Chapter 13
Thirteen
This morning, Harry would have thought the probability of being in a carriage with Lady Skelton outside the perimeter of York’s city walls to be nearly zero.
The glare from her butler as she called for the carriage to be readied still clung to Harry’s skin. This would definitely not endear him to the man. They had hurried inside the coach that had been brought around to the back of the house, and Lady Skelton had immediately drawn the curtains.
“There is nothing scandalous about going on a nature hike, but I wouldn’t want to feed the town gossips. You don’t mind if we keep the curtains closed, do you?”
“No. Your concern is rational.” Harry preferred them closed, as it made the ride feel more intimate. Kitty sat on the bench beside her mistress. This was proper enough.
His thoughts were less so. In his mind, her maid was most definitely not here. Lady Skelton lay across his lap as his kisses caressed her neck. He traced his hand along her ankle, lifting her skirts inch by inch.
Lady Skelton listed aloud the herbs she hoped to find on their walk, analyzing the likelihood of finding each type based on the season and recent weather. She said something about sage and rose hips.
Her hips. He imagined the bare skin of her hips as her dress was brought over her legs to her waist. The promise of pleasure shortened her breaths while his kisses turned into tiny bites dropping down to her collarbone.
“. . . and which foliage do your specimens require?”
It took him too long to register she was speaking to him, asking him a question. Pay attention. Mentally, she was still sprawled across his thighs.
Never had someone asked such detailed questions about the care of his moths. Well, at least not another adult, let alone a woman. His nieces had an endless supply of questions about the creatures.
“Rosebay willow herb would be favorable. I have elephant hawk moth cocoons that are about to eclose.”
“Hmm.” She bit her lip again before giving him a smile. He clenched his jaw, glancing at her maid, worried that chaperones were trained to sniff out impure thoughts. Fortunately, Kitty still gazed out the window, looking as if she wished to disappear into the red velvet of the carriage walls.
“I saw some on my last walk.” Agnes’s voice was excited, and it replaced some of Harry’s most lustful thoughts with more tender ones, but not all. “I hope we will be fortunate. It’s coming to the end of the season, but we will head west and discover if some remains.”
Harry stepped out of the carriage and before the driver could come around with the stool, he extended his arms out to Lady Skelton.
Taking her by the waist, he lowered her gently to the ground.
He almost came undone. It was a small miracle that he managed to hold himself together as her body brushed down his front.
He lifted his arm to her, and she looked surprised. Had he gone too far? Surely, this was the gentlemanly thing to do.
She took his arm, and he was floating. The dirt remained solid underneath his feet, but he flitted in the air like one of his moths.
Perhaps it was silly to liken himself to a moth, but he had the creatures to thank for this moment.
His interest in lepidopterology had brought this beautiful woman onto his arm.
His brothers had always teased him about his hobby.
Not maliciously, but in the way brothers tease each other for their peculiarities. But look at him now.
“You lead the way, my lady.” A silence marked only with the shuffle of their shoes and the swish of her skirts settled between them.
It was comfortable, almost sweet. He missed her proximity immediately as she unlinked her arm to explore the plants at the forest edge.
But then she grabbed his hand, pulling him forward.
“Look at this!” She spoke with such enthusiasm, pointing toward a plant with small purple flowers. “There is still some left! Just perfect for your moths.”
He nodded along as if he could comprehend the words she spoke, yet there was nothing between his ears but air. His mind was simply out of commission. All he could focus on was the feeling of her hand in his and how she had grabbed it in such a familiar manner.
Harry gently removed the basket from her hands.
He planned on offering to trim the herb himself, but she bent over the bush to snip at the stems. Her round bottom was raised in the air, and Harry could feel his eyes double in size.
Look away. But his eyes had gone rogue, traitors against all decorum.
While the widow was slight in frame, she had been hiding curvy, ample hips under her skirts.
Their roundness had been severely understated in his earlier lustful imaginations.
Only the sight of her black skirts—black for mourning—brought him back to his senses.
For God’s sake, he was admiring the figure of a woman under her widow’s weeds.
And to think he had thought himself a civilized man.
Just as she pulled herself away from the shrub, he managed to look away. She placed her trimmings in the basket dangling from his wrist and, before he could offer, linked her arm in his.
Agnes knew she was being just a little bit daring, and maybe a little wanton. She had no reason to hold his arm as firmly as she did, other than she enjoyed the way it grazed the side of her breast, causing a ripple of energy to pulse through her body.
Mr. Evans was not a tall man, so the closer they leaned into one another, the more salacious it seemed. If they both turned their heads, their mouths would be close enough to kiss.
It had been impulsive asking him to join her on this hike. She didn’t even have plans to forage today. A long list of orders to prepare awaited her in her apothecary, but when he’d mentioned that he also enjoyed the outdoors, Agnes had only wanted to enjoy it with him.
This felt different than the times she had gone out to the country with Richard.
With him, they each had been in their own little world, seeking their individual purpose.
She would take walks to observe how the plants changed through the seasons, and Richard would sit on the picnic blanket with their steward, Oscar, reading poetry.
Movement over a shrub caught Agnes’s attention. She pulled Mr. Evans to a stop and pointed at the creatures fluttering over the plant. “Oh, drat. Now that I see them up close, I believe those are just butterflies, not moths.”
He chuckled. “This is the first time I have heard a woman express disappointment in seeing butterflies instead of moths. One is decidedly more beautiful of the two.” His gaze shifted to her face as he said the word beautiful. She hadn’t seen it, but she felt it.
“I was just hoping for the chance to observe some moths. I wish for this expedition to be a good use of your time.”
“It is a good use of my time.” He placed his free hand on top of hers where it rested on his arm. “Being in nature is its own reward.”
“We are in agreement.”
They continued down the path, pausing several times to gather additional herbs and weeds needed for her apothecary stores. Agnes named each plant species, placing the potent varieties under Harry’s nose, and explained the different ways she used each one in her cures.
Her hand slipped down his arm, and she laced her fingers with his. Embarrassment kept her from turning around to look at Kitty. She wouldn’t allow a look of judgement to dull her happiness.
“Mr. Evans, may I ask you something?”
“Yes, anything.”
“Do you consider us friends?” She had unsettled him again. His hand turned clammy against hers.
“Uhh . . . I . . .” Various noises and short breaths escaped from his open mouth.
“Forget it. I apologize. I did not mean to put you in an uncomfortable position.”
The desire to run away made her turn on her heels, but his hand, still intertwined with hers, kept her from leaving.
Caught in a mortifying situation of her own creation, there was no way out but through her words.
“You are helping me with an estate matter. I shouldn’t have implied that I hold any significance beyond the responsibility of your occupation.
” She pulled her hand from his, but he took it again, holding it firmly between both of his.
“No. That’s not why I hesitated. I would like to be friends, but I did not know if you desired the same. I don’t want to overstep.”
The word desired caused a smoldering heat to rush over her body, centering in her chest. She knew that a flush had started there, as Mr. Evan’s eyes looked down at her bosom and then back up. A sheepish expression twisted his features when he realized she had seen him.
“Then call me Agnes. At least when it’s just us . . .” She hadn’t expected widowhood to provide her with this courage. “And I’d like to call you Harold,” she added before he got the chance to deny her request.
He squeezed her hand. “No. Call me Harry.”