Say Yes to the Marquess(46)

Clio peered hard in the same direction. “That’s Mr. Kimball’s farmland.”

On the other side of the clover field, a group of laborers were stacking flat rocks to repair a drystone field border. Except one of the laborers was nearly twice the size of the rest. When he turned to the side, she could recognize his profile across the field—­but by then, her pulse was already pounding.

Her body knew his.

“That is Lord Rafe,” she said. “Yes.”

He saw them and lifted one hand.

“What on earth is he doing?”

“Mending a fence, it would seem.” Phoebe tugged her by the arm. “Come on, then. We ought to greet him since he waved to us.”

“He didn’t wave.”

“Yes he did.”

“He lifted a hand. He didn’t move it to and fro. That’s not waving.”

Nonetheless, they were halfway to the stone border and committed now. As they approached, Rafe slipped his linen-­clad arms back into his coat sleeves and ran both hands through his hair.

He looked instantly marvelous.

“I should have worn a different frock,” Clio muttered.

“Why?” Phoebe asked.

“No reason.”

And there truly was no reason. It didn’t matter how she looked. Whatever it was between them . . . It wouldn’t come to anything.

It couldn’t come to anything.

And on some level, enjoying the attraction had to be wrong. Until he signed those papers, she was still—­on paper, if not in her mind or heart—­engaged to Piers. But she’d been waiting so long to feel even the slightest glimmer of this exhilaration. Who could tell when she would feel this way again?

Rafe bid the laborers good-­bye and started walking toward them. They met in the center of the field, knee deep in clover.

“Are you helping mend a fence?” Phoebe asked.

“Been working on it a few hours.” He looked over his shoulder. “Mostly finished, I think.”

“That’s good of you,” Clio said. “I’m sure Mr. Kimball appreciates the help.”

He gave a modest shrug. “I’m in training. I need the exertion.”

Oh, and did it ever look well on him. His skin was bronzed from the sun, and he wore that aura of exertion like a golden fleece, radiating health and power. She got rather lost in the dazzle for a moment or two.

“We’re going to the village,” Phoebe said. “I’m buying string.”

“I have a letter to post,” Clio added lamely.

“I’ll join you, if I may.”

So they walked into the village. Clio posted her letter. Phoebe purchased her string. Rafe was hungry from his morning’s work, and he suggested they take luncheon at the pub.

It was a simple, unfussy establishment. A dozen or so tables, a small bar. The day’s meal choices—­all two of them—­were chalked on a slate. The pub was crowded with customers, and as they entered, everyone in the place turned to gawk.

Clio nodded and smiled, noticing a few familiar faces. She’d made her best efforts to visit the homes of her tenants and become acquainted with the local merchants.

But it wasn’t her appearance that had the caught their fascination—­it was Rafe’s. His reputation sailed ahead of them, cutting through the room and leaving quite a wake.

As they moved through the pub, she could hear the whispers.

“That’s Rafe Brandon, isn’t it?”

“The Devil’s Own. I’d heard he was here on holiday.”

“I saw him fight once, you know. At Brighton. He did an exhibition for the regiment just before we shipped to the Peninsula.”

If Rafe heard the gossip, he didn’t acknowledge it. He guided Clio and Phoebe to the last free table in the pub, one tucked in a corner behind a group of men playing cards. When the tavern girl came, he ordered shepherd’s pie for the ladies, and a ploughman’s luncheon of cheese, sliced ham, and buttered bread for himself.

While they waited for their meal, Phoebe pulled out a length of string, cut it off with her teeth, knotted the ends, and began to weave string figures.

“I’ve been working on something new, but I can’t get it right.” She shook her head, frustrated. Then she slipped the string loose and began over again. “Perhaps this through that loop . . . There. Lord Rafe, do you see that bit of string in the middle? Third one down. Pinch it tight, please.”

He did as Phoebe asked, and she pulled her hands downward, widening her fingers to reveal a web of string in the shape of a castle. The bit of string Rafe held had become a soaring spire in the middle, and there were turrets on either side.

“Oh, well done.” Clio applauded.