Chapter 4
4
A fter Lady Modesty’s harrowing incident, Harry was a bit dubious about bringing Kitty along to visit the child, and opted to give her a few days’ respite. Mainly due to his sister’s needling, he’d given in, and decided to bring her along today, going up to the door and giving the knocker a solid rap. The butler greeted them with a smile, immediately ushering his sister into the house, and the tension in Harry’s shoulders eased considerably. Before he left the butcher’s shop, Kitty had insisted that Modesty was planning to teach her letters, and there was no better time to do it than while Her Ladyship was healing from a broken ankle. Harry’s grandfather had taught him to read, but the old man had passed away before Kitty was old enough to wield a quill.
Once free to turn his attention to the task at hand, he spent the next hour or so clearing away the debris in preparation for the roof repairs, stacking the rotten wood out the back on a burn pile. The July day was quite warm, and on his third trip, he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves.
“Mr. Mansfield?”
At the sound of Lady Charity’s Scottish burr, gooseflesh rippled up his arms. What was it about her adorable lilt and the sultry tenor of her voice that called to him like a dove at first light? He turned, his arms laden with splintery wood. “My lady.” He bowed his head as best he could while a little dog yipped and circled him. “I do not believe I’ve seen this fellow afore.”
“Muffin is a new addition to the household,” she said, following him to the burn pile. “He arrived with Miss Hatch, but the little rascal wheedled his way into my bedchamber last night and refused to leave.”
“I reckon sometimes the pet picks his owner.”
“’Tis unusual, I’ll say.” Her Ladyship’s dark blue eyes shifted to his forearms. “Miss Hatch didna seem overly upset that Muffin has opted to follow me about.”
“Do you like dogs?” Harry asked, tossing the load atop the pile and deciding to leave his sleeves be.
“I love them.”
“Well then, the little fellow has already figured it out.” He brushed off his hands. “Tell me, how is your sister?”
“Modesty has already gone half mad from being bedridden. I cannot tell you how thrilled she was when Kitty arrived.”
“I hope the gel is not a burden.”
“Kitty? Not at all. Modesty has decided to take it upon herself to turn her into a lady.”
Harry cringed. There might be no living with the imp if she fancied herself a lady.
“I’m certain they’ll enjoy each other’s company until we must leave for London for the Season.” Her Ladyship glanced down to a crisply folded bit of linen in her hands, a blush spreading across those petal-soft cheeks. “In thanks for your heroism yesterday, I wanted to give you something to express my gratitude.”
He took the gift and turned it over. Embroidered in one corner were his initials “H.M.” with the words “The Butcher” beneath. He ran his finger over the expert needlework.
“I hope you are fond of blue thread. If it is not to your liking, I could make another.”
“No, no. I like blue.” He drew the handkerchief to his nose and inhaled her scent—a bit of rose, a bit of lavender, and a bit of woman. “Thank you.”
Glancing up through fans of long auburn eyelashes, she gave him a bashful smile. “It isna much. I dunna ken what we would have done if you hadna been here. You were absolutely fearless and heroic.”
That was the second time she’d mentioned heroism. “I’m no hero. But I am glad to hear Lady Modesty is comfortable and healing.”
“Unfortunately, ’tis the healing part that seems to be the dreariest.” Lady Charity gestured southward. “I was about to take a stroll through the gardens. Would you care to join me?”
Harry regarded the gaping hole and rubbed the back of his neck. “I cannot think of anything I’d enjoy more, but the roof will not repair itself.”
She ran her fingers along the ribbon cinching her dress. “Och, a few moments ought not to be too disruptive.”
Heaven help him, that ribbon was tied just below the swells of her breasts. Even if she was a woman of quality, how could any man not notice the way the muslin cloth hugged such perfection? Lady Charity had mentioned that she was well and truly out, and he could understand why. With a shape like an hourglass, she embodied a goddess. From the first day she’d stepped into the shop, he’d done his best not to admire her breasts, but a man needed to be dead not to notice how exquisitely she was formed. “Very well, excuse me whilst I don my coat.”
Her Ladyship’s gaze dipped to his arms while her teeth grazed her bottom lip. “Isna it a bit overwarm for a coat, sir?”
Harry pushed his sleeves down only to earn a frown from the lady. “It is.”
“Then you may as well leave it off. After all, you werena wearing your coat when I visited the butcher’s shop, were you?”
“No, I suppose I wasn’t.”
As they started toward the gardens, Lady Charity regarded him from beneath her bonnet. “I would think it is rather uncomfortable laboring in a woolen coat in summer.”
“I daresay I agree. Men in my profession oft work in their shirt sleeves. I apologize if I appear uncouth.”
“Not at all. Compared to most of the gentlemen in my acquaintance, you seem refreshingly normal.”
“Normal?”
“Not one to put on airs.”
“I wouldn’t know an air to put on if it were presented to me on a platter.”
“Aye. That’s why I admire you.”
He gulped. Lady Charity admired him?
Truly?
With a shake of his head, reason took hold. Of course, the woman could only like him in the chaste sense of the word. After all, she was a highborn and he was but a butcher—a working man whom she’d employed to repair her stable’s roof. Her Ladyship was simply affable and that was all.
“So, tell me what it is like,” she said as if they were two old friends out for a stroll.
“Being a butcher? Fixing roofs?”
“No.” Lady Charity skipped forward, plucked a daisy, and twirled it between her fingertips. “I’ll admit those things are interesting, but what I really want to know is what is it like to face an opponent in a boxing ring.”
With his next blink, Harry pictured a bloody fist aimed at his right cheek—the same one from his last fight. He’d parried it away, countering with an uppercut to the fighter’s jaw. Being struck infused him with rage while hitting back fueled the fire. Boxing brought out the savageness in a man, not exactly something to be discussed with a lady. “I suppose I cannot say, exactly.”
“Oh, please.” She ran a hand up and down her slender midriff. “What feelings do you experience inside when facing an opponent who has his fists raised with intent to deliver a blow to your face?”
“Dunno.” He fixated on the midriff, wondering if her lady’s maid tied the woman’s stays deathly tight or left a bit of slack. “I suppose I steel myself to the task at hand.”
“Steel yourself?”
“Well, yes. A good fighter blocks out distractions.”
She plucked a petal off her daisy and let it flutter to the ground. “What distractions?”
At the moment, this woman was more distracting than a mob of boxing fanatics. But he couldn’t exactly utter such a thing. Instead, he took the flower from her fingertips and drew it to his nose. “The people in the crowd, for one. And everything else. In the ring, the only thing that matters is blocking strikes from my opponent whilst finding his weaknesses.”
“Weaknesses. I find it astounding that you can manage to be so focused in the face of such danger so as to assess the brute’s failings. Goodness, I’ll wager that is why you so masterfully rescued Modesty. You must have extraordinary control over your emotions.”
After finding the daisy’s smell somewhat reminiscent of cow manure, and nothing nearly as sweet as the scent of the handkerchief she’d given him, Harry dropped the flower. “No more than any other man, I’d venture.”
“I wouldna agree. Though I’m not acquainted with a great many men, I do have five brothers and every last one of them does not restrain himself as I imagine you must when in the throes of a fistfight.”
“I would think your brothers are gentlemen.”
“Raised to be, aye. But not so much when they come to blows, though I daresay, there hasna been a fistfight in the MacGalloway household since before our da succumbed to dropsy.”
Harry shuddered as Lady Charity’s words brought on an unbidden memory.
“Have I said something wrong?”
The darkness of his past needed to remain in the recesses of his mind where it belonged. “Not at all.” He stopped and faced her. “Though…”
“What is it?”
“I only hope they saved their angst for each other and never turned their ire upon you.”
“My brothers? Heavens, no. If anyone dared lay a hand on me or any of my sisters, I am quite certain the offending party would not be standing in the end. Moreover, Marty, the Duke of Dunscaby, mind you, would be first in line with a pair of loaded dueling pistols.”
“I am glad of it.”
Lady Charity swatted an azalea leaf. “Would you mind showing me a bit of how it is done? Her Grace told me a boxer must dance.”
“Her Grace, being the daughter of the Earl of Brixham?”
Her Ladyship’s eyes widened as she gave an exaggerated nod. “She took a lesson from Gentleman Jackson.”
Unable to believe what he was hearing, he shook his head and asked, “A young woman and a lady, no less?”
“Well, she happened to be posing as my brother’s steward at the time.”
The story grew more outrageous by the moment. “A steward?”
“Aye. I dunna suppose I ought to speak ill of the dead, but after her father fell ill and left her destitute, Julia had no choice but to don men’s clothing and apply for the posting. She was a rather good steward, might I add, though she did make an odd little man.”
“I can imagine.” Harry held his hand up, estimating a little less than five feet. “As I recall, Her Grace is barely taller than Lady Modesty.”
“True, but I digress. When we all thought her to be Jules Smallwood, my brother decided he, or she as it turned out, could use some toughening up. I’m told she took a wallop to the chin from Jackson himself, and it laid her flat on her back.”
“My word, how mortifying for her.”
“I can only imagine myself, but I must admit if I were to idolize anyone it would be my sister-in-law. And I ought to mention that after her lesson with the champion, the lass started exercising with barbells. She’s no wilting violet, I’ll say.” Lady Charity, raised her fists and hopped from one foot to the other. “Is this right?”
Harry crossed his arms while rubbing one hand over his mouth to stifle himself from laughing aloud. Though Her Ladyship was most likely the loveliest opponent he’d ever faced, she was about as fierce as a butterfly with all the ribbons and lace bouncing in tandem with her efforts. “Mayhap, if you’re dancing a jig,” he said, hoping not to dash such admirable enthusiasm.
“Och, nay.” The woman stopped abruptly, her hands flopping to her sides. “Please, will you not show me how to defend myself? Even a sheltered lady such as I never kens when she’ll face a scoundrel.”
Harry took a step back and stroked his fingers down his stubbly chin—as usual, scarcely three hours after he shaved this morning, his ungainly whiskers bristled. At first he hadn’t thought her serious about giving a demonstration, but once she mentioned defending her person, he realized Her Ladyship hadn’t been jesting. “I reckon the best defense for a woman such as yourself is a smart pair of walking shoes.”
“Shoes?”
“Yes, practical shoes that allow you to run. And perhaps a parasol.”
“Do explain the latter.”
“I’ve always imagined in the right hands, a woman can do a great deal of damage with a parasol.”
“Not her fists?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it, not unless you’re facing someone of similar size and strength.”
Lady Charity picked up a stick and addressed him as if it were a fencing sword. “Since I’ve left my parasol in the house, will this do for a wee demonstration?”
Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned a weapon. “That looks to be about the right size.”
“What do I do, wallop you over the head?”
“Me?”
“Well, an attacker. How should I strike him?”
“I must reinforce that eluding scoundrels is the absolute best action you can take, but if avoiding a confrontation is not an option, I might go for a jab to the solar plexus.”
Using one hand, Her Ladyship thrust the stick forward, missing Harry’s stomach by a fraction of an inch. “Like this?”
“Something like that, but I’d advise you to use both hands.”
“Both? Are you certain?”
Perhaps a demonstration might be better served to prove his point. “Use one hand and come at me again, and this time, don’t pull up short.”
“You mean for me to strike you?”
“Yes, madam, that is exactly what I mean. Give it a go with one hand as you did afore.”
A pink tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth while she eyed his midsection as if she intended to skewer him. With a feral growl she lunged. Harry stepped aside and took the weapon from her grasp by bending the shaft toward her thumb, a surefire maneuver to relieve any attacker of their weapon.
Except there were two problems.
The first, he could easily contend with, but rather than deliver a kick to the snarling dog gnawing on his heel, he chose to ignore Muffin. As for the second, Harry’s sensibilities seemed to be confounded to the point where he froze in his tracks, holding the stick aloft like a daft idiot. How in all of creation did a mere brush of this woman’s fingers render him not only speechless but immobile?
“Ow.”
Lady Charity’s single utterance jolted him back to his senses. With a flick of his heel, Harry dislodged Muffin’s teeth from his boot. “Where are you hurt? Please forgive me. I merely meant to show you how important it is to wield your weapon with both hands.”
Rubbing her wrist, she dipped her chin with a shy smile. “It is all right. ’Twas more of a surprise than anything, I suppose. One moment I was worried about hurting you, and the next my stick completely disappeared from my hand.”
Her Ladyship took in a breath of air, her lips slightly parted as if she were about to say more. But with her hesitation, she shifted her gaze to the stick—or was she looking at Harry’s hand? Those captivating blues narrowed as if appraising a heifer at market, and as they traveled up his arm and fixated upon his chest.
No, she decidedly was not looking at the stick. “My, you are an exceptionally strong brute, are you not?”
“You think me brutish?”
“Not a brute, per se, but you did just relieve me of my parasol with hardly any effort on your part. In my estimation that makes you one braw butcher or fighter or…ah…roofer.” Blast it if she didn’t intentionally brush her fingers over his as she took back the makeshift parasol and addressed him, once again like a fencer. “Two hands, did you say?”
“I did.”
“Then I suppose I ought to give it another go, och aye?”
Harry nodded while flicking his fingers and preparing to defend another strike. “Come again.”
Rather than attack, Lady Charity glanced down to the dog. “Stay. I will not tolerate any hostilities against Mr. Mansfield.”
Her words were spoken with such authority, Harry shifted his attention to Muffin. Obviously elated with the attention, the dog sat with his tail beating away the leaves and debris within a one-foot radius.
“Oof!” Caught completely unawares, Harry doubled over from the jab of an unforgiving and inordinately hard stick.
“Argh!” The woman shrieked, slamming said weapon across the back of his neck.
“Ugh!” Harry bellowed, throwing out his hands to break his fall while his hat tumbled away and dozens of stars danced across his vision.
“Och, nay!”
As he rolled to his back, blinking and doing his best to clear his vision, the vicious stick wielder dropped to her knees beside him. “Oh my goodness, are you all right?” She scooted her knees beneath his head and brushed the softest fingers he’d ever felt in his life across his forehead. “I’m so verra sorry.”
Harry knew he ought to stand, pick up his hat, and pretend that she hadn’t nearly knocked the wind from his lungs, not to mention just about bludgeoned him to death, but instead he didn’t move. No, she rendered him completely immobile, especially when he gazed up into a pair of inordinately captivating dark-blue eyes. This close, he marveled at how sparkling crystal threaded through them with a fascinating ring of solid blue around the outside. When she blinked, her irises grew smaller, almost instantly becoming larger as she focused.
On him.
Her Ladyship’s face was only a hand’s breadth away from his, her cool breath soothing his forehead while those lithe fingers swirled through his hair. “I do hope I havena done any serious damage.”
His mouth turned up. “I rather doubt it. I’ve endured far worse in the ring.”
“Oh dear, oh dear.” She whispered in a sultry tone, smoothing her hands along the bristles on his face, then lightly scratching her fingernails through his stubble as if she were enjoying the coarseness of it—at least keen to explore the feel of his late-morning whiskers. “Please forgive me. I just figured that after you so easily disarmed me the last time, I had no chance of actually striking you.”
Harry tipped up his chin, nearly sighing while she scratched beneath and trailed down to his neck. “Not once but twice.”
“I must apologize for the second strike as well.” She cradled his cheek and stared into his eyes. “I have no idea what came over me.”
“I reckon you have good instincts.”
“I do?” she asked, her lips pursing with the O and remaining puckered and…
Dash it all, he couldn’t help himself.
With a clench of his stomach muscles, Harry rose up high enough to steal a kiss—not really a kiss, but the tiniest of pecks.
“Oh.” Lady Charity sat straighter, moving her fingers to her lips. “I suppose one does unpredictable things when one has been bludgeoned by a parasol.”
“Forgive me.” Harry rolled off her lap, spotted his hat, then grabbed it as he stood and offered his hand. “I completely lost my head.”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, those lovely eyes a bit dazed as he tugged her to her feet. She emitted a nervous laugh and turned in the direction of the manor. “’Tis fortuitous that we are out of sight. We shall keep this wee encounter between us, shall we?”
“It never happened, madam.”
“No.” She patted her hip. “Come, Muffin. We’d best be heading back. Mr. Mansfield has a great deal of work to do, and I doubt he wants to continue with the lesson…” She grinned at him over her shoulder, albeit a shy grin. “…at least today.”
He returned her smile with a lopsided one of his own. Did she mean for the lessons to continue? He hoped not…or did he hope so? In truth, since this garden stroll had never happened, he wasn’t sure how he felt about the surreptitious incident. Nothing good could come of befriending a lady—moreover, he absolutely had no business stealing that kiss. Such a grave misstep must never, ever happen again.