Chapter 1 #2
Her eyes clouded with uncertainty, and he could tell she was thinking again, calculating.
Until all at once, her mouth gaped, and her words rushed out in a flurry.
“You’re the new land agent, aren’t you?” Another burst of color flooded her face, sweeping away her air of confidence and leaving guilt in its wake.
“I’m terribly sorry for trespassing, I—”
“No, not the land agent.” He shook his head, ridding her of the misconception before her worry had a chance to spiral. Yet how was he to explain his position without keeping her another half hour and providing details far too intimate to share with a stranger?
“I’m family,” he settled on after a moment, because despite the years of estrangement, the years of separation from country estates and peerages, he couldn’t change the blood running through his veins.
She cocked her head, almost like a foxhound who’d picked up an unexpected scent. “Family? To … to the Marquess of Rockliffe?”
“Yes. His nephew.” The heir presumptive, the accidental successor, the man who was never supposed to have any of this.
All these new titles he didn’t know how to sort, didn’t know how to own, rushed through his head, convoluted and strange.
And so, he uttered the only thing that gave him certainty, the name that had been his since birth. “Benedict Prescott.”
“Oh!” The woman stumbled, her hem catching in her slipper, and she emitted another of those breathy gasps just like when he’d thrown open the door to discover her.
He acted instinctively when he saw her body pitch, his arms shooting out to secure her in his grip. However, he took a split-second too long, and she was on the floor before he could do a damn thing to stop it, her skirts tangled amidst the leg of a wobbly-looking chair.
“Are you all right?” He dove to the floor beside her, quickly scanning up and down her body for signs of injury. Although first glances revealed that the worst of the damage had been done to her pride.
“I’m well,” she huffed, attempting to wrench her foot from behind the chair leg. “I’m perfectly fine.”
However, her foot remained where it was, caught up in the ruffle that had torn at her hem. She tried anew, tugging impatiently, but the only effect was the loud rending of fabric.
“Allow me.” Ben spoke just as she let out an aggrieved cry, and he approached her cautiously, waiting for the brief glimmer of assent in her eyes before taking hold of her silky hem.
The material slid over his fingertips like butter as he worked to disentangle it from the chair leg, then slipped the ruffle free of her foot.
She winced. Only for a moment before wiping the expression away, but not so swiftly that he failed to notice it. And before he could ponder the wisdom of what he did, he took her ankle into his grasp, cradling it within his palm.
“You’re certain you haven’t hurt yourself?
” He peered down at the feminine limb and the stocking that covered any evidence of bruising.
He wasn’t prepared for how very warm she would be.
How very soft she would feel when he let his fingertips brush against her.
Perhaps he should fetch his spectacles from his pocket so he could observe the site more thoroughly for signs of injury.
Except suddenly, he seemed incapable of movement.
“I …” Her voice trailed away; all that remained was her blue gaze upon him, not wounded or aggrieved but … pensive.
He took a quick breath, his nostrils prickling.
In this hut smelling of mildew and sheep, on this floor full of dust and Lord knew what else, he could also detect the scent of something floral.
Something fresh and sweet, which one would be apt to find only in the countryside.
Or perhaps, only in close proximity to a woman—
The door crashed open, and a bracing gust of wind pervaded the hut, along with a deep, caustic voice. “What’s this, then?”
Ben whipped his head around, his eyes falling upon the gentleman in the doorway. He was a young man, finely dressed, with features displaying a potent mix of shock and bewilderment—along with a heavy dose of anger.
“George?” The mystery woman spat out the name as if she didn’t quite comprehend it, and her ankle shuddered within Ben’s palm—a reminder he was still holding it. He set it gently on the floor, the one bit of carefulness he managed before jerking his head back toward her.
“What in hell is the meaning of this, Violet?” the gentleman’s voice boomed from behind him, his boots making the floor creak as he took another step into the hut.
Violet. Ben should have known she’d possess such a name—both a color and a flower, bright and fragrant.
Presently, though, she looked less like a delicate blossom and more like a provoked adder, ready to strike.
“I could ask the same of you.” She glared at her errant suitor, any trepidation she held turning to blazing-eyed fury.
“You said you’d be just five minutes behind me, but I’m certain an hour has passed. ”
“Denham cajoled me into joining the archery tournament, and I could hardly say no.” For an instant, the young man almost sounded sheepish, although when Ben turned to him, any hint of remorse was quickly replaced by a scowl.
“What does it matter? Apparently, you found someone else to take my place.”
“You’re mistaken, I assure you,” Ben bit out, just as Violet cried, “That’s not what this is!”
She took hold of the chair, using it to help herself clamber to her feet. “This gentleman and I stumbled upon one another by accident, and I fell, and—”
“I have no interest in your excuses and falsehoods. My eyes have already told me everything I need to know.” The gentleman—George—cast a final scathing look around the hut before giving her a brusque nod. “Good day, Miss Collingwood.”
And then, before either of them could utter another word, George stormed back into the elements, slamming the door behind him.
Violet stood in stunned silence, almost as if her suitor had dealt her a blow.
It lasted only an instant, though, before she took hold of her damaged skirts and rushed toward the doorway.
“George, wait!” she yelped, grabbing the latch and shoving the door open once more. “You’re being unreasonable, you—”
“Miss Collingwood.” Ben found his voice at precisely the same moment he realized he was still crouching on the floor, watching the scene as if it were a farce on Drury Lane.
He scrambled upright, hastily brushing the dirt from his trousers and darting over to the doorway beside her before she could run away.
“Miss Collingwood,” he repeated softly, using the name the gentleman had uttered just prior to his departure—although truth be told, Ben would have far preferred testing Violet upon his tongue. And then …
And then, he didn’t know what else to say.
Didn’t know why he’d kept her there. So he could tell her he’d noticed her flinch when her feet hit the floor, and she should stay to rest a while longer?
So he could share his observation that, at the risk of judging too hastily, he deemed George a veritable jackass who wasn’t worth her time?
None of the words felt right; out of myriad possibilities, he didn’t know how to form an appropriate sentence.
Nor did he have the opportunity. She remained in the doorway with him, letting silence linger, for merely a beat before bursting out into the field, leaving only the echo of her breathless words behind her. “Apologize, Mr. Prescott, for the intrusion … cannot stay … George, come back here!”
Ben couldn’t help but cringe a little as her feet hit the muddy grass, struggling to catch up with her irate suitor, who had the advantage of sturdy boots and an advanced start. Her flimsy white slippers, with their elaborate green bows, didn’t fare well now that the ground was wet.
Yet once again, it was none of his concern. The pair were having a lovers’ quarrel that they alone needed to sort. His interference wasn’t needed, nor did he particularly desire placing himself in the middle of such volatility—especially when George’s ears seemed to be stuffed with cotton wool.
Besides, he had troubles of his own to sort, starting with successfully making his way to Aldercombe Grange. If nothing else, the unfortunate encounter in the hut had granted him the directions he required.
He stepped out into the field, heading toward the northwest corner where the fence met the trees, just as Violet had instructed.
His boots squelched against the ground, but he tried not to think about where—or in what—he was stepping.
He tried not to think about anything except that soon, at long last, he’d arrive at his destination.
But even though Violet and her suitor had run off in the opposite direction and were now well out of earshot, he couldn’t stop replaying the scene from the hut in his mind. Couldn’t shake the slight sense of unease that tugged at his gut.
A sense that, maybe, he couldn’t wash his hands of the matter as cleanly as he would like.