At least Mabry’s words removed one item from his growing list. He no longer needed to speak to Julia about Edmund. If she was as bright a businesswoman as her father touted her to be, everything that needed to be said was right here.
If Julia was still bent on marrying Edmund, well, then, she was not the woman Daniel believed her to be. Like Don Quixote, his beautiful warrior would be seeing illusions instead of windmills.
But Daniel believed otherwise. He had come to know Julia over the past couple of days. She may be idealistic, but she was strong and brave. She would see the truth. And he would be there to help her pick up the pieces once she did.
That was what faithful squires did.
Chapter Eight
JULIA spread a blanket on the ground near the apple tree where Jonathan and Bea scrambled like monkeys. Neatening her skirts, she leaned back against the chipped and peeling picket fence and closed her eyes. She needed to sit for a minute.
Bea and Jonathan’s bellows drifted to her. She had banned Jonathan’s use of the word eejits, but dared not contemplate what choice language would replace it. She doubted her father would find his son’s expanded lexicon as amusing as Daniel had.
Thinking of Daniel, she opened her eyes to peer along the stretch of road leading to the fields. He had disappeared well over an hour ago, which was fine, for it had taken her and Emily that long to deal with the disarray in Mabry’s cottage.
At least Mrs. Mabry was recovering. She had even regained enough strength to deliver a stinging diatribe against Edmund’s bailiff. While Emily shared a small repast with Mrs. Mabry, Julia had escaped outside, having lost her appetite over all she had heard. She had also wanted to check on Jonathan, ensure he hadn’t killed anyone.
She squinted into the apple tree, locating her brother. He straddled a low branch, a wide-eyed, owlish look crossing his features as he listened to Bea, who no doubt was prattling on about the ills of the Irish. Julia’s lips twitched, for truth be told, she shared Daniel’s amusement toward Bea. She admired her audacity. It reminded her of herself as a girl before she had to pin her hair up.
Her attention returned to Jonathan. The ton would not approve of the heir to an earldom romping about with Just Bea and her saucy tongue. But nor would they approve of an earl’s daughter shoving up her sleeves and plunging her arms elbow deep into soapsuds and dirty dishwater. But she had done so, and if need be, would do so again. The need to do something to help out that poor, bedridden woman had erased all Julia’s doubts.
That was why she had never belonged in London. She belonged here, listening to the rewarding sound of Mrs. Mabry’s laughter when Julia had teased her about Bea’s colorful vocabulary. Mrs. Mabry’s pride in her daughter had matched her derision for Edmund’s bailiff.
Julia’s mood plummeted. She shaded her eyes and squinted down the road, looking for signs of Daniel.
Where was he? And what had he learned?
Some squire he was. She gnawed on her lower lip as she recalled his vow to look out for her. It had caught her off guard, for she could not remember the last time someone had offered to help her. Then again, she had never asked for help. However, Daniel’s vow didn’t concern her too much, for where was he now? Nowhere to be found.
“Now who is looking doubtful?”
As if he had heard her rebuke, there he was. He stood in a halo of sunlight, like an archangel grinning at her. More like a fallen angel. At the sight of his devilish grin, something fluttered in her chest. He had discarded his jacket, gloves, and hat, and once again rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. The sight of his naked forearms so boldly displayed had her struggling to stand.
Daniel offered his hand, and after a slight hesitation, she accepted it. Slipping her fingers into his, the heat of his skin seeped through her leather glove. His forearm was hard muscle and strong, and he pulled her up with ease. Her traitorous heart emitted another flutter.
He was so close, she could smell his masculine scent, sweat mixed with a lingering hint of sandalwood soap. A lock of hair fell over his forehead, and his eyes were as green as the meadows they had ridden past. He was her Beautiful Bedford . . . only he was not.
A clamp constricted her chest, stifling its flutters. She withdrew her hand and stepped back. “Where have you been? Where is Mr. Mabry?”
“He stayed at the fields. Did you miss me?”
Was he serious? Or teasing?
When she simply looked at him, he laughed. He nodded to Mabry’s house. “What are you doing out here? Have you been sitting here all this time? Where’s Emily?”
“Sitting out here?” she echoed. “Yes, I have just been whiling away the hour, watching the apples grow and the wind blow because I daren’t get my hands dirty or my riding habit dusty.”