Chapter 2
By Cathy Maxwell
Why in the blazes was Lady Felicia Montclair posturing her winsome self as a pot-bellied land steward?
Charles was now thankful he had decided to attend to the matter of purchasing the land himself and not leave it to the hands of some minion.
He had arrived ready to chew Loxley's offer into tiny pieces.
In truth, he didn't like Loxley. The man was greedy.
Charles was certain he didn't serve the Earl of Oakbridge well.
However, instead of Loxley, he found himself facing Lady Felicia in a bad wig and even worse tailoring.
He'd be lying if he claimed he wasn't intrigued.
He remembered Felicia from the days when she and his sisters would clump together the way women did at parish dances, all giggles and happy gossip.
He'd never approached her. It would not do for the Harrington heir to ask anything of a Montclair…
except, he'd wanted to. There was something about Felicia--a daring, a vibrance, a spark for life that he was discovering few people possessed. But he hadn’t known she liked traipsing around in boots and breeches.
Lady Felicia focused sternly on Fernbottom, who was so intent on fawning over Charles he was oblivious to what was right before him. In a gruff voice, she barked, "Let's be on with this, Fernbottom. I don't have time to waste. How are you taking the bids for the land?"
Ah, the land. Of course, the Montclairs wanted it, but Charles would not let them have it.
This acreage would increase his holdings, burnish the reputation of the Duke of Kenbrooks in Court, and make him a reckoning force in Parliament.
And then there was the pesky matter of not appearing weak around the countryside for letting a Montclair win something over a Harrington.
But this charade in men's clothing was too strange.
Someone needed to protect Lady Felicia from herself. He decided it must be him.
Therefore, as the obsequious Fernbottom was rattling on, "We must see what His Grace wishes.
Are you ready to take up the matter, Your Grace…
" Charles gripped Lady Felcia's arm at the elbow and half marched her to a stand of pines that would provide them some privacy.
He moved so quickly she was caught off guard but not for more than a second.
She dug in her heels except, although she was a robust woman, a tall one, Charles was bigger and more commanding.
"Your Grace?" a perplexed Fernbottom called. "I have a plat of the property for your review."
Charles ignored him as he guided his hostage to the shelter of the pines. The floor of needles would dampen their words from being overheard. He loosened his grip.
Lady Felicia wasted no time in lifting her arms and throwing off his hold. She would have run from the place, but not only did he block her path, but that damnable wig fell over her eyes from her exertion, momentarily blinding her.
"Is that a wig or a ferret pelt?" Charles couldn't help asking. "That thing is atrocious."
She shoved the wig back to the top of her head and shot him a glare so furious it would have cowed another man. But not Charles.
Instead, he found himself bemused. He had forgotten that her eyes were a particular shade of lavender, a blue so deep it could pass for the purple of royalty.
The hidden light in them gave away her every mood.
With those eyes and her dark hair, now untidily mussed after pushing the wig around her head, she had once ruled Charles’s youthful dreams. If their families had not been enemies, he definitely would have danced with her all those years ago.
He realized he was staring when her brows came together in an expression of exasperation.
Then, in a gruff voice, she stated, "I'm Mr. Loxley, land steward for—"
"My lady, what game are you playing?"
Her lips compressed in a mutinous expression. She wasn't going to tell him.
In a softer tone, Charles hazarded, "You know Loxley has been cheating your father."
Those lips parted, and her expression softened. "How do you know this?"
"You don't?" She looked away as if she wouldn’t discuss the matter with him, and Charles found his feelings hurt. He was being quite reasonable, considering the circumstances. "And what are you wearing?" he poked, wanting her to respond to him. "Yes, I know it is men's clothing, but the belly?"
With a huff, she reached under the vest and pulled out a feather pillow.
"It was ready to fall to my feet anyway.
" The vest and shirt immediately settled over lush feminine curves.
He was certain her breasts were bound, and yet, they were hard to hide.
Breeches and tall boots encased long, shapely legs.
An of a woman, buxom, enticing, the sort a man liked in his bed—
"Father's dying."
Her statement shut down his lust. The old earl? The man was too crusty to die. Then again, he had once thought the same about his own sire.
"I want to buy the land because I need to know that I can take care of this family after he is gone, despite being a woman. And yes, I know he has trusted Mr. Loxley with too much authority. But if I win the bid, then Papa will see he doesn't need a faithless servant."
"What of the incoming heir?"
A shiver of distaste went through her. "A spineless cousin." The expressive eyes she raised to him held a plea. "Please, we have a right to this land. It was once ours."
"Until your ancestors unwisely sold it."
She dismissed the comment with a shake of her head. "I want my father to go to his heavenly rest knowing that all will be well."
There was such earnestness in her gaze. She stood close .
. . and he was tempted to give her whatever she wished.
However, over twenty years of not trusting a Montclair still thrummed in his veins.
He did want the land. "A strip of acreage won't give him peace. Sacking Loxley would be a good first step. Of course, if Loxley learns you are impersonating him, he’ll ruin you. "
With an angry sound, she whipped away from him, almost popping him with the pillow. Her back to him, she restuffed her disguise, her movements jerky with anger.
"My lady," Charles started, wanting her to be reasonable. "This isn't a woman's role. I mean, you can't—"
She cut him off by raising her gruff voice. "I'm ready to buy the land, Fernbottom." She marched out of the pine stand.