Courtney Milan (3 page)

The door to the house opened, and Mary stepped out, burdened with a paper fan and a parasol. She stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of John.

He couldn’t move, either. It was electrifying to see her this close. It had been that way ever since he first laid eyes on her. She had all the features of classic English beauty—a creamy complexion, rose-pink lips perfectly formed in an expression of surprise, and clear blue eyes. But calling her beauty
classic
didn’t capture the essence of her.

She was like a cream-cake with an added hint of lemon. Familiar and comforting in aroma…and yet when one got close enough, one realized that all that sweetness was balanced by something deliciously tart. She had even used to smell of sugared lemon—a clean, fresh scent that made him think of unsullied purity.

It had also made him want to lick her. Everywhere.

She’d seemed so innocent on the surface, but when he peered into her eyes, he’d seen a spark there, a hint of mischief that drew him in. She’d looked on the verge of laughter, and her merriment had spilled out of her all too easily. She’d had an air to her—one that had made him think that she didn’t know anything about passion…but that she wanted to learn.

Mary was disarmingly attractive, and he’d wanted her. Badly.

If only he’d known that there was more mischief and less innocence in her. Still, even now, even knowing that everything about her was a sham—that she was a thief and a liar—it made no difference. He still wanted her.

“Dear Lady Patsworth,” Mary said into the awkward silence. “I’ve brought your fan.”

“Thank you.” Lady Patsworth did not move to take Mary’s burdens.

“Miss Chartley. You know Mr. Beauregard from church,” Sir Walter said. “This is his friend, Mr. John Mason. But…it looks as if you might already be acquainted.”

Mary’s face was schooled to careful blankness. She glanced warily at John, and dropped a polite curtsey in his general direction.

“No,” John heard himself say. “I’ve never known her. Not at all.”

She didn’t grimace at that disavowal. Her expression remained china-doll smooth.

“Mary, dear, if you could move the Japanese partition…” That from Lady Patsworth.

Mary set the fan and parasol on the table and brushed past John. He caught a hint of something like sweet citrus as she passed, and those same old urges welled up in him—to lick her, despite everything. Then she crossed to the other side of the terrace and fiddled with a folding screen constructed from cherrywood and delicate paper. The so-called Japanese screen, John supposed; the paintings on its side were no doubt intended to recall the Far East to men and women who had never traveled farther than Birmingham.

She adjusted the screen to allow a few more inches of shade to fall on Lady Patsworth’s side of the table.

Mary’s scent hadn’t changed, but her eyes had. Once, they’d sparkled. Now, they looked flat. All that hidden mirth that he’d seen in her—it was as if it had been wiped clean and replaced with stark gray slate.

Well. He’d not expected her to
smile
when she was caught. As methodically as she’d gone, she returned, seating herself at the table next to Lady Patsworth.

She’d not said a word in greeting to him.

“What does the fashion column have to say?” she asked, her low tones directed to the lady near her.

Lady Patsworth lifted a monocle and peered at the paper. “It describes a day gown with well-fitted sleeves of sarcenet, embellished at the wrists with cord of silk.” Lady Patsworth frowned. “Cord of silk. I have never been fond of cord of silk, and at the wrists?”

“Indeed,” Mary said. “It is too shiny.”

Too
shiny?

John glanced over at Mr. Beauregard, but apparently he found nothing strange in this exchange. He’d gone back to talking fields and drainage with Sir Walter as soon as the introductions had been made.

John made appropriate noises at what he hoped were appropriate times. But apparently, he’d done a poor job of hiding his true interest, because when Beauregard left to ready their horses for their next visit, Sir Walter caught his eye.

“Mr. Mason,” he said stiffly. The other man looked him up and down, from head to toe. “By the looks of you, you spend much of your time out of doors.”

John gave him a curt nod.

“I hear you’re staying at Oak Cottage.” Sir Walter’s mouth compressed into a thin, squashed line. “That’s not even half a mile distant.”

Beauregard had offered the tiny outbuilding as a potential shelter rather halfheartedly; John had accepted it with gratitude.

“Mm,” John said.

“Beauregard implied you were a gentleman.” Sir Walter looked dubious. “You’ll excuse me, then, for speaking so directly. You’ll understand that a gentleman must protect his own.” He paused again and licked his lips. “The ladies of this household are entirely under my protection.”

John swallowed. This conversation must have been audible to the women, but neither one so much as glanced in their direction. It was disorienting—as if perhaps this wasn’t really happening.

Perhaps he had been looking at Mary overmuch. She was still beautiful, no matter what he thought of her character.

“I won’t hold with any insult to them,” Sir Walter continued. “That’s why God made milkmaids.”

Neither Mary nor Lady Patsworth blinked at this assertion. It was as if their ears were incapable of hearing the men’s speech. And perhaps it was just as well, because Sir Walter had not only implied that John was one step from pillaging and raping his way through the household, he’d suggested that he pillage and rape his way through the dairy instead.

No doubt men said odd things at uncomfortable times without intending all the implications.

“Never you worry,” John said gruffly. “I have no interest in ladies.”

That got Mary’s attention for the first time since she’d returned. Her head jerked up and her eyes met his in shock.

“No interest in—!” Sir Walter repeated. “I…I’ll not have such things spoken of in this household.”

“Women, yes.
Ladies,
on the other hand…” John spread his hands and examined his fingernails. “They’re like mistletoe—pretty enough, if you like pale berries and useless greenery. But just let it take hold, and it will choke the entire tree.”

Mary looked away again.

But Sir Walter did not quibble with John’s description. He didn’t even protest it. Instead, he merely chuckled. “You have an extremely dim view of our ladies. I do allow the expense can be considerable. But I find them quite worthwhile, assuming you can afford to protect them.”

“Perhaps.” John shrugged. “Or perhaps not. I have no tolerance for parasites.”

Sir Walter clasped John’s hand. “Then I’ll keep my ladies, and you can stay with your milkmaids.”

“You do that,” John said. He extricated his hand and hoped that Sir Walter had not noticed his failure to accept the milkmaids.

Aside from that one glance, Mary hadn’t so much as looked at him. Her attention was directed far off, her gaze fixed on the purple silhouette of a hill on the horizon.

“A word of warning,” John said. “As a farmer, I pull out mistletoe the instant it takes root. And I won’t rest until I’ve cleared it away.”

She didn’t react to that. But she didn’t need to. Mary had always been quick. She had no doubt known she was doomed from the moment she saw him.

Chapter Three

M
ARY HAD KNOWN SHE WAS
doomed from the moment she saw him.

Somewhere, someone was laughing at the horrid trick of destiny that had brought John Mason, of all people, to Doyle’s Grange. She could almost hear the laughter echoing through the back garden. Sir Walter stood on the terrace, watching John to be sure that he left. Mary stayed, frozen to her chair by a deep despair.

I have no tolerance for parasites
.

It was not even as if she could contradict him. She had no defense—certainly not against his hatred, and probably not against any accusation he might level. Lying, thieving, fleeing the scene of a crime… He could have made quite a list of her crimes, and he didn’t even know the half of them. The only ray of hope that she had—and it wasn’t much—was that he hadn’t come with a constable in tow and a warrant for her arrest.

Yet.

Sir Walter frowned and turned back to her. His gaze flicked from Mary to his wife, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“You are to have nothing to do with him,” he said to Mary after a moment. “You are to see that Lady Patsworth does not, as well.”

Normally, she resented his edicts. This one, she welcomed with open arms. “He seems a great brute of a man.”

“I dislike his staying at Oak Cottage. So close.” He glanced at his wife who sat, arms folded, head bowed over the paper, as if she could not hear the conversation. “Who knows what might happen?”

He spoke as if his wife might accidentally run into Mr. Mason, might just as accidentally have an affair with him—and all that, as easily as she might accidentally stumble and take a fall. If there had ever been any trust in Sir Walter, there was no evidence of it now.

“From what Beauregard says, he’ll be here for weeks. If I hear that either of you have spoken with him, have even looked at him in passing…”

“I won’t,” Mary promised. But deep inside, she wanted to shriek.

He was going to be here for weeks? She was going to have to leave. The only question was how she was to manage such a thing. She had few enough possessions, and Lady Patsworth could do very well without her. The bigger problem was more mundane: She had no money. Without enough to pay for transport and lodging until she could find more work, she’d end up even worse off than she was.

Don’t exaggerate,
she scolded herself.
You have funds aplenty. You just have to get at them.

Sir Walter looked murderous. “You stay away from him,” he repeated. “In fact, your afternoon walks…”

“I’ll walk toward Northword Hill,” Mary said swiftly, before he could take that privilege away, too. “Between the two hedges—he’ll have no reason to encounter me there.”

He considered this. “Very well,” he finally said. “For now. But we must think of your safety.”

She was beginning to hate that word. That was all she and Lady Patsworth ever heard—of his concern for their safety, their wellbeing, their dignity. It was on those grounds that he barred her from speaking to the other women in the neighborhood when church services were over. He spoke of his wife’s delicate health when he refused to allow her brother to visit. To hear him speak, it was always about his solicitude for the two of them—and never about his own twisted jealousies.

“One thing, Sir Walter.” Her heart kicked up a beat. “You recall that you’d agreed to hold last year’s wages for safekeeping.” She swallowed and looked down. “Would it be possible to request that I receive a portion of those funds?”

Sir Walter’s frown deepened. “Whatever for?”

“It’s so hot these days. I should like to make a summer gown.”

He contemplated this. “Peter will be happy to take any orders you have to the store. I’ll deduct the necessary funds from your account.”

A bolt of linen, obtained by their groom, wouldn’t do her any good. “Nonetheless,” Mary persisted. “I should like to purchase it myself.”

Going into the shops was not allowed. Having money was not allowed.

He sighed and shook his head. “Miss Chartley. When I said I would hold your wages for safekeeping, I took that charge quite seriously. You are in my employ, and you are therefore my responsibility. If I gave you your wages outright, you might squander it on all sorts of fripperies. Trust me, my dear, and allow me to refuse this request. You’ll thank me later, when the principal is still intact years from now.”

She needed to run. She was
desperate
to run. How could she do so, without a penny to her name? “But—”

“I think we’ve had enough of this discussion in front of Lady Patsworth,” Sir Walter said, reaching over and giving her a pat on her hand. “She is not well and certainly doesn’t need to be bombarded with conversation about such vulgar matters. We’ll continue this later, if you please.” He set his serviette on the table next to his fork and walked inside the house.

Etiquette. Safety. Responsibility. They sounded like such admirable virtues until Sir Walter got his hands on them.

He didn’t look like a monster. He didn’t act like one. Mary hadn’t even realized he
was
one for months. He’d taken away her money, her freedom, her friends, and it wasn’t until she was well and truly leashed, without a penny in her possession, that she’d realized what he’d done. He mouthed all the right words of concern. But the instant Mary’s wants diverged from his, he gently, politely quashed all her hopes.

The question of her salary was one of those things. He simply refused to pay her. He would advance funds on her account for gloves or other necessary purchases. He even occasionally gave her a few shillings when they traveled so she could handle the necessary vails. But he expected her to account for every halfpenny, and he always—gently, politely—took them back.

What he was doing was illegal. But what could she do about it when she didn’t even have the money to take a cart to the nearest solicitor, fifteen miles away? How could she prosecute him, when she herself might be brought up on charges?