Chapter 6
6
W hen the crossbeams were finally ready, Harry asked his friend at the mill yard to finish the roofing project at Huntly Manor, but the sorry chap had begged off with the excuse of being too busy.
As he drove his horse and cart along the country road, he still could not believe that Lady Charity had actually attended the fight. Such a woman had absolutely no business being anywhere near a boxing ring, especially not the old warehouse on the wharf. He ought to write to her brother and tell His Grace exactly what she’d been up to.
Though having the duke come to Brixham to give his sister a right talking-to would be devastating for the lady, no matter how much she needed to be chided.
Yes, Her Ladyship had said that she’d prefer to decide for herself if the sport had its merits, but she had never indicated her intention to attend the fight. His fight .
When he’d spotted her in the stands, he’d all but erupted in a rage. He didn’t want Lady Charity to see him looking like a beast—to see him reveal the savage who lay beneath his flesh. A lady at a fight? Unheard of! He should have forfeited the match and marched the woman back to her carriage. And why hadn’t her footman accompanied her inside? Not that doing so would have altered Harry’s opinion in any way. Ladies did not attend boxing matches.
It simply wasn’t done.
And Lady Charity was too gentle a creature to watch such barbarism. Her mother had been right, of course. The sport was quite barbaric, and not intended for a lady of gentle sensibilities.
After Harry had swiftly ended the fight, it would have attracted too much attention had he marched into the stands and escorted her back to her carriage. In short, doing so could have ruined her. Still, he had stood in the shadows and watched until Her Ladyship and Miss Satchwell were safely inside the coach.
Bloody oath, he was daft. He was a hired hand, not some dandy who idly spent his days accompanying highborn maidens on strolls through gardens. Nothing good could come from any sort of friendship between him and Lady Charity. She was young and impressionable, and he did not have time for frivolities.
Harry drove the cart behind the barn and stopped it where he would be out of sight from the house. He didn’t want to take a chance on being seen. He’d also left Kitty at home, regardless of how loudly she protested. He’d even agreed to give his sister reading lessons himself, just to get her to stop badgering him.
Thank heavens the weather was still fine and there was nary a whisper in the barn, aside from a gentle nicker coming from one of the stalls on the far end, well away from Harry’s roofing project. He made quick work of unloading his cart and situating the ladder. As he was about to hoist the first beam upward, the door to the occupied stall opened.
“Ah, Mr. Mansfield, there you are.”
The gentle voice and sultry burr had come from none other than Lady Charity MacGalloway, sister to the Duke of Dunscaby, daughter of the former duke, and a woman who needed to be banished from attending boxing matches.
“My lady…” he said, before he actually looked in her direction, at which time she rendered him entirely speechless. For the love of Moses, the female had donned a pair of trousers. “What on earth are you wearing?” he croaked, somehow finding his voice, while the board slipped from his fingers, clanking atop the others.
She beamed, grinning as if a sunburst had shone expressly on her face, spreading her arms and turning in a full circle. Dear God, if he’d thought her shapely before, there was now no question. The woman had the most alluring bottom he’d ever seen. Round, shapely, a tad high-set like an elite thoroughbred. Harry swiped a hand over his eyes and looked to the hole in the roof.
“I was picking Albert’s hooves and brushing his coat. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to squat down and pick hooves in a day gown?”
Moaning at the image of Her Ladyship’s perfect bottom squatting, Harry managed to shake his head. “I haven’t, madam.”
“Madam?” she asked, sauntering forward, her hips lazily swaying. Did she know how tempting she was, or did her ability to addle his mind come naturally? “After everything, I thought we had dispensed with such formalities.”
“Believe me, you do not want a man like me to become too familiar.”
“Truly? A man like you? A man brave enough to rescue a lass from certain death on a sheer cliff? A man who takes on extra work in order to help his ailing mother?”
He scratched the stubble on his chin. “Putting it like that makes me sound like a saint, which I definitely am not.”
She twirled the hoof pick’s leather loop around her finger. “What makes you so unsaintly, Mr. Mansfield?”
Good Lord, why the devil was he having this conversation? His lack of sainthood was no concern of hers. He’d best redirect before he did something entirely foolish, like pulling the woman into his arms and kissing those pouty lips just to get them to stop moving. “Why are you in the barn, wearing trousers, and picking your sister’s pony’s hooves?”
The tool stopped twirling while Lady Charity’s cheeks turned a lovely shade of rose. She glanced downward. “Oh dear, I have offended you, have I not? Please forgive me, aside from being most practical, these are an old pair of Marty’s—I mean of Martin’s—I mean, my brother’s.”
Harry couldn’t help but steal one more admiring glance—her legs were far longer than he’d imagined. “Is the duke aware his sister is traipsing about the estate wearing his trousers?”
“Well, not exactly. Though I’m certain he wouldn’t mind if he knew I’d borrowed them for instances like this.”
Instances where she presented herself as tempting as Jezebel to a mere country butcher? Did she realize how much he wanted to wrap her in his arms and kiss her? “Please humor me,” Harry said, removing the pick from her fingers and hanging it over a nail on a nearby post. “Why were you picking Albert’s hooves?”
“Because Modesty asked me to care for her pony.”
“And why did you not assign such a task to the groom?”
“I promised I would do it myself.”
Oh yes, that made all the sense in the world. “Either you are exceptionally skilled at picking hooves or there is a girl of twelve who has her elder sister twisted around her little finger.”
Lady Charity quickly shrugged a single shoulder. “The poor dear is nothing short of miserable with her broken ankle. Of course I promised to pick the pony’s hooves. After all, Modesty would be out here doing it herself if she could.”
“Does she wear trousers as well?”
“Dunna be silly, of course she doesna.”
“Why you and not her?” Harry asked, kicking himself for not redirecting the conversation away from this woman and trousers.
“Because…well, I dunna exactly ken why. She doesna have a pair I suppose.” Her Ladyship thumbed the top of her belt. “Would you be more comfortable if I returned to the house and donned a day dress?”
Him? More comfortable? How in God’s name could he erase the memory of Her Ladyship’s shapely derriere? In truth, he didn’t want to fail to remember what he’d just seen. Presently, he was unable to move past the part where he’d considered pulling the woman into his arms and kissing her.
“No, no, no. Don’t mind me. How you dress when working in the stables is no concern of mine.” He gestured toward the pile of crossbeams. “I’d love to stand about and chat, but the beams have arrived and I’d best set to work.”
“Yes, of course. However, before you do start, I have a question.”
He slid his gaze to hers—blue eyes filled with an emotion at which he didn’t dare guess. “Which is?”
“Exactly what happens when you are in the ring? At the fight it was as if you were a different person.”
“You shouldn’t have been there.”
The woman crossed her saucy arms and stood akimbo. “Whyever not? Why is it that the men of this world seem to have all the fun whilst the women are expected to be cosseted at home, tending to their embroidery?”
“Do you not enjoy embroidery? I am in possession of a rather lovely monogrammed handkerchief.”
“That’s not the point.” She raised her fists. “You stepped into the ring, and suddenly the mild-mannered gentleman I have come to know turned into a…”
Harry waited, desperate to hear what she truly thought of him. When she pursed her lips and glanced away, he took a step toward her. “Tell me what you truly thought, my lady, and do not hold back. Did I become a barbaric blackguard? A lowlife with whom you never again wish to consort?”
“Not at all.” She threw a left, a right, then dropped her hands to her sides. “You were magnificent. Powerful . Never in all my days has my blood stirred as it did when you took command of the ring.”
“I—” he stood immobile, unable to think, let alone speak, while she faced him, her eyes wide and filled with the same desire twisting through his heart with the choking force of a mature wisteria vine.
He’d wanted to kiss her before, but now the desire gripped him so fervently, Harry was incapable of thought. Within his next blink, he gathered the woman into his arms and fused his mouth over hers, sweeping his tongue across her lips. For a heartbeat, she was tense as a board, but with the next, somewhat more gentle brush of his tongue, her lips parted.
Harry needed no more invitation. He plundered her mouth like a pirate, holding her lush body against his hard, and savoring every soft curve as it molded against him like a glove. His mind grew ravenous, his kiss raw, unapologetic, and damned wicked. The surprising part?
She met him swirl for swirl, lick for lick, tiny suck for tiny suck.
God save him, Lady Charity was filled with more erotic passion than he’d dared to dream.
“Arf!”
The bark registered in the back of Harry’s mind but he was too consumed with the feel of the woman in his arms to take any notice. Until the miserable dog nipped at the back of his boot, his teeth sinking through the leather accompanied by a pathetic snarl.
Lady Charity jolted out of Harry’s arms as if she’d been prodded by a fire poker. “Muffin! Bad dog!” She shoved her hand in front of the little dog’s nose. “Sit, you naughty ragamuffin!”
Harry watched as the miniature demon dropped to his haunches, his ears lowered, his eyes pleading as if the rascal was incapable of biting a soul.
Her Ladyship bent down and examined the back of Harry’s boot. “Oh, my heavens, he left teeth marks. Are you injured? Bleeding? Perhaps I ought to fetch a compress.”
He flexed his toes meeting with mild discomfort. “Are you jesting? A few nights ago I stepped into the ring with Dudley the Destroyer, took several jabs to the face as well as the solar plexus, and I assure you there is no way possible an animal too small for a butcher’s block could do me harm.”
As she straightened, her gaze met his before it meandered to his mouth, and he’d be dashed if she didn’t scrape her teeth over her bottom lip. Did she desire another kiss? God on the bloody cross, if he didn’t stop himself now, he’d be facing the barreled end of her brother’s dueling pistol.
Harry clenched every muscle in his body. “Forgive me for losing my head, madam. I’ll have your roof finished by the end of the day and then I’ll not bother you again.”
“Bother?”
He picked up one of the crossbeams and started up the ladder, stopping on the second rung but not looking back. “You know as well as I, any fondness that might arise between us can only lead to heartache and, dare I say it, possible ruination for you.”
A week had passed since Mr. Mansfield had finished the roof. Of course, there was plenty to occupy Charity’s time at the manor. She’d hired a groundskeeper and interviewed several candidates for the housekeeper’s position, though Miss Fletcher had insisted nary a one was suitable. But busy or not, nothing had been the same since that day.
The day The Butcher had pulled her into his arms and given her the most fervent kiss she’d ever imagined. And she had spent an unmitigated amount of time imagining such a kiss. Not the brief interlude of their first friendly kiss. The one in the barn had been far different. Fervent wasn’t a strong enough word, nor was passionate , or intensely ardent .
Perhaps burning?
Charity doused the washcloth in the bath, wrung it out, and scrubbed it over her face.
If I were to put it into words, our kiss was fervently passionate and burning with ardent desire.
If only the roofing project hadn’t come to an end.
“I say, my lady, you are awfully quiet this evening,” said Georgette, holding up a ewer. “Tilt your head back and I’ll rinse the suds out of your hair.”
Charity did as asked, and closed her eyes while the lady’s maid poured. “A woman in charge of a household has a great deal on her mind.”
“Och aye, though it hasna escaped my notice that your melancholy started about the same time Mr. Mansfield finished working on the stable’s roof.”
Charity’s eyes snapped open along with the myriad of soap bubbles popping in the pit of her stomach. “I’ll admit it was rather diverting to watch the gentleman work.”
“Aye, he is awfully braw.”
“And kind. And heroic. Dunna forget he rescued Modesty from certain death.” Charity whipped her wet cloth through the air. “That act was nothing short of a miracle.”
“And next you’ll be telling me Mr. Mansfield walks on water.”
“Oh, stop.”
“Verra well, but I’d be remiss in my duty as your companion if I didna say it is for the best that the roofing work is done.”
Charity eyed the lass. Aye, Marty had asked Georgette to look after his sisters, but she was a lady’s maid and answered to Charity, not the other way around. “And why is that? Why can I not enjoy friendly conversation with the local butcher?”
The lass held up a drying cloth, her expression judgmental and smug. “Need I explain?”
“Enough.” Charity stood, took the cloth, and wrapped it around herself. “My mother isna here to chide me, nor is my elder brother. Nonetheless, that doesna mean I need a talking-to. Mind you I’ve had enough chiding and enough lectures on proper etiquette to fill the pages of a book as thick as the Bible.”
Georgette sniggered. “Knowing your mother, I’m certain you have.”
The door opened and Modesty hobbled in with the assistance of a crutch Willaby had fashioned for her—though on his most recent visit, Dr. Miller had told her to only to use it in utter emergencies, and not to attempt stairs until the ankle was fully healed. “The crickets are driving me mad.”
“Crickets?” Charity asked.
“Aye, and the birds, and the deathly sound of silence. Will you please, please, please invite Kitty over on the morrow? I dunna give a rat’s whisker if her brother has work to do here or not. Do you have any idea how dull it is being confined to my chamber?”
Charity thrust her finger at the chair. “Before you say another word, sit down this instant. Ye ken you’re not supposed to be up and about.”
“Aye I ken,” Modesty said as she flopped onto the settee. “And that’s exactly what’s driving me to the brink of my sanity. Please, Sister. Invite Kitty over! If you do, I’ll rub your feet every night for an entire month.”
Charity dearly loved foot massages, but she didn’t need to be bribed. Why hadn’t she thought of this angle sooner? As Georgette held up the dressing gown, she slipped her arms inside and tied the sash, letting the drying cloth drop to the floor and arching her eyebrow at the lady’s maid, in a silent command to hold her tongue. “Perhaps I can enquire to see if Kitty is able to come in the near future, mayhap even visit regularly.”
“As in regularly, do you mean daily?” asked Modesty.
“Daily might be stretching things a bit. After all, the lass does have chores, and her mother is infirm.”
“Every other day, then?”
Georgette cleared her throat rather annoyingly.
Charity ignored the maid as she moved to the toilette and sat on the stool. “I’ll have a word with her brother and see what we might be able to arrange.”
Modesty nearly leapt off the settee, but as both women held up their hands, she eased back and clapped her hands. “Oh thank you, thank you, thank you ! I shall never forget this.”
Georgette picked up the comb. “I wouldna be going off and getting too excited. Mr. Mansfield and his mother must agree first.”