”
“Quite all right.”
“Let me restore your book to you.” As she murmured some inarticulate protest, he bent to scoop up the volume.
And froze for another instant when he read the title. The first volume of Homer’s Illiad. In Greek.
Slowly he straightened. “You are reading this book?”
Something like consternation flickered in her eyes as she looked up at him. She opened her lips, then hesitated, as if she found it difficult to frame an answer to that simple question. “Y-yes, my lord,” she admitted finally, and held out her hands for the volume.
He returned it. “You must be quite a scholar.”
For a moment she was silent. “My father was,” she said at last.
He waited, but when she didn’t elaborate, he continued, “And you, also, to be reading it in Greek. As I asserted earlier, not at all an ordinary lady.”
“But a tired one, so if you will excuse me—”
“Another moment, please, Mrs. Martin.” He couldn’t let her go, not yet, not when the only communication they’d shared for days previous or were likely, given her nursing schedule, to have in the days ahead were terse directives uttered in the sickroom. “You are looking pale. I fear you’ve been too long cooped up in the house. Do you ride?”
She shot him a glance before quickly lowering her gaze. “N-no, my lord.”
“You must stroll in the garden this afternoon, then. The day promises to be fair and warm. No excuses, now! I shall call for you myself after your rest to ensure it. We can’t have you endangering your own health.”
Again, that darting glance of alarm. “That…that is exceedingly kind, my lord, but I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you.”
How could he ever disarm the wary caution so evident in those glances if she persisted in avoiding him? Determined not to let her wriggle away, he continued, “Walking with a lovely lady an ‘inconvenience?’ Nonsense! ’Twould be my pleasure.”
“Your offer is most kind, but I—I really should return and tend my garden. Weeds grow alarmingly in a week, and I must restock my supplies.”
“I should be delighted to drive you there. Perhaps you can explain something of your treatments. Dr. Mac-Donovan tells me Kit is likely to have a weakness in his lungs for some time, and may have continuing need of them.”
“Possibly, but I could not allow you to abandon your work for so tedious an errand.”
“I have no pressing business at the moment,” Beau replied, dismissing without a qualm the two satchels of dispatches his secretary had sent from London by courier just last evening. “What time should you like to go?”
She tightened her grip on the book and inhaled sharply. His concentration faltered as he watched her dart the tip of her tongue over the pouting plumpness of her lower lip. A unexpected
