“Lucy, he’s a delight, he really is. You’ve done marvelously with him.”
“Besides turning him into a girl?” she asked with a laugh.
“Nonsense. You might dress a boy in a silk gown and teach him to stitch, but the boy will always out. Same for girls, you know. Only look at my Jane. Taught her to ride and shoot, took her about the sheep farms, but no part of her could be considered masculine. ‘Cept maybe her voice. She’s got her mother’s odd, low voice. That aside, however, she’s all girl, so her masculine accomplishments are not to her detriment.”
Lucy nodded, still smiling. “To my mind, they are what make her most charming, and what will drive my poor, wound up brother to distraction.” She looked up and met his gaze. “Is it wrong that I secretly laugh at what I’m sure she’ll put him through?”
“Undoubtedly, but do go ahead. In fact, we’ll discuss it at length a bit later.”
“Later?”
He winked at her. “Don’t be alarmed if there’s a scratch at your chamber door when you least expect it. And don’t assume it’s your maid and tell her to go away.”
“Oh, Sherbourne, how lovely! Will you really sneak about like a spy, to gain entrance to my bed?”
His grin faded and he became quite serious. “I’d climb the deuced ivy to your window, or slide down the chimney, and if all else failed, I’d walk through the front door, come upstairs in plain sight, and threaten to kill anyone who spread tales. But I don’t believe such drastic action will be necessary. I’m merely alerting you to keep your eyes open and be ready to take a cue.”
“Yes, my lord, I will, I’m sure, be very ready.”
***
Jane ate a great deal and had two glasses of wine, appearing to find comfort and ease in his presence, despite her lack of any clothing beyond her shift and him in his shirtsleeves.
For his part, Michael was bedeviled with desire, smoldering hotly as he watched her, his gaze unable to draw away from her long, curling hair, the manner in which it moved with her body, teasing him with glimpses of her breasts, her rosy nipples outlined clearly beneath the thin lawn of her shift.
He felt sorry for her, well aware she would despise his pity. But he couldn’t help it. She’d been at the mercy of a cad, a bounder, an evil scoundrel who deserved death. Remembering her at eighteen, filled with inquisitive, uninhibited passion, he wanted to shout his anger. He wanted to find MacDougal and crush him beneath the heel of his boot, pummel him into oblivion, visit a terrible fate upon him for destroying her innocence, her natural curiosity, the essence of her.
Eventually, he would do so. He’d demand his own satisfaction and he would have it. Until that time, he was determined to bring back the woman he’d ravished in his sister’s library. She was still there, he was certain. He had but to coax her out of hiding.
They talked of Beckinsale House and some of the things he had planned for their stay. She revealed she enjoyed swimming and he promised, if the weather was warm, he would take her to the lake within the park and they would bathe there. Sated and drowsy, she leaned back in her chair and watched him from eyes the color of the sky at dusk. “Had you enough to eat?”
“Yes, quite.”
“Are you disappointed there was no steak and kidney pie?”
“A bit, but I expect I can convince Cook to prepare one during our stay.”
She cast a look toward the screen in the corner behind him. “I’d like to freshen up a bit.”
Feeling the need of a privy himself, he nodded and rose to his feet. Dressing quickly, no doubt sloppily, he went to the door. “I’ll be back directly, Jane.”
“I look forward to it.” She was already headed for the screen.
Downstairs, he found what he needed, then spent a while visiting with Mr. Osgood, asking about local personages and the state of the year’s crops. He was a kindly man, with a twinkle in his eye and a ready laugh. He was pleased with Michael’s praise of his wife’s cooking, clearly proud of her efforts. “’Twas Mrs. Osgood’s idear to buy the inn, Your Grace. Took a bit of work to polish ‘er up, but we’ve been pleased.”
Glancing about the common room, beginning to thin of its crowd, the hour for luncheon having just passed, Michael nodded. “Very polished, indeed, sir. You’re to be commended for your hard work.”
“Oh, but, Your Grace, credit is due to Mrs. Osgood as much as myself. The Lord was good to me, sending her into my wee shop in London, twelve years ago. Struck it well, right off, and after we married, she happened upon the notion of an inn and here we are. Not many will admit owing their good fortune to their wife, but I’m not too proud to say so. Reckon I’d still be squinting at watchworks, scraping by, but for the missus.”