Page 15 of A Cinderella to Redeem the Earl
She glanced up as he drew near. ‘Oh. It is you.’ Displeasure filled her expression.
What had he done? ‘Why are you in here?’ He sounded a little more brusque than he intended.
‘It is an orangery. I was looking for oranges.’ She must have seen his disbelief because she continued, ‘I thought to make some marmalade.’ She shook her head. ‘Unfortunately, most of the trees are dead. They have been left without water.’
Another act to lay at the feet of his enemies. Dead fruit trees. Not the worst of their crimes, to be sure.
She tipped her basket towards him and in the bottom sat three small oranges. ‘I did find this one tree with fruit. There is water dripping down from somewhere. It kept the tree alive. Let me show you.’
She spoke as if she had found a treasure.
Bemused, and very slightly enchanted by her enthusiasm—only very slightly—he followed the direction of her pointing finger.
‘I think the water must come in somewhere up there.’
The glass panes above their heads were filthy, but he could indeed see streaks in the dirt cause by trickling water. Higher up the glass was cracked.
He grimaced. ‘Something must have broken the pane. Perhaps a tree branch in a storm.’
She gave a little shiver. ‘Indeed. Well, I suppose it is an ill wind. The other trees are truly dead, but this one can be saved, if you’ve a mind.’
About to say it wasn’t worth the trouble, the hope in her voice gave him pause. ‘Perhaps.’
She tipped her head. ‘Don’t you care that this poor tree has struggled onwards in the face of terrible neglect?’
‘There are other things more important than an orange tree demanding my attention at the moment.’
Disappointment filled her expression. ‘Your house parties.’
‘Indeed.’
She made a face of distaste. ‘As you wish.’
How was it possible she could make him feel guilty about a tree? And what right had she to judge him about his way of making a living? Damn her. If not for the actions of her father, it would never have been necessary.
‘I shouldn’t think those oranges are worth the time. Better to put them in the slop bucket.’
‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I like marmalade with my toast and, since it is my time, I—’
‘Time I pay for ismytime,’ he said mildly, but still she shot him a glare.
‘You do not pay for all of my time. There are hours that belong to me, My Lord.’
Should he point out that the sugar she would add to the fruits, the wood she would use for the stove and the pots and pans and jars were all his? He opened his mouth.
Off in the distance, thunder rumbled.
Mrs Lamb froze. ‘A storm?’
Genuine fear. The desire to put a protective arm around her shoulders took him by surprise. He restrained the urge. ‘Yes,’ he said, coolly, unfeelingly.
She glanced upward with a shiver. ‘Excuse me. I will return to the house.’ She moved past him.
The clean smell of soap blended with, of all things, the scent of orange filled his nostrils. A surprisingly enticing combination. The desire to inhale more of it had him following her, the rustle of dead leaves marking their passing. Outside, she pulled her shawl over her head, picked up her skirts and ran for the house.
Only by strength of will did he refrain from following to ensure she arrived safely.
Devil take it.
