Page 23 of The Soldier
Douglas looked like he was concentrating on something in the distance for a mere instant, then nodded his head.
“I can toddle by the stonemasons,” he suggested, “then saddle up Regis and nip past the home farm, perhaps take a peek at the wood on the way. But what about the haying?”
“Damned haying.” The earl closed his eyes in exasperation. “I don’t know what kind of storage we have on the property, and I haven’t seen a team of anything big enough to pull a hay wagon.”
Miss Farnum glanced from the earl to the viscount. “The hay barn stands empty between the home farm and pastures, and Mr. Mortimer can bring a wagon and team tomorrow if you ask him. He might be able to scare up two, in fact, and some more crew, because his wife’s people have their own small holding just up the river.”
“Mortimer’s the one with the nose?” the earl asked, snagging two more cookies.
“The one with the smile. Where shall I serve lunch, and did you expect the men to bring their own?”
“I did, or I told Holderman those were my terms. You can bring it…” He glanced up at the clock and saw the morning was half gone. “I’ll come back to the house.”
“And I can do likewise,” Douglas chimed in. “Winnie, I will pine for the sight of you until then.”
“’Bye, Lord Amery.” She waved a floured paw but didn’t look up from her dough.
“He will pine,” the earl growled at Douglas’s retreating back. “Winnie, you must learn to make a fellow work for your attention.”
“I must?” Winnie did look up and blinked at him in disarming confusion. “But I like Lord Amery.”
“I know.” The earl made one last foray at the cookies. “And you want to borrow him for your temporary papa, you little traitor. I should have you court-martialed for treason.”
“Treason?”
“High treason.” The earl nodded then dipped his head to blow a rude noise against her neck. “Until luncheon.”
Emmie watched him disappear, letting the back door bang loudly in his wake, while Winnie’s squeals of delighted indignation faded to a huge, bashful smile.
“So, Bronwyn, what shall we feed your admirers for lunch on this glorious summer day?”
“They like sweet things,” Winnie observed, frowning at her pie dough. “Especially the earl. He ate alotof cookies, Miss Emmie.”
“He did, but he is a big, strong, hungry fellow, and this is his kitchen. He does like sweets, however, on that you are absolutely correct.”
He liked sweetness, and if Winnie’s conquest of him was any indication, he liked innocence, as well—two qualities Emmaline Farnum had not called her own for a good long, lonely, miserable while.
She cast her mind back to the previous day, to the sight of the earl half naked, sweating, his muscles bulging with exertion as he hefted rocks Emmie could never have budged. She ought to have been scandalized, but she’d been… fascinated. And then he’d asked her about his wall, standing so close to her she could feel the heat of him, feel his breath on her neck as he’d spoken virtually in her ear.
Indecent thoughts. A man who liked sweetness and innocence would be appalled to know how Emmie was recalling him, how she’d wanted him to turn his head just a fraction and put his mouth on her flesh. Emmie ought to be appalled herself.
She really ought to be.
Four
The earl glanced around his dinner table and felt a soothing sense of sweetness. The day had started well, then veered temporarily toward frustration, but soon righted itself. He was in good company, had consumed a wonderful meal, and felt a pleasant sense of accomplishment.
“If you gentlemen want to linger over your port, I can absent myself,” Emmie volunteered. “The day has been very, very long, and my bed is calling me.”
“You are adequately settled in?” the earl asked, rising as she gained her feet.
“I am. So I will bid you both a good night.”
Douglas rose, as well, and wished her good night, but sat back down and nodded when the earl gestured with the decanter.
“She is such a lovely woman,” Douglas observed. “I think the child owes much to her care.”
“I don’t know how much care she was able to take of Winnie.” The earl frowned as he poured their drinks. “She is lovely. She does a better job with my apple tart recipe than I do, and I can promise you, Douglas, it won’t be just stale scones for breakfast tomorrow.”
