Page 33 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
By tacit agreement they did not discuss Mrs Bridges on the short journey to the farm. Instead, Miss Hughes and Lord Crabb indulged Lucian by pointing out any notable landmarks they passed on the way. Lucian’s particular favourite, was the cottage where the owner had woken up one morning to find Mr Marrowbone asleep in the bed beside him, after having had a few too many pints in The Ring.
“Mr Marrowbone lives there,” Sarah pointed to a similar cottage a half-mile up the road. “He insists he was confused but I’d hazard a guess that he was just too tired to walk the rest of the way.”
The carriage then slowed as it reached the gates to the farm. As they turned up the drive, Lucian caught sight of a fine house, covered in climbing roses.
He brushed a nervous hand over his breeches and straightened his coat. He was suddenly terrified that Mr Hughes might find him lacking and forbid Sarah from mixing with him.
You are an earl, he reassured himself as he exited the carriage and helped Miss Hughes down.
The modicum of confidence he gained quickly vanished as Sarah ushered both he and Lord Crabb inside to the kitchen where she explained to her father the reason for their visit.
“I can happily inform you both that I am no murderer,” Mr Hughes boomed, as he shook Lucian’s hand in greeting. Then he leaned in and added, low enough that only Lucian could hear, “But Iamcapable of it, my lord.”
He finished with a wink, though it did little to reassure Lucian, who discreetly wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HAVING NEVER BEENkissed before, Sarah spent much of the next day reliving the few minutes when Lord Deverell had drawn her into his arms and showed her all that she had been missing.
As she went about her morning, her hand kept subconsciously reaching to her lips. So much so that Anne—broken-hearted after Sarah had warned her off young Mr Henderson—suggested she might be brewing a fever-sore.
“I’ve never had one in my life,” Sarah retorted, turning wildly to check her appearance in the mirror.
“It would be an awful pity if you were to brew one just before the assembly,” the house-maid frowned. “My ma swears that a dab of rosewater on the skin can prevent them surfacing.”
Though Sarah was quite certain that she wasn’t brewing a fever-sore, Anne’s mention of the looming assembly made her so nervous that she soon set off for Plumpton in search of a bottle of rose-water.
It would be just her luck to finally have a partner she wished to dance with, only to be forced into spending the whole of the assembly hiding her face with a fan.
Sarah again touched her hand to her lip, though this time it was to make certain that nothing was there instead of to reminisce on Lord Deverell’s kiss.
Once she reached the village, Sarah made straight for Mr McDowell’s and was relieved to find that he was in residence behind the counter and not in The Ring’O’Bells.
Inside the shop was dim, the air scented with spices, beeswax, and tobacco. The shelves were lined with tins of tea, bundles of candles, and small luxuries like lemon soap—perplexingly stocked beside strings of onions.
“Miss Hughes,” Mr McDowell greeted her through teeth that were clenched around a pipe. “Are you here to fetch your father some snuff?”
“He no longer partakes,” she answered sternly, hoping that if she said it enough it would eventually come to pass. “I wish to purchase a bottle of rosewater, if you have any, please.”
“Should have a few bottles somewhere,” the grocer answered, before disappearing through a door that led to the store-room out back.
Sarah idled by the jars of boiled sweets a few moments, until he returned with a bottle in hand.
“That’s the second bottle I sold today, you ladies do get through the stuff in the lead up to the assemblies,” he commented, as Sarah passed him a few coins.
“A lady always likes to look her best,” she answered politely, though inwardly she cringed at his indulgent tone.
“Especially when she has an earl chasing her,” the grocer winked.
Sarah did not deign to respond to that comment, though she did silently marvel at Mrs Mifford’s ability to plant the seeds of her ideas in every corner of the village.
“Don’t know who Mrs Fawkes needs it for, with her husband away,” the grocer continued slyly, as he wrapped the bottle in brown paper.
“We ladies do not beautify ourselves only for men, Mr McDowell,” she sniffed, refusing to be drawn into gossip. “We do it for ourselves.”
“Of course ye do,” Mr McDowell winked again as he pushed her purchase across the counter to her.
Sarah took the small packet and offered him a grudging word of thanks. As she left she made a mental note to tell Anne to stock up on non-perishable items the next time she was in Stroud. Mr McDowell’s discretion left a lot to be desired and Sarah did not want him commenting on her purchases to half the village.
