Chapter One
“F orgive me, Miss Jones, for approaching this subject without proper parental consent,” Mr. Donald Shuttlebotham said as he dropped to one knee in front of the young lady’s chair. “I did first seek approval from your father, but he said you must make these important decisions for yourself. He washes his hands of the matter.”
Oh, dear . Not another marriage proposal. Such was the burden of her beauty. Over the past year, Miss Venus Jones had turned down six more proposals of marriage—much to her mother’s despair.
It was a pity her beauty had been resoundingly ignored by the only man Miss Jones would ever countenance plighting her life with. Adonis . Not the real Adonis—not that the mythical Adonis had actually been real. No, the lady had directed her singular devotion at her sinfully handsome neighbor, the Honorable James Beresford.
“I shall never forget that first time I beheld your beauty, that first night at Almack’s,” the portly Mr. Shuttlebotham went on. “I’d never seen a more beautiful girl. Or should I say woman?” He smiled up at her as he gave a nervous little laugh.
Should she cut Mr. Shuttlebotham’s declaration short right now, or should she hear him out? Either way, the poor fellow was bound to be crestfallen over her rejection. She really hated to be placed in this position. It wasn’t as if she had ever encouraged the poor man. She had turned down his offer to ride in his phaeton numerous times. She had threatened to destroy any poems he might pen in praise of her beauty. She had even thoughtlessly let slip that she did not favor men possessed of red hair—as was Mr. Shuttlebotham. (That last bit of rudeness had mortified her. Miss Venus Jones prided herself on her compassion for those she considered... well, unfortunate.)
She would have preferred to run away right now. It pained her to see anyone suffer, and poor Mr. Shuttlebotham would, quite naturally, be disappointed. Making the decision to ask for a person’s hand in marriage was seldom taken lightly. One tended to tie one’s happiness to a marital union. But not just any marital union—it was said there was a preordained mate for everyone.
Since the day she had first beheld Mr. James Beresford’s magnificence, she had known he was The One for her.
And poor Mr. Shuttlebotham obviously must believe his course to Happily-Ever-After Land could only be reached through Miss Venus Jones.
That lady held up a flattened palm. “Say no more, my dear Mr. Shuttlebotham. You should know I have pledged to marry Adonis.” He need not know the pledge was one-sided.
The man’s eyes narrowed. He got to his feet and stood there looking down on her in rather the same way a chef might scowl at a plate of rotten food.
“Why did your father not mention this when I asked for your hand?” he demanded.
“My good sir, surely you have become acquainted with the knowledge that my father is perhaps the most absentminded man in all of England.”
He nodded. “There is that. I wonder if it’s because he fancies living in Ancient Rome.”
Sadly, everyone knew her scholar father lived in the past—the very distant past of the Roman Empire, hence the names of his children. Venus’s brothers were named Apollo, Mars, and Vulcan.
She got up and walked to the window. Snow was beginning to blanket the parkland in front of her family’s home. “You understand my father perfectly.” Brows plunging, she turned.
“Who’s Adonis?” he asked.
“The man I’ve been in love with since my father inherited Bexley Park when I was fifteen.” That’s all she was going to reveal. “Eight long years ago,” she continued quietly to herself as the gentleman slunk away.
And still, James Beresford was quite possibly the only man in Great Britain who was not captured by her beauty. In fact, he directed far more attention to his heifers than he did to her. That was the problem with Mr. Beresford. His livestock and the study of farming techniques occupied every daylight hour. His nighttime pursuits, too, were unlike those of other bachelors. No more assemblies or gaming hells or opera dancers. The fellow preferred to prop up his slipper-shod feet in front of a fire and read tomes on animal husbandry.
She turned back toward the window. Her attention turned again to her Adonis. He needed to be convinced he must marry.
She had an idea.
*
“What the devil?” James Beresford asked himself as he spread out the unmarked, unsigned message that had been delivered to his house that afternoon. Words cut from newspapers formed a message pasted to a single piece of foolscap. It read:
You have worked too hard improving and adding to your lands not to ensure the succession. You must marry and father an heir.
“Look at this!” He shoved the missive to his visiting sister, Emily, now a duchess, the wife of the Duke of Bentley.
After looking over it, she burst into laughter.
“What is so bloody funny?” he asked.
“You, you goose. I know not who sent this, but you really should take heed to its message, James. You’re not getting any younger. A man of thirty should be married and fathering children. Do you not hope to pass along Tilford one day to your own son?”
He shrugged. “I will own, I do fancy having a son, but I’m not much in the petticoat line.”
Emily rolled her eyes. “Bentley tells me you were a bit of a Lothario at Oxford, so I know you can find your way around petticoats. Or beneath them,” she added with a wicked little laugh.
He glared. One simply did not broach that subject with one of the opposing gender, much less with one’s own sister, and he said so. “I refuse to discuss such with my sister.”
“Then will you discuss Miss Venus Jones? She’s always fancied you.”
His brows dipped. “Miss Jones? I expect there are not a lot of prospects here in remote Lincolnshire. Poor girl should go to London if she seeks a husband.”
Emily put hand to hips. “She has been to London! And she was highly sought after. The only person in England who’s turned down more matrimonial proposals from men than Miss Jones is our cousin Sophia, and everyone knows beautiful Sophia turned down something like fifty proposals of marriage.”
“Served our cousin well to wait. She snared one of the richest men in the kingdom.”
“You’re missing the important thing. Sophia married a man with whom she’s madly in love. Like me with Bentley. That’s what we wish for you, dear brother. Your cows and sheep and a fine barley crop won’t warm your bed at night.”
There she went again, embarrassing him by speaking of intimacies between a man and a woman. Since when had his sisters become so knowledgeable about the ways of the world? Just half a year ago, Emily was as innocent as a newborn babe.
His glance fanned back to the anonymous note. “Who in the devil would be sending me something like this?”
“Someone who cares for you and wants the best for you.”
He eyed her skeptically. “Did you send this?” She shook her head. “You sure you don’t know who sent it?”
“No, I do not. I merely believe you should be open to matrimony. Trust me, finding your perfect mate will enrich your life immeasurably.”
“I’m not going to London to look for a mate.”
“You don’t have to go there to seek a wife. I know London no longer holds allure for you. There are worthy candidates right here in Lincolnshire.”
“We’ll see.” He would not inconvenience himself in any way to hunt for a prospective wife. His life was perfectly satisfactory as it was.
Emily cleared her throat. “By the way, now that it’s stopped snowing, Miss Jones will visit this afternoon. She’s mad to learn about that new reaper you’re so obsessed over.”
“Why would a young woman be interested in farming?”
“You must be aware that her father’s interests do not extend to the maintenance of his not-insubstantial farm. Until one of her brothers develops an interest in their lands, Miss Jones has decided to take it upon herself to look after their family’s farming interests. You will show her around, will you not?”
“I suppose I could.”
*
Good lord, did that silly Jones woman think she was at the North Pole? The female was fairly swathed in velvets and warm gloves and woolen capes. Some kind of fur Cossack-type hat obscured her hair and part of her face. Damned if he could even remember what color the chit’s hair was. Though if memory served him correctly, he thought she was possessed of golden hair. He’d never really paid much attention to his sisters’ friend.
He regarded the Jones gal in much the same way as he would a piece of furniture. Which was to say, he’d never really given much consideration to the young lady since his sisters had befriended her many years ago. He supposed he’d watched her grow up, but the only thing he remembered about her was that she was uncommonly pretty. He must have been home from Oxford when he’d first crossed paths with the scholar’s youthful daughter.
James’s mother, God rest her soul, had found Mr. Prometheus Jones to be the most peculiar man she’d ever met—even if he had published half a dozen definitive books on Ancient Romans and Greeks.
James had lamented that his male neighbor did not share his interest in farming and animal husbandry. It would have been nice to have someone to discuss his obsessions with, someone who understood the latest agricultural improvements.
But all he had was this slip of a female apparently. His gaze met hers. “My sister tells me you’re interested in learning about my reaper.”
“Indeed I am. I actually read about it in a periodical. Can it really reduce working hours as significantly as by half?”
At least she’d had enough interest to read about the most important agricultural improvement of his lifetime. “More than half, actually. It’s a pity there’s no crop at present where I can demonstrate for you the reaper’s effectiveness.”
“Yes, that is disappointing, but I think I’m intelligent enough to be able to visualize its functions if I could be afforded the opportunity to see it.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Do you mind walking to the barn?”
She rubbed her gloved hands together. “Not at all.”
They passed the stables first. Raising racehorses had dominated his interest not long after he’d left Oxford, but he no longer wagered at Newmarket, so his interest in stables had waned, though he still had several fine mounts at hand. “Do you ride, Miss Jones?”
“Oh, yes. I adore riding, but alas, our stables compare poorly with yours. In fact, I no longer even have a mount of my own.”
“No problem like that here at Tilford.”
“You don’t suppose I might could come ride one of yours one day, when it’s finer weather than it is today?”
“I have no objection.”
“If we rode together, perhaps you could show me your lands. I’ve never been clear about when you plant which fields with which crops, et cetera.”
“I would likely bore you to distraction. My sisters will have told you I’m possessed of a single-minded obsession over agriculture.”
She gazed up at him with what could only be described as wonderment. There was quite a youthful quality about her face. He supposed anyone would consider her a beauty. Hadn’t Emily said Miss Jones had rejected a large number of suitors? He was no arbiter of feminine beauty, chiefly because his interests lay elsewhere, namely with his lands, but he would be hard pressed to find a prettier face anywhere than that which was looking at him so raptly right now.
No one feature in that pretty face dazzled. It wasn’t like you could say she had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen or that her figure would cause a man to turn around and gawk—though either of those remarks could be applied to her. Rather, with Miss Jones, what one noticed was how those flawless features feathered together to create a rather pleasing piece of perfection from her pink-hued complexion to her ready smile with even, white teeth, to her warm blue eyes with sweeping lashes.
“I should adore being instructed in agricultural matters by you. As you know, my papa is not interested in farming, and my brothers are all still at school, so it’s falling to me to make sure Bexley Park is taken care of properly. Do you not think it’s important to leave things better than we found them for the next generation?” Even though Emily had said the chit had been out of the schoolroom for many years, her voice sounded like that of a girl rather than a woman.
“Just today Emily and I were speaking of the next generation.” He’d not been able to shake the subject from his mind. He was no longer a young man fresh from university. He was entering his fourth decade. Loath as he was to admit his sister might be right, he ought to give consideration to settling down and having a family. And a son.
But there was also merit in that bit Emily mentioned about love. One could not marry merely for primogeniture. One must marry for love. And how was he going to find a perfect mate here in Lincolnshire?
He turned back to Miss Jones. “Does your father not employ a steward to see to his lands?” It seemed strange to James that a female would be even remotely interested in overseeing large farming interests, especially if others were employed in that very task.
“He has to. My father’s expertise does not extend to matters of farming.”
“That’s precisely why one engages a professional.”
“But look at your successes, Mr. Beresford! Your agricultural improvements are legendary. I would like Bexley to enjoy some of those same successes.”
“I am happy to help in any way I can.”
She fell into step beside him. For one who bundled oneself up like one on an arctic expedition, the lady had neglected to put on sturdy boots. Her feet must be ridiculously cold.
By the time they had traversed the half a mile separating the stables and barn, she no longer looked comfortable. Her exceedingly fair skin was tinged with blue, her teeth were chattering, and her whole body began to shiver.
He stopped and spoke with concern. “I say, Miss Jones, it’s beastly cold. You should have worn something warmer on your feet.” Absently, his arm snaked around her, his hand settling at her waist. “Come, let’s get inside the barn.”
Her face lifted. Their eyes met. A gentle smile lifted her flawless face. For some peculiar reason, that smile sparked a fissure of pleasure in him not unlike the thrill of a calf’s birth.
While the barn was not warm, being inside it was much warmer than outdoors. James proudly eyed the mechanical contraption that lay in the center of the barn’s floor.
She, too, looked at it, a querying expression on her face. “That must be the reaper I’ve heard so much about.” Her voice still shook. The poor woman was still blue.
His brows lowered. “You ought to sit down a moment and warm up. Your feet must have turned into blocks of ice.”
“They do feel like it,” she confessed.
The problem was, there was no place to sit. Not in a chair, at least. “If you don’t object, I believe you’ll have to sit up on the work bench. Here, I’ll lift you.” This was deuced awkward. “If you don’t object.”
An inept smile crossed her solemn little face. She did look decidedly uncomfortable. And it made him feel wretched. He moved to her and cleared his throat. “All right if I give you the old heave-ho now?”
Now, the lady favored him with a smile. And not just any smile. It was a burden-lightening, approval-asserting, make-a-fellow-a-foot-taller kind of smile.
He scooped her into his arms as if she weighed no more than pillow and set her atop the farmhands’ workbench. As his hands swept away, he was aware they brushed against the sides of her breasts. Good lord, he hoped Miss Jones was not upset over his familiarity. He’d never meant to... oh, well, it did not bear contemplation.
He found himself rubbing her shoes.
“What are you doing?” she asked pleasantly.
“I’m trying to warm up your feet.”
“How kind of you. They are terribly cold.”
He looked around to see if there was anything warm he could wrap them in, but there was nothing.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” she said shyly, “I think it would do better if you rubbed my stocking feet instead of my slippers.”
He swallowed. Did the lady want him to remove her shoes? It sounded exceedingly intimate. But the lady had looked awfully miserable. He proceeded to remove each of her flimsy kid slippers. Then, he began to massage her feet.
“Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Beresford. That is most definitely making a difference. I’m getting warmer.”
And so was James, but not in the way he’d intended. Feeling Miss Jones’s delicate feet, looking at the perfection of her face, the close proximity to a seemingly helpless female all had an erotic effect upon him. He’d never before thought of Venus Jones as a woman. Or as a desirable female. But now she no longer seemed like his little sisters’ little friend.
This would not do! He coughed and removed his heavily gloved hands from her dainty feet. “So, Miss Jones, allow me to explain the workings of a reaper...”