Page 35 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
That was a long time ago.
“He is honorable,” Blythe said, “I think.” Her instincts told her that. Could she trust that to be true? Or—she glanced at him again as he poked his muscled arms into his sleeves—was this sudden instinct to trust merely the result of the lust she was feeling? “That is, we shall see, but he has been decent, so far.”
“Well, he’s grown up quite nicely,” Louisa said thoughtfully and then she laughed. “You mustn’t tell Samuel I’m gawking at other men.”
Graeme strode to meet them, tucking in his shirt tail, the shirt opening flapping as he walked. Mud coated his boots and the bottom of his trousers and smeared his cheek. The elder Stockwell hurried over with him.
Blythe made introductions and set about pouring drinks.
“We must speak with you, Blythe,” Graeme said, accepting one of the tin cups and draining it.
“I’ll have the other men break and eat,” Mr. Stockwell said. “And then I’ll rejoin you. If you wish, my lord.”
“I do wish,” Graeme said. “And bring Jarrow along as well.”
“Thank you,” Graeme said, turning back to the women. “It was kind of you to bring food and drink out instead of sending a servant.”
“And it’s kind of you to wield a shovel today.”
“Kind?” His smile was rueful. “Yes, well, in my first morning at Risley Manor I’ve met the magistrate, my steward and yours, and had my first experience of farming. Also, my first glimpse of what looks to be trouble.”
“Trouble?”
He nodded. “And I suppose I should apologize for my undress.”
That rush of heat swept through Blythe again.
He looked… bronzed was the word that came to mind. His hair was lighter, his skin, already tanned from so many months at sea, glowed. His eyes sparkled from the exercise, and the bit of exposed skin revealed a strong neck corded with muscles. Amazingly, he still smelled of starch and shaving cologne.
He looked supremely masculine.
Feelings rumbled in her, feelings she hadn’t experienced since her very brief courtship. Feelings driven out by her loathsome husband and his friends.
“Are you quite all right, Blythe?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “That is, I mean, what has happened here?”
“The men here believe this is no accident.”
“I’ve received news of a few problems at Bluebelle Lodge,” she said. “Mr. Stockwell didn’t think I should concern myself much about them. Not with the other troubles on my plate.”
The Stockwells and Jarrow joined them. The berm they’d labored to build in late winter had been damaged. Intentionally, it appeared.
Her hands curled into fists. That could only be Diddenton’s doing. Oh, he wouldn’t have dirtied his own hands directly, but he’d have ordered the damage to be done, all with the intent of driving out the occupants of Bluebelle Lodge.
The presence of the magistrate caused her to temper her speech. “Would the marquess stoop so low?” she asked.
Stockwell glanced at Jarrow, frowning. He shared her concerns, but he wouldn’t speak openly either, not to accuse such a high-ranking peer.
* * *
Blythe had spoken carefully, but Graeme saw the anger in her face.
“Given his interest in the property, we have to consider the possibility,” he said.
Blythe nodded. “That brook is flowing from Diddenton land.”
Graeme looked toward the higher fallow ground.
