Chapter 19
The village green in Dayleford had become a veritable maelstrom of merriment.
From the children who shrieked delightedly as they chased each other between the trees, to the food vendors who called out their offerings from the stalls they’d erected, to the band of white-clad dancers who spun about with bells jingling on their legs, everything was alive and boisterous.
Ben stood at the edge of the throng with Violet on his arm, not quite certain which way to turn first. Twilight had fallen, and a few young men began climbing up to light the lanterns hung in the trees, which cast the scene in a golden glow. Every part vivid. Radiant.
Although not so much as the woman beside him, her mass of flaxen curls twisted into a loose knot. Her skirts adorned with delicate silver threads that caught the light.
Something peculiar rattled in his chest when he gazed at her. Something that might make the whole of the chaotic scene vanish and leave only her behind, were he to stare long enough.
“Shouldn’t you be accustomed to crowds?” When he didn’t move, Violet’s elbow jabbed lightly into his side, and she gave his arm a gentle tug forward, her smile brighter than any lantern. Brighter than the sun. “Coming from London and all.”
He looked away, concentrating his attention straight ahead of him lest he grow distracted and tread on any feet.
Yes, he’d grown up amidst the bustle of London.
However, that wasn’t the same thing—didn’t hold the same significance.
The crowds on Fleet Street or in Hyde Park weren’t composed of people to whom he held a responsibility.
People who relied on his management and judged his actions accordingly.
People he would count as tenants, servants, and neighbors for the rest of his life, if that’s the path he chose.
His throat tightened at the thought, a new sensation he couldn’t name fighting for purchase in his chest. Fortunately, Violet didn’t seem to expect an answer, for she’d turned toward the food stalls, standing on tiptoe to survey what was available.
“I think I spy apple tarts,” she said excitedly, her gloved hand slipping away from his coat. “Let me go buy us some refreshments.”
She was gone a moment later, weaving through the throng, following the aromas of spices and wood smoke. And while he could have easily joined her, he found himself holding back. Watching. Taking everything in.
He was still half in awe he’d agreed to come. He likely wouldn’t have, had he not been afraid the urge to plunge his cock into his wife right on his desk would get the better of him. Yet now that they were here … he didn’t think he was sorry.
He inhaled deeply, tracking the glint of her hair as she hurried up to one of the pie sellers, the cheerful lilt of fiddle music accompanying her steps. Everything was chaotic but bright. Everything just seemed to fit.
What had he expected on the day his uncle came to him, after his expulsion from Cambridge, and requested his help with Aldercombe Grange? Certainly not this. Not her.
“Mr. Prescott.” A hefty body brushed past his shoulder, the deep bellow tearing his attention away from Violet.
In front of him stood Arthur Ruddle, the tenant farmer who’d marched into his study with news of Lord Frederick’s dam.
But whereas the confrontation in the study had been filled with ire and accusations, Ruddle’s stout face now danced with gaiety.
“To you, sir.” Ruddle thrust the mug he held into the air, white foam spilling over the side. “For setting the land right.”
Ben felt his brow quirk and jaw loosen, although surprise rendered him unable to say a word.
Apparently, he didn’t need to, for a younger man stumbled up beside Ruddle, tipping his wide-brimmed hat in Ben’s direction and then raising his mug high. “To your health.”
“To the prosperity of Aldercombe,” cried another, spinning around to clink mugs with the duo.
“And not to that weasel Lord Frederick,” shouted a fourth, causing a bevy of raucous cheers to burst from the group.
Ben couldn’t stop the choked laugh that rose in his throat. Not to that weasel, indeed.
Something cool pressed against his palm, and he turned to find that Violet had come back and was passing him a mug of his own. “Small ale,” she whispered close to his ear. “Is that all right?”
He nodded, mouthing his thanks as he took hold of the handle and joined the men in their toast. “To all of you, too, for your patience, hard work, and dedication,” he said, touching mugs with the group—including Violet, who’d also procured a mug for herself. Especially with Violet.
Everyone took a drink, and after another round of jubilant cheers, followed by a series of emphatic bows to Violet, the men disbanded. Leaving Ben alone—or at least, alone in the middle of a crowd—with his wife.
“What was all that about?” She looked at him brightly, her cheeks an even more pronounced pink than when she’d left him several minutes prior.
He glanced into the throng, unable to fully fathom what had just happened. “It seems they’re pleased with recent developments to the land. Mainly, I suppose, on account of the water meadow preventing their farms from flooding.” He shrugged. “That, or they’re addled by the effects of drink.”
She shook her head, the curls framing her face slightly bobbing. “It’s not just the drink.” She lifted her mug, giving it another light tap against his. “To you, Mr. Prescott, and the fine job you’re doing with Aldercombe.”
His heart clenched, then felt very light. “And to you, wife.” Because I wouldn’t have done half as well were you not there, too.
He took another swallow of small ale, watching over the rim of his mug as she tipped hers to her mouth.
Watching as she pulled her mug away, and a coating of moisture remained on her lips.
He’d best not think about her lips—about where they’d been, what they’d done, how incomparably pleasurable they’d felt—or he’d be certain to go mad.
“I’ve brought you a meat pie and an apple tart,” she said, reaching into the small sack that hung around her arm. She was utterly unaware of just how much she’d captivated him. Of how the air around them felt different and something in the world had shifted in a way he’d never experienced before.
He forced himself back to his senses, setting down his mug so he could accept the two pastries she offered. One sweet, one savory.
He could hardly claim surprise when, of the two she kept for herself, she bit into the apple tart first, a satisfied grin tugging at the edges of her mouth. As such, his cock did not twitch in his trousers when she sighed contentedly, licking a bit of apple from her fingertip.
Very well, it did. But how could he help it? She was beautiful, alluring. To frame it from a logical standpoint, his body desired hers.
Yet it went beyond that. He didn’t just crave those lush hips and rounded breasts but also that smile. There was something brilliant about it. Something infectious.
Something that made him smile uninhibitedly in return, take a large bite of his apple tart, and feel as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
They stood in the grass eating their makeshift dinner, soon approached by other revelers, for the scene with Ruddle and the men had drawn attention.
They spoke with tenants, servants, and villagers, meeting infants, the elderly, and people of all ages in between.
An undertaking that was surprisingly easy when everyone was so merry.
They conversed so long that his voice grew hoarse from shouting to be heard above the din of the celebration, until eventually, the crowd shifted, many going to take part in a country dance now that the troupe of jingling dancers had finished their performance.
Violet watched eagerly, her foot tapping against the grass as the fiddle began a new, lively tune. “We should dance, too.”
He joined her in peering at the joyful procession, his brow and his stomach knotting simultaneously. “But I … I cannot.” A lifetime of caution wouldn’t disappear in a single evening. “I don’t know how.”
She was undeterred, her hand falling upon his shoulder. Her eyes met his and glimmered with the purest, most dazzling blue. “It doesn’t matter if you cannot execute every step. You’ll keep up. I’m confident.”
She released his shoulder and held her palm out as an offering, her grin wide and brilliant. Her golden lashes lightly fluttering.
It would appear he was powerless to refuse, for his hand slipped into hers, and he let her pull him along, right to the center of the dancers.
“Ready?” She mouthed the word as she spun herself to face him, lips quirking.
And then, there was no time to do anything but step and clap and whirl along with the music, to keep up with the flurry of dancers alongside them.
Having spent his youth neither in the country nor in ballrooms, he had precious little dance experience of any kind. The steps were foreign to him, and he stumbled while he tried to get his bearings.
But there was something freeing about it. Lightness rushed through his head each time he spun, and dizzying sparks of pleasure flared when he arrived back at his starting position to find Violet there waiting, flushed and smiling. Silver and blue and pink and gold.
He was certain he looked ridiculous. And yet, the knowledge didn’t trouble him in the least.
Ben was uncertain of the hour when they returned home that night.
Then again, he also didn’t care. What difference did the time on his watch make when his feet were satisfyingly weary, his ears hummed from the memory of fiddle music, and Aldercombe Grange was bathed in the light of countless stars and a moon nearly full?
What difference did anything make when Violet clutched his arm, her silhouette framed by golden curls that had come loose to spill down her back? There was no more crowd. No more food stalls, games, or entertainers.
There was simply the two of them, standing on a silent drive on a tranquil spring night.