Aunt Dimity and the Duke by Nancy Atherton Page B

anxiously.
    “Not quite. Please, allow me.” The man eased the cloth from her hand and with gentle fingers tilted her head back until she was looking straight up into those eyes. “There’s just a tiny smudge—”
    “What have we here?” asked a voice. “Frolics in the garden?”
    The man swung around, flushing crimson when he saw Susannah Ashley-Woods observing them from the top of the stone stairs. Fashionably shod in three-inch stiletto heels, the duke’s cousin carefully negotiated the uneven steps and came to stand beside the tall man.
    “Imagine my chagrin,” Susannah drawled. “I’ve been after Derek all week to show me his beastly window and now I’ve teetered out here all on my own, risking life and a pair of heavily insured limbs, only to find another woman in his arms.”
    “There was dirt on my face,” Emma tried to explain.
    “A bit further down as well,” Susannah noted, gazing pointedly at Emma’s skirt.
    With a sinking feeling, Emma looked down to see two large stains on her beige skirt, where her knees had met the damp grass.
    “I’m sure there’s no permanent harm done,” Susannah cooed. “Corduroy is such a durable fabric.” Running a long-fingered hand through her silky hair, she looked from the man’s face to Emma’s. “What? Cats have your tongues? Don’t tell me—my cousin has been remiss in his introductions. Allow me. Emma Porter, meet Derek Harris.”
    Derek offered his hand and Emma reached out to take it, saw that her own was smeared with mud, and snatched it back.
    “Glad to meet you,” she muttered, her eyes on Derek’s tool belt.
    “Uh, yes,” said Derek, his hand stranded in midair. He smiled slightly, then raised his hand to rub his chin. “Pleasure’s mine.”
    “Derek’s here to work on the window,” Susannah went on. “What about you, Emma?” She leaned forward and asked, with a mischievous smile, “Come for a peek at Penford Hall’s claim to fame?”
    Emma stared at Susannah blankly.
    “Lex Rex?” Susannah prompted. “The pop star? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him.”
    “Of course I have,” Emma mumbled defensively. To prove it, she added the first song title that popped into her head. “ ‘Kiss My Tongue.’ ”
    Emma blushed to her roots while Derek stared stolidly into the middle distance and Susannah smirked.
    “Yes,” Susannah confirmed, “that was one of Lex’s more memorable videos. If you climb up those comer ledges you can see where he sank Grayson’s lovely yacht. Surely, that’s why you’re—” She broke off as the garden door opened again and the front end of a wheelbarrow rolled slowly into view. “Ah,” said Susannah, “Bantry has arrived.”
    The barrow was wielded by a short, stocky man with a wrinkled, nut-brown face and a tussock of white hair blown helter-skelter on the top of his head. Even on this fine day, he wore heavy wool trousers, a tattered argyle sweatervest, an oiled green cotton jacket, and a mud-stained pair of black wellington boots.
    Derek strode over to offer a steadying hand as the old wheelbarrow, tightly covered with a patched oilcloth, clanked loudly down the steps. The thick wooden handle of a grub hoe and the bent handle of a scythe protruded from beneath the cloth.
    When the two men had guided the barrow to a safe landing at the bottom of the stairs, Bantry pushed it a few feet to one side, then stood back to survey the group.
    “Much obliged, Mr. Derek, sir,” he said. His gaze traveled quickly past Susannah and came to rest on Emma. Grinning broadly, he crossed over to her and, before she could stop him, seized her muddy hand and pumped it vigorously.
    “Bantry, head gardener, at your service,” he said. “Very pleased to meet you, Miss Emma. His Grace told me you’d arrived.” He indicated the tool-filled barrow with a jerk of his head. “Thought I’d make a start. Won’t turn a clod without your say-so, o’ course. Ah, you’ve been at it already, I see.” He