Page 9 of Tremaine's True Love
“I hate how the cold makes landing so painful,” Nita said, gripping his coat sleeves for balance. “It’s worse on the foot one keeps in the stirrup.” If her clinging annoyed Mr. St. Michael, he didn’t show it.
“Which means for men, the landing is painful for both feet. At least we’re not getting more snow to go with the cold.”
“Hannibal Thistlewaite says more snow is on the way.” Though what would Mr. St. Michael care for an old man’s arthritic predictions? Della claimed Mr. St. Michael would be gone soon anyway.
Nita’s escort was tall enough that she could honestly use him to establish her balance, and even in the bitter cold, he bore a pleasant floral scent. That scent alone suggested Continental connections.
She turned loose of him and wished she’d worn a proper cloak instead of George’s old coat.
“Shall we use the gate,” Mr. St. Michael asked, “or can you manage the stile?”
“I’ve been climbing stiles since I was half my present height, sir. What are you looking for among these sheep?”
Mr. St. Michael was happy to talk about sheep—as happy as Nita had seen him. His gait was not the mincing indulgence of a gentleman escorting a lady, but rather, the stride of a man of the land inspecting his acres. He vaulted the stile in one graceful, powerful movement—he knew his way around a stile too, apparently—then assisted Nita, whose clambering about in a riding habit was ungainly indeed.
“You seek clear eyes, clear nasal passages, dense wool, healthy hooves,” Nita summarized some moments later. “What else?”
Mr. St. Michael surveyed the flock, which was regarding him as well. The more cautious sheep had retreated to the far stone wall, while the nearer ones peered at their visitors curiously.
“I listen to their voices,” he said, “which can indicate unwellness. I watch how they move, look for the smallest and the most stout, and about the back end, one can observe indications of ill health.”
“Much like people.”
Oh, drat. Oh, damn. Oh, blushes. Nita should not have said that, not when Mr. St. Michael’s reference had likely been to lameness rather than digestive upset. He continued to visually inspect the sheep, his dark brows knitted, as if he had heard those three unladylike words but could not credit that they’d come from her.
“An excellent point, Lady Nita.”
Heat, incongruous in the cold, crept up Nita’s cheeks.
And now, Mr. St. Michael studiedher.“A bit of color becomes you—not that your ladyship needs becoming.”
Mr. St. Michael wasin trade, he lacked genteel English good looks, and his antecedents were all wrong, and yet when he smiled…
When he smiled at Nita, spring arrived early in Kent. Tremaine St. Michael’s eyes crinkled, his mouth curved up, and a conspiratorial good humor beamed from him that took Nita’s breath.
His smile also made Nita foolish, for she wanted badly to smile back. “What do I need, Mr. St. Michael, if not becoming?”
Off by the stone fence, a sheep bleated plaintively.
“Perhaps your ladyship needs befriending?”
Marvelous response. How long had it been since Nita had had a friend? She stood among the sheep, who were milling ever closer, and wished Mr. St. Michael were not merely one of Nicholas’s business acquaintances who’d be gone from Belle Maison by this time next week.
“A friend is a precious treasure,” Nita said, though Susannah or Kirsten would have had some handy quote to serve up instead.
A moment developed, with Mr. St. Michael’s nearness protecting Nita from the bitter breeze and Nita wishing she’d had that handy quote, or that George would come whistling down the lane, or that Nicholas had not been dragooned into meeting with the vicar.
The wind blew a strand of Nita’s hair across her mouth—Susannah and Kirsten would also have pinned their coiffures more securely. Mr. St. Michael tucked the lock behind Nita’s ear. The sensation of heat in the midst of cold assailed her again, while her insides blossomed with more of that early spring.
Whatever Mr. St. Michael might have said on the subject of friendship was interrupted by the same sheep, bleating more loudly. Mr. St. Michael swung about, toward the far fence, and cocked his head.
“Something’s amiss.” He marched off in the direction of the unhappy creature, the other ewes scampering from his path.
Had that particular bleating not conveyed distress, Mr. St. Michael’s brisk pace across the hard ground would have. Nita followed, though dread trickled into her belly as the bleating ewe came into view.
A small, dark, woolly lump lay steaming on the frozen earth before her.
“You’ve an early arrival,” St. Michael said, kneeling by the ewe. “A wee tup-lamb.”
