Lucien quirked a brow. “You don’t raise any sheep yourself?”
“Wilson, Ned, and I are much too busy. We supply the land and the cottages, and the tenants do the work.”
“And Aunt Jane supplies the sheep tonic.”
She nodded, then, unable to help herself, she blurted, “Lucien…just why are you here?”
“I am too wounded to travel.”
“You couldn’t shovel if your shoulder was still mending.”
He regarded her a moment, his lashes casting shadows until his eyes appeared black. “Perhaps I found that I like the moors. They are quite beautiful.”
“You cannot expect me to believe that.”
His gaze narrowed and he set the tip of the shovel on the ground and rested his arm across the handle. “What would you believe? That I am staying for my own amusement? That the only reason I am here is to see if I can win my way back into your bed?” He reached out and brushed her lips with the rough edge of his thumb, his expression intense. “Would you believe that, Bella mia?”
Arabella was unable to move, unable to speak. All she could do was stare at him, fighting the longing his touch evoked. His hand lowered, skimming her throat and hovering where her coat parted to reveal her shirt. Her heart skipped a beat, and she waited…waited to see if it was leaping with joy or thudding to a tragic halt.
Pulling herself together, she took an unsteady step backward. “You shouldn’t be here. You belong in London.”
His hand dropped to his side as his face shuttered. Without a word, he returned to his work.
Arabella swallowed, feeling as if she’d hurt him in some way. Strangely, the idea left her feeling bereft. “If I were you, I would return to London as soon as possible. There is nothing for you here.”
“No?” His gaze raked across her, making her prickle in places she’d rather not think about. “Are you certain?” His voice, soft and low, sent a trill of excitement through her.
Arabella had to fight the impulse to stamp her foot. It was frustrating, the way he could imply without words that she was the reason he was staying. To look at her so intently that she could feel the touch of his gaze like the brush of a feather on bared skin.
Suddenly the stable felt remarkably close and intimate, and she wanted to look anywhere other than at him, at his muscled chest and finely wrought thighs, outlined so well in his snug breeches. Arabella spun on her heel and clomped across the ground, glad for the solid thump of her worn boots. Muttering about the work she had to do, she set about harnessing Sebastian to the cart.
From the corner of her eye, she watched as Lucien dropped the last shovelful into the handcart and then tugged his shirt over his head. The linen stretched smoothly over his shoulders and fell in soft creases to his waist. With his hair raked back from his forehead, his shirt undone and hanging free, he looked wild and untamed and as delectable as warm sugar cookies.
Trying to steady her breathing, Arabella gathered an armful of the short fence rails Wilson had prepared that morning. What was she doing, staring at Lucien like a moonstruck calf? She began to load the rails into the wagon, keeping her back to him so he wouldn’t notice her hot cheeks. “I’ll be back soon,” she announced. “These need to go out to the south field. The fence must be mended before it rains.”
“Then we’d best hurry.” His voice sounded just behind her, husky with implied meaning, his breath caressing her ear.
Arabella squenched her eyes closed, a tremor of awareness making it difficult to think. If she didn’t get some space between them soon, her traitorous longings would become obvious to the one man who should have no effect on her. Keeping her face averted, she said, “Thank you very much, but I don’t need your assistance. I will see you when I return.”
He didn’t take the hint. Instead, he reached over and took the remaining rails from her arms and carried them to the wagon. He stacked them on top of the others, oblivious to the damage done to his fine shirt.
It was, she decided with a dismal sigh, yet another example of the differences between them. The Duke of Wexford would never consider the cost of one simple shirt, even one that cost more than any two dresses she owned. “Hastings will not be pleased if you ruin your shirt.”
Lucien ignored her and continued to load the wood alongside her, stepping out of her way whenever she neared the wagon. After the last piece was placed inside, he slanted a hot glance her way. “Is that all of it?”
“Yes.” She gathered her coat closer. “If you don’t mind, please inform Mrs. Guinver that I will return in time for dinner.” Without waiting for him to answer, she climbed into the wagon, sitting squarely in the center of the seat so that there was no room for anyone else.
She gathered the reins, aware of Lucien’s warm gaze. Her breasts tingled as if he had stroked her through her heavy wool coat. Castigating herself for a fool, she had just reached over to release the brake when Lucien climbed onto the seat beside her, his coat slung over one shoulder. He unceremoniously nudged her aside with one hip, his large body pressed intimately against hers, his broad shoulder enticingly near.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, scooting away until the seat edge pressed into her thigh. Her entire right side burned from his touch.
“I’m helping you,” he said.
“Please get down.”
He shrugged into his coat and settled back, his feet planted firmly on the floor, his face set in immovable lines.
“Lucien, I will not have you—”
He bent and kissed her, his mouth claiming hers with a suddenness that gave her no time to prepare. His lips sent every last vestige of her control toppling, burning through her defenses until she moaned and clung to him as if she feared she’d fall.
Seconds later, Lucien broke the kiss with a muffled curse, his breathing loud in the stillness of the barn.
Arabella pressed her fingers over her lips. “What was that for?”
A smile softened the harsh lines of his face. “I just wondered if you tasted as good as I remembered.” He picked up the reins from where she had let them drop and hawed Sebastian into motion. “And you do—just the way I remember. Like honey, all sweet and spicy. As if the bees had gotten into an herb garden.”
It was nonsense, pure and simple. Practiced gibberish he used to trap innocent women into hopeless passion so he could abandon them when he desired. But she could not still the rapid pounding of her heart. “I did not wish to be kissed.”
“Didn’t you? I rather thought you did. Why else would you make such a fuss about my simple offer of assistance unless…” He slanted a long, slow glance her way.
She gathered her coat at her throat. “Unless what?”
“Unless you are worried my presence will awaken feelings you wish to deny.”
“Oh! Of all the vain, useless, ridiculous things I have ever heard—”
“The lady doth protest too much.”
Arabella balled her hands into fists and rammed them into her coat pockets. The braggart! The arrogant, conceited fool! She would love to box his ears until he begged for mercy. She shot a hot glare up at him and met his amused gaze. “I am not attracted to you, Lucien. Not anymore.”
“Then you won’t mind if I idle away my spare time by assisting you in your chores. I find them far more amusing than playing whist with your Aunt Jane.”
Arabella set her jaw. Damn the man. What sins had she committed to deserve such a fate? She ground her teeth and stared at the passing fields. If she were fair, she would admit that it wasn’t Lucien’s fault that she became a mass of quivering jelly at the feel of his muscled thigh resting beside hers. After all, she had no illusions about him and he was being very honest about his reasons for staying—he saw her as a challenge, a passing game of fancy.
It was a good thing she had tight control over her passions, or she’d be lost for certain. At least she knew that whatever his dark purpose was in staying at Rosemont, it would soon come to an end. So long as she kept that firmly
in mind, she was safe.
To make sure he didn’t get the idea that she welcomed his presence, she leaned as far away from him as possible and said in an ungracious tone as they neared the far gates, “Turn right.”
Soon the cart was bouncing down a narrow dirt road at a smart pace. They slammed into one particularly deep rut and Lucien swayed, his broad shoulder pressing against her breast.
Arabella tried to swallow, but found she couldn’t. Frowning, she said, “The south field borders Lord Harlbrook’s land and he is most insistent we keep our sheep away from his prize swine.” She sniffled, her nose numb in the cold. “He is an experimental farmer, you know. He had three hogs brought over from Germany. Unfortunately, Wilson ran over one on the way to town a few weeks ago.”
“Ah. That explains why His Lordship is so distraught to see the Hadley crest.”
“He never knew it was us, though he suspects it. We buried the creature out in the moor.”
“I suppose you volunteered this information when Lord Harlbrook came searching for his prize pig?”
“Of course not.”
“How unneighborly of you.”
“Wilson and I joined the search party,” she said defensively. “We even invited Lord Harlbrook to dinner afterwards.”
“And served ham, no doubt,” he said, grinning as he pulled the cart up to the broken fence. He immediately hopped down and reached up to help her alight.
She hesitated, aware that her blood was already pounding from sitting by him.
His eyes lit with amusement. “Afraid, Bella?”
She stepped into his arms without another thought. As soon as his hands closed about her waist, she knew her mistake. The bounder didn’t even have the decency to hold her through her coat. Instead, he had slipped his hands inside the heavy wool so that nothing but the thin linen of Robert’s cast-off shirt and her own chemise separated Lucien’s warm hands from her naked skin.
To make matters worse, he didn’t release her as soon as her feet rested securely on the ground, as a true gentleman would. He stood holding her, his hands splayed across her sides, his fingers following the curve of her ribs, his thumbs nestled beneath her breasts.
The cold air disappeared, replaced by a thick, warm mist that seemed to draw her toward the wide plane of his chest. She remembered it well, knew the feel of those crisp hairs between her fingers, knew the curve of his hard muscles. At one time, she had reveled in the broad planes of his shoulders and the strength of his arms, nipping and tasting every bit of him.
Her cheeks hot, Arabella yanked away. “We have work to do,” she said in what she hoped was a brisk, businesslike tone. She turned and began pulling the planks from the bed of the wagon.
After a moment, Lucien joined her and silently began to unload the remaining boards. For several minutes, they worked side by side. Despite the unnatural tension, Arabella grudgingly admitted that the extra assistance was a welcome relief, and for a few brief moments it was as if they were equals.
But no, she reminded herself bitterly, a pang flickering in her heart. Lucien would never consider himself her equal. He was a duke and well aware of his position. She tried to think of all the reasons he might be avoiding London. Gaming debts. Family obligations. An angry mistress, perhaps. Probably all three, she thought glumly. Regardless the reasons, once he’d completed whatever idle task had sent him to the wilds of Yorkshire, he would leave in the middle of the night and never return. It was his way.
Only this time, her brother would be hurt, as well. Having another man about had buoyed Robert’s spirits. He was more vigorous, more alive than he had been since he’d returned from the war. What would happen after Lucien left?
But even her fears for her brother’s welfare didn’t help Arabella fight the flood of emotions that were being stirred to life by Lucien’s presence, by the hot touch of his gaze, the lingering caress of his hands.
Pushing aside her untoward thoughts, she watched him slide the last slat into place. Hurrying, she climbed into the wagon before he could offer to help her up. The wind had risen during their labors, and heavy black clouds now loomed on the horizon. Lucien climbed into the wagon and took his place beside her, picked up the reins and then set Sebastian to a brisk trot.
He glanced down at her, his gaze hooded. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Aren’t you going to thank me? I deserve that much, at least.”
“Pish-posh. I’m sure it was all very healthy for you.” She made a vague gesture. “The exercise. The fresh air. I daresay it is the most useful labor you have ever done.”
She’d thought to insult him, but he merely grinned and said affably, “Most likely. But you are wrong on one account; the air was not fresh when I was shoveling out the stables.”
She had to bite her lip to keep a chuckle from escaping. Somehow, her memories of him had not included his sense of humor. She wondered what else she had chosen to forget.
Lucien turned the wagon into the drive at Rosemont and pulled Sebastian to a halt in front of the house. “Here we are. Off with you, now.”
“But I need to unhitch Sebastian and—”
“You don’t need to do anything but get into the house. It will rain at any moment and at this temperature, you would be frozen solid in about two minutes.”
It was cold and her shoulders ached from all of the shoveling and lifting. “Well. If you are sure you know how to—”
“Don’t even say it.” He glowered, a crease between his brow. “Just get down and let me take care of the horse.”
“But you’ve never—”
“Damn it! Must you argue with everything I say?”
“Yes,” she bit out, her pent-up emotions pouring forth.
“I am a capable woman, Lucien, able to take care of myself and my family without your interference.”
He stared at her a moment before saying in a quiet voice that nearly undid her, “I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were anything else. I just wished to help, that is all.”
She swallowed. “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to…” What? Handsome dukes who stripped to the waist and made her feel hot and restless?
Lucien’s mouth quirked into a smile. “You are a stubborn woman, Arabella Hadley. Fortunately for you, I like stubborn women.” He moved until his mouth was a scant inch from hers. “I like them best of all when they’re within kissing distance.”
She stared at his mouth, so sensuous and inviting. Pride, she decided, was a costly thing. Too costly when faced with temptation of such magnitude.
Gathering her wavering virtue, she scrambled down from the wagon and stiffly marched into the house. She barely stepped into the foyer when a huge rustle of wind signaled the beginning of a heavy rain. Perhaps that will cool his ardor on the way to the barn.
Muttering to herself about the difficulties of dealing with self-satisfied, conceited dukes, she tromped upstairs to change for dinner.
Chapter 11
“By yonder blessed moon I swear…” said a deep, mocking voice.
Arabella closed her eyes. Please, God, not again. She looked down from where she perched on a small stepladder trying desperately to juggle a hammer, three nails, and a broken shutter outside one of the library windows. Lucien stood below her, dressed for riding, his cravat immaculate, his Hessians gleaming. His arms were crossed over his powerful chest, his head tilted back as he watched her.
But his gaze was not fastened on her face. Instead he was openly admiring her posterior, which was embarrassingly at eye level. Thank goodness she was wearing a thick wool dress and a sturdy coat that had once belonged to Cook. She only wished the coat hung a bit lower.
“Perhaps it isn’t a moon, after all,” he murmured, “but the round warm sun, rising in the east.”
She fought the temptation to toss her hammer onto his rock-hard head. Every day for the last week, Lucien would find her engaged in some effort at setting Rosemont to rights, and he would pester her until she gave u
p her tools and allowed him to finish the task.
Actually, pester wasn’t quite the word for his lingering glances and warm touches. But she had to admit that he’d managed to accomplish an amazing amount of work in the past week.
Until he was free to return to London, she would derive what benefits she could from his presence. She only hoped he would stay long enough to help her replace the broken door on the shed.
Not that Lucien showed any inclination to leave. In the ten days he’d been at Rosemont, he had entrenched himself so firmly that she was beginning to believe she would have to burn down the house to get rid of him. The worst part of the situation was the fact that Aunt Jane seemed to have ignored Arabella’s confidences and sided with Lucien, doting on him constantly. That hurt more than it should.
And then there was Robert; he became positively surly if anyone so much as suggested something might be less than perfect with his new hero. Even when Lucien had disappeared two nights in a row and had not returned until dawn, offering no explanation to anyone, Robert had refused to admit there was anything untoward in such behavior.
Fortunately, she was made of sterner stuff. Arabella glanced down at Lucien and then pointed to the stables with her hammer. “Satan desires your presence in the barn. He is restive today and has twice tried to bite poor Sebastian.”
“I daresay that broken-down nag deserved it.”
Arabella couldn’t argue with that; Sebastian was furiously jealous of the young gelding. “You should see to him. And while you are in the barn, you can feed and water the horses.”
Lucien raised his brows, a flicker of amusement lighting his eyes. “I will gladly feed and water the horses, madam, once I finish here.” He tilted his head to better examine her backside. “This landscape is far more to my liking.”
Arabella didn’t deign to answer, just tried to get the nail into the loose shutter so that she could hammer it in. For some reason, though, her hands seemed to have lost their ability to hold anything correctly and she dropped yet another nail into the bushes.