The slanting light of the late afternoon cut
across the garden in that moment, catching in the woman’s hair, making it blaze
the furious red and orange tones of a bonfire. He had never seen hair that
color, so off-puttingly red, falling in wavy, haphazard abundance from
uncertain moorings at the back.
Her brows were off-putting as well, thick and lustrous and
almost black, compared to her blazing hair. So were her lips, too full and wide
for her to ever be considered truly pretty, even had she not been covered in
freckles. And mud.
He gazed at her, even dizzier than he had felt when staring
up at the tower.
There was something about this female, something he could
not quite put his finger on, that was completely … well, wrong. Askew. Never
mind she was dressed like a stable hand, or had hair the color of fire, or that
her skin was riddled with freckles (blech!), or even that she was covered in
mud. He felt the same impulse he had felt when confronted by that collection of
enameled snuffboxes: the need to line something up before he screamed.
His hands clenched into fists at his side.
What was it?
The female’s eyes went wide at the sight of him, and she
hopped to her feet, mud flying. He somehow managed to notice – though he
knew not why – that she was a head shorter than him, and that beneath the
mud-encrusted lad’s clothes she was quite – quite – well, curved .
So curved that he wondered how he had ever mistaken her
backside for a lad’s.
A pang, hot and shattering, passed through his body, as if
someone had just hit a Chinese gong inside his breeches. Which made no sense.
He didn’t like short redheads. He didn’t like short redheads with curves. He most
decidedly did not like short redheads
with curves in trousers .
He liked blonds. Immaculate, begowned, bejeweled blondes
with willowy bodies.
Good God , why was
it suddenly so hot? It was nearly October, for Christ’s sakes. For the first
time in his life, he wanted to tug at his cravat.
“You … er, girl,” he said, “I’m looking for a Mr.
Stevenage.”
The redhead’s gaze narrowed, and something like shrewd
assessment replaced her initial shock. Her brow cocked on one side, and she crossed
her arms over her chest, which consequently pushed her breasts upwards and outwards , sending another inconvenient jolt
shooting through his nether regions.
Montford was so completely caught off balance he had to
grip the wall to stay upright. No one had ever dared to treat him with such
utter disregard for his station. Granted, she did not know who he was, but it
was obvious from his attire that he was mountains above her in class and station. Good God, she was in a garden with a giant
pig! How much more disgustingly plebeian could one get? “Very well, I wish to
speak to A. Honeywell.”
Her brow rose even higher. “Do you, indeed? And which A . Honeywell would that be, for there
are five who answer to that name.”
He was going to be sick. Again. Five? “I shall speak to
whoever is in charge, insolent chit,” he retorted.
The girl’s face turned as red as her hair, and she gave him
a venomous look before turning away from him to take up her rope once more,
ignoring him completely.
“You there, girl! I will not be ignored,” he bellowed.
She snorted indelicately and tugged on her rope. Her anger
seemed to have given her extra strength, for at last she made some headway with
the pig, who trotted a few paces in her direction.
“I wish to speak to Stevenage. I know you’ve done something
with him,” he insisted.
She passed by him at the wall, pulling the pig towards the
gate a few paces away. She rolled her eyes as she passed, and the scent of
sweat, hay, and lavender followed in her wake, startling him.
He trailed her, furious, but still slightly dizzy from
looking at her. “I am the Duke of Montford. I happen to own this lopsided pile
of stones, and everything in it. I demand to see A. Honeywell.”
The girl rounded on him,
across the garden in that moment, catching in the woman’s hair, making it blaze
the furious red and orange tones of a bonfire. He had never seen hair that
color, so off-puttingly red, falling in wavy, haphazard abundance from
uncertain moorings at the back.
Her brows were off-putting as well, thick and lustrous and
almost black, compared to her blazing hair. So were her lips, too full and wide
for her to ever be considered truly pretty, even had she not been covered in
freckles. And mud.
He gazed at her, even dizzier than he had felt when staring
up at the tower.
There was something about this female, something he could
not quite put his finger on, that was completely … well, wrong. Askew. Never
mind she was dressed like a stable hand, or had hair the color of fire, or that
her skin was riddled with freckles (blech!), or even that she was covered in
mud. He felt the same impulse he had felt when confronted by that collection of
enameled snuffboxes: the need to line something up before he screamed.
His hands clenched into fists at his side.
What was it?
The female’s eyes went wide at the sight of him, and she
hopped to her feet, mud flying. He somehow managed to notice – though he
knew not why – that she was a head shorter than him, and that beneath the
mud-encrusted lad’s clothes she was quite – quite – well, curved .
So curved that he wondered how he had ever mistaken her
backside for a lad’s.
A pang, hot and shattering, passed through his body, as if
someone had just hit a Chinese gong inside his breeches. Which made no sense.
He didn’t like short redheads. He didn’t like short redheads with curves. He most
decidedly did not like short redheads
with curves in trousers .
He liked blonds. Immaculate, begowned, bejeweled blondes
with willowy bodies.
Good God , why was
it suddenly so hot? It was nearly October, for Christ’s sakes. For the first
time in his life, he wanted to tug at his cravat.
“You … er, girl,” he said, “I’m looking for a Mr.
Stevenage.”
The redhead’s gaze narrowed, and something like shrewd
assessment replaced her initial shock. Her brow cocked on one side, and she crossed
her arms over her chest, which consequently pushed her breasts upwards and outwards , sending another inconvenient jolt
shooting through his nether regions.
Montford was so completely caught off balance he had to
grip the wall to stay upright. No one had ever dared to treat him with such
utter disregard for his station. Granted, she did not know who he was, but it
was obvious from his attire that he was mountains above her in class and station. Good God, she was in a garden with a giant
pig! How much more disgustingly plebeian could one get? “Very well, I wish to
speak to A. Honeywell.”
Her brow rose even higher. “Do you, indeed? And which A . Honeywell would that be, for there
are five who answer to that name.”
He was going to be sick. Again. Five? “I shall speak to
whoever is in charge, insolent chit,” he retorted.
The girl’s face turned as red as her hair, and she gave him
a venomous look before turning away from him to take up her rope once more,
ignoring him completely.
“You there, girl! I will not be ignored,” he bellowed.
She snorted indelicately and tugged on her rope. Her anger
seemed to have given her extra strength, for at last she made some headway with
the pig, who trotted a few paces in her direction.
“I wish to speak to Stevenage. I know you’ve done something
with him,” he insisted.
She passed by him at the wall, pulling the pig towards the
gate a few paces away. She rolled her eyes as she passed, and the scent of
sweat, hay, and lavender followed in her wake, startling him.
He trailed her, furious, but still slightly dizzy from
looking at her. “I am the Duke of Montford. I happen to own this lopsided pile
of stones, and everything in it. I demand to see A. Honeywell.”
The girl rounded on him,
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