2. Burgeoning Awareness

2

Burgeoning Awareness

I bid you to entertain me further.

Anything.

God in heaven, Warrick would prefer anything pull his attention from the uncomfortable heat swirling through every limb (that still possessed feeling). Knowing someone had watched that disgrace? Beginning with nearly falling out of the ponderous contraption as the men hoisted him up and stumbled down the patio stairs, and ended with him almost kissing the grass? It was not to be borne.

She remained far enough away he did not have to angle his head to an unpleasant degree. For the most part, his distraction appeared rather average. Average height, average figure—average face, what he could see of it, her plain bonnet shielding more of her features than he might wish.

Several loose coils of glorious sunset hair nudged him toward reluctant admiration. Anything but average, the mix of bronze and russet, amber and deep copper had his fingers itching to knock the bonnet askew so he could behold the rest.

But her dress? Gah. Her dress! He’d seen better attire on beggars.

No female under 200 would so much as be buried in something that horrid. Thick and stiff, as though she wore armor instead of cloth. And the color? One could be forgiven for thinking they stepped in it, so repulsive was the hue, somewhere between cat cascade and…

Better not be.

“Come closer,” he demanded, not a modicum of doubt he’d met with a servant of some sort.

She held her ground.

“Please,” he pried from lips not used to uttering such. “Only a step or two.” He just needed her out of the shadows and close enough to?—

Satisfaction roared through him when she moved.

Bracing one hand on the knobs that topped the vertical controls on either side of the chair and keeping the other locked securely behind him, he leaned forward. Inhaled down to his unfeeling toes. Then did it again.

“Sir! What in heaven’s name are you doing?” She sidled aways and frowned at him, that prim little mouth—visible above the stubborn chin—pursing with more plump to it than he’d expected. “Are you sniffing me?”

“Only your dress.”

For some absurd reason that seemed to calm her, and she came forth another stride. Just in time for him to rear back. “Tell me those are not fartleberries adorning your gown.”

“Fartle—?” An adorable squeak of outrage emerged when she realized he’d accused her of wearing shit. “Nay! You inappropriate lout. I will have you know ’tis naught but… Swine-slick.”

Swine-slick? A scratchy sort of an elegant snort came from his throat. An unfamiliar tickle had him knocking one fist against his chest twice. Was he laughing? “Why, miss, have you been tumbling about in Ballenger’s bacon pens?”

“No more so than you have been tumbling about the grounds,” she said with more bite than he would have expected mere moments ago.

Irritated with her for the reminder of what he sought to forget, he barked back, “Grounds I would prefer never to have seen. Not today nor the rest of this godforsaken sennight.”

“Then why attend? If you intend to crank about all week?”

He had done it solely as a favor to Ed. (Not to mention Frost’s nagging—in the form of hauling his liquor-addled self outside and shoving him into his carriage). “I am often prized as a guest.” At least he had been. Before. “’Tis quite the boon for Lady Ballenger to gain my attendance.”

Waving a muddy hand his direction, she made a dismissive sound in her throat.

“You do not believe me?”

“It matters not what I believe. What do you believe?”

“That aside from the last two minutes, I regret lending my presence to this forsaken endeavor with every cell of my being.”

“Forsaken endeavor?”

“Here.” His glower encompassed everything either of them could see. “This ball. House party, holiday, what have you.”

“That’s honest. And rather?—”

“Pathetic? Pitiable?”

“I was going to say heart-rendering.” With the hand not muddied, a slim thumb rubbed absently over the clutched handkerchief, the sight twisting something in his stomach. “You are here,” she continued, drawing his gaze back to her bonnet-hidden face, “why not bring about a different attitude? Attempt to make the best of things?”

“The best of legs that don’t work?” He had no wish to be reasonable. “The best of burdening three footmen who clumsily traipsed through the garden just to plant my sorry arse outside for a bit of sun?”

At arse , she hissed in a breath. But instead of calling him to task—or retreating—she only glanced overhead at the thick clouds that had covered the sun since morning, considerately askewing her bonnet for him. Gave him a view of somewhat winsome features and her still shaded eyes, now narrowed at him. “Lamentable you have not achieved your aims, then.”

“Nay, it would seem I have achieved much more.”

“More?”

He couldn’t tell her how sparring with her enlivened his being more than anything save copious brandy in weeks. So he floundered about for something… “I would have you know I am counted something of a wit.”

Idiot. That’s what you come up with?

“Oh? I would have thought you were counted arrogant.”

“Would you now?” Though her skin had pinkened upon uttering that, she remained in place, simply held his gaze.

Bold for a servant. He liked it.

“I will accept that…” He gave her a nod, wishing for the first time in several weeks he had taken the time to trim his overlong hair, wishing he’d made more of an effort before making the arduous journey here. “For despite losing feeling in half my body, it would seem I have not lost my touch.”

Her sunset brows flew skyward. “You like being considered a touch arrogant?”

“I would like it more if I could feel your touch.”

“For shame,” she hissed, the pink on her cheeks turning nearly red, but still she retreated not.

He liked her even more. “You wouldn’t possess brimming accounts hiding at home, by chance?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?” As if he had stones for brains. “Nay. But I could find myself in possession of a stick. One to poke you hard enough with that I daresay you would feel that.”

He laughed out loud, felt his chest and stomach muscles moving with the motion. Ah, but it had been a long time since anything made him laugh so hard. “I would tell you to go find your stick and make good on your promise, but I would regret to lose the delight of your company.”

“You would?”

At her wide-eyed disbelief, he laughed even harder. “Do not sound so surprised, my dear. Why would I not enjoy our flirt, when all my enjoyment—rare though it is of late—shall soon come to come an end, should I heed my mother’s wishes?”

Is that what they were doing? Flirting? It was completely out of her realm, but the ongoing prickle of awareness he brought about, the prickle she could not deny made Aphrodite think it likely.

Never before had she bantered about with any man (young boys, much her age, a decade ago counted for naught), much less one with a title. But he’s seated, and likely to remain so , some contrary imp nudged.

Which made it easier to step a bit closer and speak with more candor.

“Mother’s wishes?” He had spoken of accounts. Which was unheard of: to discuss such in the presence of others, much less in the hearing of a servant. “Is your own engagement in the offing? To be announced at tonight’s ball?” As was the expectation for Lady Anne.

And why did that notion sadden her every bit as much as the glimpses of devastation he’d revealed during their short exchange?

“Not if I can help it.” His hard tone slammed the door on that topic. Beneath his furrowed brow, blue eyes glinted, their color so dark it made one think of midnight. Of things that happened at night.

Made Aphrodite hold her breath, waiting for the terror. That still didn’t come.

So take your leave. While all is well and safe. Which seemed oddly unpalatable, so… “How are you acquainted with Lord and Lady Ballenger?”

“I am not, but the man who they wish for a son-in-law, have arranged for their eldest? He, I am friends with. And my estate resides not terribly far from here.”

Why did that make him frown? Glower? Would he not be happy to be near a good friend? “And your estate—it brings you...displeasure?”

He glared at his kneecaps. “Much brings me displeasure these days.” He looked back up to her then, from the top of her bonnet to the tips of her worn but comfortable walking boots, his expression inscrutable. “While I am here, you could offer to arsey-varsey that for me.”

He wished her to turn his displeasure into… Pleasure?

Watch him now. Lest he become as dangerous as the others...

One breath, though. One single exhale and the instinctive tightening of every muscle eased. He was the one trapped now. He posed no threat, certainly not to her virtue.

But your common sense?

Pish and poh, an on-the-shelf maiden of four and twenty could do with a little less sense and a little more nonthreatening flirtation. “And how might you expect me to do that, my lord?”

“Please. Do not my lord me. After nearly ten years with the dragoons, with naught but rough men for company, that is not how I am used to being addressed.” He scraped the thick, inky hair off his forehead. If she touched the strands, would her fingers blacken? Itching to find out, her rebellious hands tingled. She coiled them tight.

“Nor is it what I seek from you.”

He could not climb the stairs and threaten her tonight. “Oh?” Flirtation. “So, pray, what is it you seek from me?”

Danger again—if the glimmer in his glittering eyes was anything to go by. “Let me keep that to myself, lest I invite your departure with more haste than I might wish.”

So he did wish for something beyond further banter?

Before his rakish ways could tip her on edge, she offered, “I applaud your restraint. And if you were to suffer being bandied about like a shuttlecock to reach your current position, you could choose to take heart in not being spilt from your chair. That and the beauteous, mild weather.”

“Please halt with the infernal optimism. You remind me overly much of my mother.”

Which seemed safe enough. “Your mother? Is she here?”

“Nay. She is off with her other family.”

Other family? Rather than give in to the cork-brained notion of asking what he meant, she kept silent.

“I admit, my conversational skills are likely brusque. You are the first female I have spoken to in weeks, not counting my mother and her close crony.”

Which all but begged for details… “Are your injuries recent?” Inappropriate! “Forgive me. ’Tis overly forward of me to ask. You need not—” Answer got swallowed when he did.

“May last.”

Seven months? “Recent enough, then.”

“Which means you are also the first female that I—” He halted, looked down and scowled at his feet, lolling inward from his splayed knees until he wrenched them together, his tall boots snapping with the rough motion. He lifted his head and snared her in place, the depth of his hard stare roiling with unnamed emotion. “The first genteel female to see me being carried about like the invalid I am.”

“As you are a guest, and I am a servant,” she assured in her best governess voice, the one that brooked no argument, “what I witness is of no import. I shall blink away the memory in a trice if you wish.”

“Do it.”

Do it.

The glare in his gaze obliterated the pain from seconds ago, his anguish evaporating even as the way he looked at her did something unfamiliar and not wholly unwelcome to her middle.

“Do what?” For shame, Aphrodite. You know full well what he means, and here you claim to seek no attention from men? Especially titled ones?

“Blink away the memory, if you would.” His deep voice scraped over nerves gone suddenly raw. “I would have it erased from your mind ever more.”

Swallowing the trepidation her body’s response wrought, she gave him a sincere, if tremulous, smile and closed her eyes slowly, blinked twice. Opened them to find his, still burning. Still intense, upon hers. “There now. I have no recollection of—of…” ’Twas far too easy to allow bewilderment to suffuse her features. “Of what were we speaking?”

He grinned. “What of that sludge upon your skirt? If you were not rolling about in the pens, how did it slick you up all over?” And why did those simple words that sounded anything but lewd have her blushing again—and not only her face?

She aimed a scowl of her own toward the barns on the opposite side of the grounds. “Please do not ask.”

“Alas, I have. And now you must answer.”

“Must I?”

“Of course. For you are a servant,” he said, sounding the most lofty yet, and drawing her attention back to the angular planes of his face, “lest you forget, and I am the lord here.”

Her cheeks hollowed as she fought a laugh. “Rid yourself of that haughty look. If you were my charge, I would rap your knuckles for that sort of insolence.”

She wouldn’t, not really, had never rapped knuckles, not once. But he need not know it. “That, or assign you a thousand-word essay on The Evils of Arrogance.” Holding his stare with her own, amazed at her ability to do so, she finished with, “To be composed in Latin.”

One side of his lips tilted and there went her stomach again, topsy-turvying itself in ways better left unknown.

“Are you quite certain you are not an heiress in disguise?” The airiness of their exchange, the strange lightness invading his deadened limbs, had the words bubbling up and floating free before Warrick could call them back. “I could selfishly see myself settling for you.”

“You rotten fiend. Settling? ”

Grateful ’twas not the “selfish” part of that sentence she chose to question, he said, “Of course. In exchange for my title. Is that not what every young girl dreams of?”

“So many things I could say in response. But I doubt that an arrogant wit such as yourself is prepared to hear them.”

His hands flexed on the handles, tensing. Because he wanted to jump from this chair, grab hold of her muddy skirt and haul her closer. “Do you not see? You illustrate my point. Without question I would be bored to Bedlam with some cherub-cheeked chit too young to recall the turn of the century.”

He could not fathom living with some immature, martyred female whose sole purpose had been to snare a title to satisfy her father. To stare at her over breakfast every day, for the rest of his life? Without passion to tie them together, nor the promise of children? For both their sakes, “Better to die a pauper than suffer that fate.”

“Did you not mention your mother? Her other family?” she said now, all traces of humor fading. “Do they not extend to you? Your other family as well? I would think it would be a source of pride, if nothing else, to carry on what you can of the title, even if?—”

“What would you know of it? Of the demands placed on an earl?”

“Absolutely nothing, except there ought to be more good lords such as Lord Ballenger and less like Lords Tate, Paulson and Verdell.”

Those were audacious words from a servant. Unfortunately, they bore out the rumors circling around Tate, which must be legion indeed, for Warrick to have heard of them, given his lack of extended residence in London prior to the past few months.

“You are talking with obscene freedom in front of me as well,” she argued—when he had yet to say a word. “But that is to be expected. One of your ilk and all.”

“My ilk ? Pray, do enlighten me.”

“An attractive peer, with beautiful hair, devastatingly blue eyes and an abominably outrageous manner. As though you intend to be beyond the pale. Strive for it. Why, even my charge behaves…” She gave a hard shake of her head as though to erase everything just uttered. “Never you mind about that.”

And there he was, laughing again. “You were about to say I behave worse than your charge, but halted? Oh ho, that is one lass I must meet.”

You do not question her over your “devastating eyes”?

Assuredly not. For that lovely distraction he would focus upon the next time pain held his body in thrall.

As to Lords Verdell and Paulson, he knew little to nothing about them and chose not to form an opinion based on one alluded-to accusation. So he prompted, curious what else she might reveal. “You claim to have had dealings with Verdell, Paulson and Tate, sufficient to know their character?”

“I claim nothing. But I know fact . And if any of them are boon companions to you and Lord Redford, I hope Lady Anne, for her sake, disavows any formal engagement between the two of them as her reticence has hinted.”

What ho! This was news.

He knew Ed was reluctant. (Else why would he still be absent, still delaying at the Warrick hunting lodge or mayhap the gamekeeper’s cottage, both of which Warrick had offered the use of when they spoke last week in London?) Yet, admittedly, not a single thought had he spared for his friend’s intended.

“You’re a bit gossipy, for a governess.”

She laughed—actually laughed outright. “Forgive me. That strikes me as more preposterous than anything you could have said.”

“Why is that?”

“I grant you would not know it, given the last few moments, but I am the least person I know given over to rumor. Nor do I ever, ever engage in conversation with?—”

She cut herself off.

“Engage in conversation with? Men?” he hazarded. “Guests? Men guests in Merlin’s chairs?”

“Ah… None of that. All of it.” The blush threatened to flare again, as she started to wave one mud-coated hand in front of her face, only stopping when a clump hit her in the cheek. “I know not what it is about you that causes my normally idle tongue to waggle.”

How he would like to claim ’twas his wit that now held her in thrall. But he knew better.

Devastatingly so.

Comport herself differently with him than she did with other males? He was back to clenching fists and gritting teeth. At this rate, he would crush them into powder. “I know exactly what it is: Seated, unable to rise, you see me as beneath you, not worth your deference?—”

“Nay, that is not it.”

“Liar,” he challenged, curious. Still miffed, though it only showed weakness of character. Which he would blame on his damn weakness of limb.

“All right, that is exactly it— mpfth !” As though surprised at the admission, she slapped both palms to her cheeks, mouth open, eyes aghast. “But it is not—not why you think.”

“You have no inkling what I might be thinking.”

But he had an idea. A fairly accurate one, given the talk that swirled about Tate and his proclivities. Had she been governess to the baron’s children before coming here? If that rot had been her example of men, it was a marvel the moment he addressed her she hadn’t upended his chair and sent him tumbling onto his head.

“Inkling… Thinking.” Her lips pressed inward, over her teeth, before she loosed a shy smile. “And you just rhymed. Oh glory, and I just spread mud over my face. Heavens!” Features dismayed, she dropped the soiled gloves and ducked. Muttering to herself, she lifted her long skirt and scrubbed at her cheeks, leaving them both reddened and gently streaked.

More delighted than he could explain, he waited until she straightened. “Can we not claim equals? At least when we are alone?”

“Equals?” she squeaked. “Alone!” Her glance took in the expansive lawn and majestic gardens, much of both visible from their position, where more and more others milled about, all far enough away to not be privy to a single syllable.

“I know, ’tis unheard of. But there you have it, I am—now—a most unique earl.”

“I should say so. You are attempting a compromise, much as I would if I had come to an impasse with Lady Harriet.”

“Were we at an impasse?” he mused, his restless fingers flittering about the wooden handles, as he fought the strange urge to brush them beneath her eye where a smear clung far too close to her lashes. “Regardless… Compromising with a servant. I must admit, this is new for me.”

New and insane. You are in no position to dally, even should she be amenable.

Which she wasn’t. He knew. Knew.

But could not seem to help but wish… That he was a different person. With a different past. That she might be too.

Never could he recall being so increasingly aware of the joy to be gained from naught but reviving conversation. Nor could he deny how her countenance had gone from plain to interesting to inviting in the short span of their discourse.

But ’twas past time—exceedingly so—he returned inside and saw to the mundane. The necessary.

How to see her off, then? When he very much wanted her to stay?

“Compromising with a lord.” The wonderment in her tone matched that marching uncomfortably through his chest. “This is new for me as well.”

“I would offer my hand to shake on it, but yours are still swine-slicked.”

Blushing under his steady regard, Aphrodite knelt to retrieve Lady Anne’s handkerchief and gave her hands a faint swipe. “So…you have been ordered to find an heiress?”

It seemed prudent to remind herself.

“Which does not mean I shall comply.”

Why did her silly heart skip at that?

Silly heart? Nay, silly widgeon! For continuing to dither about when you have no reason to.

A distant shout, a girlish shrill, carried their direction. Whether it was Lady Harriet or another youngling, the sound proved an uncomfortable reminder, prodding her departure.

But he was so different than what she might have predicted. And, no matter how inappropriate, her awareness of him and the depth of their forbidden exchange, she could not stifle her heartfelt, “I do wish you success. In whatever endeavors you may attempt.”

“Ah, then I would like to stride back to the manor—on my feet , mind, not wheels.” His words were just this side of bitter. “Order about Frost’s carriage and depart for home.”

And why would that cause a pang in her chest? For the pleasant skipping to stumble? Halfwit!

“I do not wish to be anywhere I cannot move about independently, with the sole effort being my own and not that of others.”

“We all must lean on others at times.”

“Ah, but leaning is a world away from prostrating . Like a babe, hither and yon.” Definitely bitter. “Dependent upon others for every damn thing.” He lowered his volume, barely muttered that last bit, but it came through clear enough. It and his keen frustration.

He swung his head as though shaking off the self-directed pity, flinging hair off his forehead and grinned—a somewhat evil grin, to be sure. He released one of the handles and flicked his fingers toward the house. “Now be off with you. I need to find a chamber pot.”

A chamber pot?

…

A chamber pot!

…

“And take a good, long piss.”

…

…

…

Words. There were simply…

…

None.

He would dare utter that in her hearing?

As though she were the one imposing? And after he begged for her company? Termed their exchange a flirt ?

That he would be brazen enough to say something, several things, so vastly inappropriate? And in a female’s presence—in her presence—showed Aphrodite more than anything that despite his earlier claims, he did think her far beneath him.

Far, far beneath.

Unworthy of his respect. Unworthy of his restraint.

Which meant he was completely unworthy of her time.

She brushed her hands together with vigor, pretended it was his head in the middle of her palms being ground into dust. The mud, now more dried than not, went flying, might have blown toward his face, to her satisfaction.

Without another glance, she whirled and gave him her back. Forget changing. Forget having an hour or two to herself. She needed the diversion of responsibility, so started trampling directly toward Lady Harriet and the pit of mud the child and her squealing, porcine friends had likely deepened.

As to the corrupt guest whose gaze bore heavily into her back? (Though, the way her flesh seared made her suspect he stared lower , the fiend.) As to him?

Her heart may have gone out to the injured earl, her mind may have delighted in their friendly exchange, but no more! She refused to muse over the monstrously rude lord. Would never think of him again. Ever.

Not a second more.

Not even for an instant would she recall how his manner put her at ease yet excited her too, how her fingers twitched at the tempting sight of his hair, how her body had responded to the twinkle in his dark eyes, the tilt of his lips?—

“Aph-ro-di-te!” Her lungs heaved, given the mad stomp she craved across the grounds.

The stomp that had moderated into prim, proper feminine paces after one single outraged stride. Because, for a governess hired to teach decorum and calmness of nature, appearances were everything. So she plastered an inane smile across her lips, avoided glancing at anyone directly and continued on, outwardly perfect. Railing inside, Never! Never again!