Page 23 of If the Slipper Fits
Anna breathed in the fresh scent of foliage and damp earth. She turned her face skyward. This was her favorite time of day, when the morning sun tangled with layers of clouds. Today’s, thick and smoke-colored, painted the sky fuchsia, orange, lilac and purple.
Her cheeks seemed to drink up moisture from the very air. She felt like a child excited by the first hint of spring. Only it was Caden exhilarating her senses. So much for her good intentions where he was concerned.
Less than an hour ago she’d stepped from the guest chamber, staunchly committednotto see him again, regardless of her employer’s thoughtful, if odd, encouragement to the contrary. Yet here she was, strolling beside him in companionable silence along the meandering, tree-canopied trail.
There was nowhere else she’d rather be, and no one else she’d rather be with.
It felt like coming home, except for the part where her heart raced every time he smiled. That felt like something else entirely.
“The polish on your boots rivals my own, Mrs. Jones. I shall have to mention as much to my valet.”
He’d noticed her boots. Annoyance far outweighed any pleasure at his compliment. Leave it Caden to belie her assumption no one noticed the help—much less their footwear.
“Thank you," she clipped out and shortened her stride to cover the tips of her boots with her skirts.
Caden grinned down at her. Even his eyes smiled as if he noted her discomfiture and reveled in it. “Last night you mentioned you come from Durham.”
“Did I say I haled from Durham? How silly. It must’ve been the headache talking. That was the location of my last post.” She silently congratulated herself on the story she’d invented during her sleepless night. She'd somehow known, given the chance, Caden would renew his interrogations. “Lancashire is home. High in the Pennines. Boulsworth Hill, specifically.”
As far as she knew, nobody but cheese makers lived there. Of equal importance, the terrain made traveling to the region difficult. She couldn’t imagine the polished, social chameleon that was Caden Thurgood venturing to the sparsely populated upper moors of the Pennines for holiday. She ducked her head, hiding a smug grin.
“I see.” Somehow with two little words he communicated both amusement and disbelief.
He’d always been too bright for his own good.
“Where did you grow up, Mr. Thurgood? London proper?”
In her experience, men loved talking about themselves. She’d employed the tactic to distract men from the pain of having a bone reset, a wound stitched, or worse still, from their worries over an ill loved-one. Her father’s trick. She'd neverseen it fail.
“Partly, yes. Growing up, my family split time between London and Derby. The earl, always, and my father, oft times, resided in London when the House of Lords was in session.
"Summers and holidays were spent in Derby, but of course, my brother, Zeke and I both attended Eton, and then Cambridge, so…London. The latter part of college I leased an apartment. The habit stuck, and I keep one there to this day. But Derbyshire’s home. At least”—He blew-out a stream of air—"It was."
She opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but before she could utter the first syllable, he redirected the conversation.
“Do you know the area? Derbyshire, I mean.”
So much for her never-fail theory.
“Derbyshire?” she aped. Images of rolling green hills, a lush riverside, dense clumps of fragrant forest, and a formidable castle on a hill rushed into her mind like a high speed train.
In a flash, the visions narrowed in scope, and she saw a cozy limestone cottage at dusk. Inside, she and her parents sat around the table, talking, laughing, eating stew flavored with the pungent herbs from her mother’s garden.
As if she were here, her mother’s stern warning came to her.Keep-up your guard around that Claybourne boy. With nobility the title always comes first, even before family.
“Yes. Do you know it?”
She cleared her throat and shook off her memories. “No. Is it nice? Oh dear.”
Seemingly from nowhere, three fat drops of rain splatted on her, leaving damp splotches on her skirts. Sudden sharp gusts of wind grabbed at the hair pinned at her nape, pulling tendrils loose to whip her cheeks.
Glancing up, she saw the magnificent hues of the early morning had given way to a bottomless gray. She’d been too caught up with the man at her side to notice.
“We probably ought to head back,” she said without enthusiasm instead of thanking her lucky stars for the perfect excuse to shake off the blood hound that was Caden Thurgood.
“Bah. Just a bit of wind.” Cupping her elbow, he urged her forward.
Her good sense and inner resolve melted at his touch. “You can tell the weather?” she asked in lieu of making any real protest.
