Page 8 of The Baroness of Sin
“A gentleman must be careful not to apologize when he isn’t at fault. He has much at stake in his name, Mr. Page. It wouldn’t be honorable,” James said while stacking and binding the missive and accompanying paperwork then handing it to the delivery man.
“As I am sure, M’Lord. I am to be off, then. Good luck with your neighborly dispute and all that.” Mr. Page gave a nod, a smile, and a wink and exited the room with a surprising amount of grace. Sometimes afterward, James swore he would have to convince himself that the employee was ever there.
Despite his explanation to his employee, he still didn’t feel content with the situation. All he could think about was those beautiful green eyes looking up at him in the dark, wide with surprise at the bitterness in his voice. What would his daughter think of him if she had seen him act that way? It was hard to say what he did was gentlemanly.
He resolved to himself to apologize to the lady for his tone, at least, the next time he saw her.
In the coming weeks, the Earl found himself doing everything he could to avoid going anywhere near the Baroness’s estate. He was only vaguely conscious of it at first, but it was brought to his attention because his daughter was practically insisting they play nearer and nearer to Lady Carrington’s manor.
At first, James was ashamed to think it was his, well, shame at his behavior that kept him away, but he soon realized that wasn’t the case. The thoughts that he pushed away about the Baroness weren’t ones of guilt but rather of desire. He wanted to see her again and admire the gentle curve of her face. He even imagined reaching out and gripping her hand, pulling her against his body.
He would often dismiss these thoughts with a quick shake of his head. Physical urges were something to be expected, being a healthy human male, but he had learned that these urges didn’t have to be followed. He could never love again, never live with the possibility of suffering through that anguish and loss again. Still, despite his conscious insistence, his own mind seemed determined to thwart him. He would daydream about how her skin felt, the shape of her body beneath her dresses, and what it be like to hear her whisper his name.
But now, thoughts of the Baroness of Carrington came unbidden to his mind. He was also frustrated, if unwillingly so, that he had so few impressions of her to draw upon. He had seen her angry in the dark. He wished he could see her in the morning sun of his atrium. He really wished he could see her smile. He was certain his imagination, as wild as it ran, did her little justice.
These feelings were made all the more frightening because they were involuntary. With his wife, Lucienne, their relationship had been decided by their parents long before. He had loved Lu, there was no doubt about that, but he knew that he was supposed to love her. These feelings that James had toward the Lady Carrington were foreign to him and added an additional layer of discomfort.
So, his unconscious decision to avoid Lady Carrington soon became a conscious one. He would have to live with the consequences of her thinking him a heartless cad. It was better, really, for it would keep her far away. He didn’t think that his wayward lustful thoughts would tempt him in reality, but why chance it. Nothing good could come of him lusting after her, of wanting to touch her so badly that it consumed him from a stray thought like a spark consumes stray kindling, hungry and wanton.
These were the thoughts that were running through James’ head as he spotted his daughter, through a window, running excitedly across the lawns towards the neighboring Manor. James cursed quietly under his breath.
Chapter Seven
“Martha! Martha!” Amanda shouted as she ran across the garden, tripping a little on a stone or a stray root which gave her all the grace that was expected of a girl her age, less so a girl of the ton.
Martha set her paintbrush against her palette. Along with trying to socialize more, she had taken back up the hobbies that her relationship with her husband had forced her to give up. The lighting in the garden in the late morning made the greens especially vibrant, and she liked to paint there. Amanda was one of the last people she was expecting to interrupt her painting, but it wasn’t an unwelcome interruption.
“Hello, sweetie,” Martha said with a smile. “I wasn’t expecting you to be stopping by. Did you sneak over here again?” she asked jokingly.
“Uh-huh!” Amanda said nodding as she gasped for air. She stood next to the easel now.
“Oh,” Martha said while biting her lip, knowing this could lead to trouble. “Is that the truth?”
“Yes! Miss Blake was doing my daily lessons, and I waited for her to go get some charcoal and paper and snuck out the window,” she said with a playful grin. “I would much rather play with my friend than listen to boring old lessons.”
“Lessons are important too, you know?” Martha said tactfully. “Have you started painting yet?”
Amanda cocked her head a little. “Just a bit.”
“Would you like me to show you? I’ve been painting for a long time,” Martha offered gently, hoping she might persuade the girl. Any sort of lesson was better than no lesson at all, she rationalized.
Amanda walked around to stand in front of the easel, and Martha took it as an opportunity to explain what she was doing and the techniques behind it. Each brush stroke and color choice had experience behind it, and all Martha had to do was explain it.
Martha never considered herself any sort of teacher and would have judged Amanda to be an overly precocious student. But as she taught, despite there not being much direct engagement, she saw that the child was fairly enraptured as they painted together. It turned out that Martha herself was fairly engrossed as well, because neither of them noticed Lord Barristen crossing the lawns to reach them.
“I thought we had a discussion about your going places without telling anyone?” His deep stern voice cut through the mixture of Martha’s instruction and morning birdsong. Both ladies jumped in surprise, Martha managing to knock into the easel and canvas. With surprising speed for a man his size, James stepped forward and stopped it from folding and falling.
“Papa!” Amanda cried out in sheepish excitement. “Martha was teaching me how to paint.”
“Was she now?” he asked with genuine curiosity, before pivoting to correct his daughter. “And we refer ladies as appropriate to their station. She is Lady Carrington.”
“But we are allowed to refer to our friends by their first names, I thought?” Amanda asked.
“Yes, but close friends,” her father partially conceded.
“We are close friends.” Amanda challenged, which caused James to look up at the Baroness with an arched eyebrow. Martha was holding back laughter behind her hand, all too amused, but she nodded all the same.
“All right, but never in front of company. Only in private, are we clear?” James said firmly but rested his hand gently atop his daughter’s head before turning his attention to Martha. “I suppose I should thank you for attending to my daughter twice now.”
