Page 30 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
Winters hesitated only a moment before tipping his head and retreating to issue the order.
Genevieve had not expected him to act so swiftly in so public a manner. She glanced at Gabriel, uncertain whether to offer further comment.
“You seem surprised,” he said, voice lower now that they stood alone.
“I am accustomed to being heard, then disregarded with polite condescension,” she said.
He turned toward her, brow furrowed with reflection.
“If more men listened to women who understood the land, fewer fields would lie fallow,” he said softly. “And fewer fortunes would waste themselves in pursuit of pride.”
Genevieve said nothing. She felt it again, the subtle, undeniable shift between them. It was less like a movement and more like the slow alignment of two things long adjacent, never quite connected.
Gabriel looked back toward the workers now adjusting their course under Winters’ direction.
“You ought to tell me more of what you did at your father’s estate,” he said. “What else was required to restore the flow there?”
Genevieve was utterly stunned. She had almost convinced herself that her husband was merely humoring her to maintain an appropriate front before the household. But what she saw in his eyes was genuine interest, and a growing certainty that she might have some valuable suggestions.
“We used gravel to line the more vulnerable banks,” she said. “It arrests erosion where the earth loosens in spring. And alder saplings along the border help bind the soil. Their roots are persistent, and they grow swiftly.”
He nodded once.
“We shall do the same here,” he said. “Mr. Winters will see it arranged.”
Her mouth fell open, and she was helpless to return to a ladylike semblance.
“You would plant trees on my suggestion alone?” she asked, dumbfounded.
Her husband nodded, holding her gaze with sincere intensity.
“I would plant a forest if you told me that it would keep the tenants fed and the fields strong,” he said, not unkindly.
It was not flattery. His face bore none of the easy smiles used by gentlemen to mask inattention. There was instead a quiet steadiness, as if the words were simply fact.
Genevieve turned her face away then, lest the warmth behind her eyes betray more than she wished him to see. She watched the men as they widened the channel and removed the sharper bend, noting where the soil sloped more naturally now.
She had not expected, in matrimony, to find her judgment valued so plainly. Nor had she expected her formidable husband to prove so willing a partner when real need presented itself. Yet here they stood, not as master and mistress of convenience, but something approaching allies. It was a beginning she had never dared to hope for.
By the time the work on the channels had finished, the sun had vanished just beyond the western hedgerow, softening the outlines of the fields into a haze of amber and green. Genevieve gently picked her way along the rutted track between plots, admiring the work. The irrigation channel, newly reformed under Gabriel’s precise instruction, ran low and swift beside them, its current catching the last of the light.
The fragrances of tilled soil and wild mint rose in the warm air, mingling with the faintest trace of Gabriel’s sandalwood scent, ever-present though never overpowering. He walked a pace ahead, sleeves still rolled, boots thick with mud, his hands marked from a day spent not merely directing but laboring beside his men. There had been no deference assumed, only effort given and commands issued in calm, deliberate tones.
She studied the area just ahead, where the path narrowed and dipped before curving around a ridge of uneven stone. The low ground was treacherous, slick with runoff and half-swallowed in thick, glistening mire. Gabriel turned, eyes scanning the stretch, then looked to her.
“You had best allow me to help you here,” he said. “A fall here would be quite unfortunate.”
She hesitated, though his hand extended toward her, palm up, strong and callused, waiting. She placed her hand in his. His fingers closed over hers with anunexpected gentleness and genuine care. The warmth of his grasp traveled swiftly along her arm, unsettling in its simplicity. He said nothing, yet the silence between them held far more than mere courtesy. She stepped forward, and her foot sank into the wet clay beneath. Her balance gave way.
With a sharp intake of breath, she pitched forward, but he caught her, swift as instinct. His arm circled her waist, anchoring her against him. Not politely or fleetingly, but with full and steady contact. Her palms found the firm breadth of his chest and the cotton of his shirt, damp and warm beneath her fingers. For a suspended breath, neither moved. She felt his heartbeat, strong and swift, beneath her fingers, and she felt her own pulse quicken mirroring the disturbing throb she felt against the stricture of her stays.
Gabriel’s face was near, his brow lowered, and his expression was unreadable save for the dark, intent flare in his eyes. There was no polite distance in him now. No restraint born of formality or duty. The world narrowed to the heat of his body pressed to hers and the way he looked at her, as though something essential had unraveled without warning or permission.
Her breath caught, but she did not pull away. And still, he held her steadily and quietly, utterly still save for the slight flex of his hand at her waist. Then, with visible effort, he exhaled, slow and rough. He eased back by inches, guiding her upright, his hand leaving her waist with a reluctance she felt echoed in her own bones.
“Forgive me,” he said, his voice low and uneven, not from embarrassment but something else. Something darker, quieter.
She gave no reply, and it seemed that he did not expect one. The path stretched before them once more, but the space between them had shifted. Not in stride, but in understanding. Something had changed. And neither of them could pretend it had not.
