the fields themselves—”
“Enough, brat,” he said with a warning look that told her more sternly than his words that he had heard all he wanted to hear in front of Trimby. “You attend to matters at the manor and leave the hall to me. I’ll bring whatever information I receive from Jensen directly to you. You may look for me at the end of the week.” He smiled wryly. “And please convey my regards to Aunt Celeste. You may tell her I was sorry not to see her today.”
Her own eyes danced then. “I shall tell her no such plumper as that, sir. I shan’t betray you, but neither will I protect you from her wrath if you persist in your foolish behavior. You are strictly forbidden to touch so much as a drop of brandy until you return from London, do you hear?”
He glanced quickly at Trimby, but the groom had moved tactfully forward to adjust his stirrup and was paying them no heed. “You mind that tongue of yours, my girl,” Abberley said in an undertone, “or you and I will have a falling-out.”
She bent toward him, unintimidated by his scowl. “I meant what I said, my lord. I am perfectly willing to fall out with you if it becomes necessary. One look at your condition tells me I shall win any such encounter easily enough.”
He glared more savagely than before, but she met his look without a blink, and a moment later he stepped away. “Till the end of the week, Margaret,” he said stiffly.
“Indeed, sir. Have a safe journey.”
As she urged her mare to a canter in the weed-choked drive, she was conscious of feeling let down. Abberley rarely called her Margaret, only Marget, the name she had called herself as a child, so when he called her Margaret, she knew he was seriously annoyed with her. Perhaps she ought not to have favored him with the rough edge of her tongue with Trimby and Puddephatt as an audience. That had not been well done of her. Still, Abberley had deserved to hear the words from someone, and the condition of the property was scarcely a secret. He was, furthermore, accustomed to her bursts of temperament and had always tolerated them well enough in the past. He would get over his annoyance.
No doubt he saw her now as he had always seen her, no more than a pesky younger cousin who spoke her mind more often than was comfortable for the peace of his. She was no more than that to him, certainly, despite the fact that, in his arms, she had felt protected and comforted, more so than she had ever felt anywhere else. Even Michael had never been able to make her feel as safe as Abberley did. Probably, she told herself, it had something to do with the size of the man. Surely, there was nothing romantic about it. His gesture had come merely from habit. All her life he had rescued her from scrapes of one sort or another, generally of her own making, and had protected her from the dangers of the world around her. Of course, Michael had done so, too. Tears welled into her eyes again at the thought of Michael, and she brushed them away, resolutely turning her thoughts homeward, not wishing at the moment to think of either her brother or his best friend.
Abberley was away for a full week, but Margaret scarcely had a moment free during that time to wonder what was keeping him. What with taking up the responsibilities of running a large household (for despite Lady Annis’s oft-mentioned sense of duty, she seemed quite content to leave everything to Margaret) and renewing her acquaintance with her young nephew, Margaret had little time for anything else. Then, too, as soon as word got around the neighborhood that Lady Celeste and Miss Caldecourt had returned to Caldecourt Manor, they began to receive callers. Among the first were the vicar and his daughter, who were received in the blue-and-white drawing room by Margaret and Lady Celeste, Lady Annis having gone out for her daily drive and Jordan being occupied elsewhere on private business of his own.
The Reverend Mr. Maitland was a spare gentleman in
“Enough, brat,” he said with a warning look that told her more sternly than his words that he had heard all he wanted to hear in front of Trimby. “You attend to matters at the manor and leave the hall to me. I’ll bring whatever information I receive from Jensen directly to you. You may look for me at the end of the week.” He smiled wryly. “And please convey my regards to Aunt Celeste. You may tell her I was sorry not to see her today.”
Her own eyes danced then. “I shall tell her no such plumper as that, sir. I shan’t betray you, but neither will I protect you from her wrath if you persist in your foolish behavior. You are strictly forbidden to touch so much as a drop of brandy until you return from London, do you hear?”
He glanced quickly at Trimby, but the groom had moved tactfully forward to adjust his stirrup and was paying them no heed. “You mind that tongue of yours, my girl,” Abberley said in an undertone, “or you and I will have a falling-out.”
She bent toward him, unintimidated by his scowl. “I meant what I said, my lord. I am perfectly willing to fall out with you if it becomes necessary. One look at your condition tells me I shall win any such encounter easily enough.”
He glared more savagely than before, but she met his look without a blink, and a moment later he stepped away. “Till the end of the week, Margaret,” he said stiffly.
“Indeed, sir. Have a safe journey.”
As she urged her mare to a canter in the weed-choked drive, she was conscious of feeling let down. Abberley rarely called her Margaret, only Marget, the name she had called herself as a child, so when he called her Margaret, she knew he was seriously annoyed with her. Perhaps she ought not to have favored him with the rough edge of her tongue with Trimby and Puddephatt as an audience. That had not been well done of her. Still, Abberley had deserved to hear the words from someone, and the condition of the property was scarcely a secret. He was, furthermore, accustomed to her bursts of temperament and had always tolerated them well enough in the past. He would get over his annoyance.
No doubt he saw her now as he had always seen her, no more than a pesky younger cousin who spoke her mind more often than was comfortable for the peace of his. She was no more than that to him, certainly, despite the fact that, in his arms, she had felt protected and comforted, more so than she had ever felt anywhere else. Even Michael had never been able to make her feel as safe as Abberley did. Probably, she told herself, it had something to do with the size of the man. Surely, there was nothing romantic about it. His gesture had come merely from habit. All her life he had rescued her from scrapes of one sort or another, generally of her own making, and had protected her from the dangers of the world around her. Of course, Michael had done so, too. Tears welled into her eyes again at the thought of Michael, and she brushed them away, resolutely turning her thoughts homeward, not wishing at the moment to think of either her brother or his best friend.
Abberley was away for a full week, but Margaret scarcely had a moment free during that time to wonder what was keeping him. What with taking up the responsibilities of running a large household (for despite Lady Annis’s oft-mentioned sense of duty, she seemed quite content to leave everything to Margaret) and renewing her acquaintance with her young nephew, Margaret had little time for anything else. Then, too, as soon as word got around the neighborhood that Lady Celeste and Miss Caldecourt had returned to Caldecourt Manor, they began to receive callers. Among the first were the vicar and his daughter, who were received in the blue-and-white drawing room by Margaret and Lady Celeste, Lady Annis having gone out for her daily drive and Jordan being occupied elsewhere on private business of his own.
The Reverend Mr. Maitland was a spare gentleman in
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