In Bed with the Duke(45)

‘You’d best get up to the house, then, miss,’ said the farmer, albeit rather gruffly, ‘and get them feet seen to.’

‘Oh, that’s very kind of you, but—’

‘This ’ere chap of yourn can do some chores to pay for flattening what’s left of my hay.’

‘Oh, but—’

‘He’s right, P... darling.’ He glared at her warningly, hoping she’d get his hint not to reveal their names. Though she’d already called him Gregory, hadn’t she?

Thank goodness she didn’t know any of his other names, or they might all have come tumbling out.

‘Let me do some work while you get your blisters seen to. They robbed us in the night, you see,’ he informed the farmer. ‘At the last inn. Took all our luggage. My poor love has no stockings to wear and—’

‘I don’t want to hear about that sort of thing,’ said the farmer, taking a shocked step back at the mention of Prudence’s undergarments. ‘What I do want to know is what kind of work you can do. Don’t want you blundering about causing damage as I’ll have to clear up after.’

‘I have done a bit of work about the stables,’ he admitted, after only the briefest of pauses while he searched frantically for some skill he possessed which might be of use to a farmer.

The farmer glowered at him. Then at Prudence. ‘Run off with yer groom, have yer?’ He clucked his tongue. ‘Well, ain’t none of my business, I s’pose. Too late to do anything about it now, anyhow.’ He glanced meaningfully at the crushed hay, at the way Gregory’s arm stayed protectively round Prudence’s shoulder, and the way she leaned into him, one hand resting trustingly against his chest.

‘Come on, you,’ he said, pointing a stubby, gnarled finger at Gregory. ‘Let’s see what yer made of.’

The farmer’s voice was loaded with contempt. He might have some sympathy for Prudence, but he’d obviously cast Gregory in the role of evil seducer. For the second time in as many days he was being accused of the one thing he hadn’t done.

The only difference this morning was that he now heartily wished he had.

* * *

Prudence wiped round her eggy plate with a crust of bread, fresh from the oven, and sighed with contentment.

‘’Tis good to see you have a hearty appetite,’ said the farmer’s wife, whose name was Madge. She had taken one look at Prudence’s feet, thrown her hands up in horror, and then gone all motherly.

‘Well, this is such good food,’ said Prudence, with a sigh. Madge had heaped her plate with bacon, fried eggs and mushrooms. ‘We hardly ate a thing yesterday.’

And she wasn’t sure when she might be eating anything again. Gregory—for she couldn’t help thinking of him by his first name after spending the night in his arms—had said they weren’t far from his aunt’s place and was assuming they would be welcome. But she wasn’t banking on it. Aunts, she had discovered, could be extremely unpredictable.

‘Now, you must let me help with the dishes,’ she said. ‘Or something.’

‘’Tain’t fitting for a fine lady such as yerself to ruin her hands with dishes,’ said Madge.

‘I’m not a fine lady. I’m just...’ She didn’t know exactly how to describe herself. ‘When I was a girl...’ She decided to explain as much as she could. ‘We travelled all over the place. Papa was a soldier, you see. So Mama and I had to learn how to do all sorts of chores. I can kill a chicken, and milk a goat, and bake bread.’

‘Ain’t no call for you to go killing none of our chickens,’ Madge protested.

‘No, of course not, I just—’

‘Very well, m’dear. You can do the dishes.’ She frowned. ‘’Twill make it look as though I kept you busy, anyhow, won’t it? If Peter comes back in sudden-like.’

‘Thank you,’ said Prudence meekly.

She was more than willing to let Madge think she was grateful to be spared the prospect of falling foul of her bad-tempered husband if that was what it took to help her overcome her scruples at having a guest do menial work.

The moment Prudence finished the dishes Madge urged her back to the kitchen table.

‘Here, you eat a bit of this,’ she said, spooning jam onto another thick slice of bread and butter. ‘That varmint had no business dragging a lady such as you out into the wilds with no more’n the clothes on your back, and starving you besides.’

‘It wasn’t his fault—really it wasn’t,’ she protested, before taking a bite of bread and jam.

But she knew she’d made Madge think it was, by being tight-lipped in response to all her very natural questions. Madge must think she was having second thoughts, or was ashamed of having been so impetuous, or something.