Page 6

Mal

Och. Hopeless was right. Admitting he was a hopeless romantic?

It’d taken every ounce of self-restraint not to say hopelessly in love with ye .

And she thought it was admirable? Enviable?

That he was pining after a woman he could never have, putting his life on hold for no other reason than every other woman wasn’t her . That wasn’t enviable.

What it was, was addle-pated.

“I don’t love him,” Lady Bentley blurted.

Malcolm blinked. Repeatedly. “Pardon?”

She delicately cleared her throat, her gaze dropping to where she twisted her hands together in front of her, and her cheeks bloomed with a soft blush.

She inhaled deeply, her entire slight frame lifting, bracing.

And then she squeezed her eyes shut tight and said in a rush, “I meant, I am envious of your dreams to marry for love.”

Her eyes fluttered open, but she stared off into the distance, not meeting his gaze. “I… Freddy and I did not marry for love. Our marriage was contractual. As many ton marriages are.”

His stomach tightened at her use of her husband’s Christian name.

Even as her words had the opposite effect.

Did not marry for love. Contractual . But clearly, they had developed an affection for each other.

One would have to be blind to miss it. The laughter.

The time spent together as family. It was bloody torture.

But it was also a small comfort, knowing she was happy.

Because even if he couldnae have her, all he wished for was her happiness.

“So, I find it admirable and enviable that you wish for love.” Her words drifted to him, pulling him back to her, and her soulful sea-blue eyes finally met his. “As it is something I would have liked,” she said softly. Longingly…

Then her eyes flew wide, and she stepped forward, reaching out to him.

“Oh, that was horrible! No, no!” Her hand landed on his chest. “I am beyond happy with my current situation. I wouldn’t change a thing.

I love my children, and without the arrangement, I wouldn’t have them.

I wouldn’t trade them for love.” Her eyes darted wildly between his, her fingertips digging into him.

She might as well have been reaching straight through him into his heart. “I wouldn’t trade them for anything.”

He let a smile curve his lips, despite the erratic beat of the pathetic muscle beneath her hand.

Where she was touching him. Bloody hell, it was heaven to have her touch him.

And her words. God, what did they mean? His mind was a riot of thoughts.

None of them healthy for him to be having. But he tamped them down.

“Aye, my lady. I think I understand. Ye wish ye had both, is all.”

She deflated on a breath, her lips splitting into a smile. And she blessedly didn’t pull away. Was it pathetic that he’d like to be trapped in this moment for the rest of eternity? Simply with her hand pressed to his chest, with her leaning into the touch like she was drawn to him.

She peeked at him through a frill of blonde lashes. They were bonnie lashes, they were. He’d love to dust kisses over them. Snap out of it, ye dobber.

“Yes. Exactly, Mr. Campbell. I would have preferred to find love in my marriage.”

But she hadnae. Didnae. Which meant…

She pursed her lips into an adorable little bow. “Well, I do love Freddy.”

His heart sank.

“Just not in that way.”

It floated back up.

“I care deeply for him. But it’s not a…a…” Her brows crashed together, and her two top teeth sank into her bottom lip, her gaze turning inward. “It’s not an intimate love?”

His head snapped back, thoughts reeling.

This conversation, already treading the edge of propriety, had now tossed all caution aside.

They were entering the bull paddock. Wearing red.

Because she was touching him. Speaking of intimacy.

While touching him. Saying she didn’t love her husband.

And his head and his heart were quickly getting as tangled as a sheep in a bramble thicket.

She took a hurried step back, severing their connection. And he felt the loss of her touch keenly. He barely prevented himself from reaching for her, snatching her hand, and placing it back on his chest. Because that small touch. It was everything.

“My apologies. That was much too forward.” Her gaze dropped to the flattened, sparse winter grass that would fill in once spring was upon them.

She looked back up at him, her cheeks dotted cinnamon red, and even that blotchy blush looked lovely on her.

“I suppose I got carried away. But I have always felt at ease speaking with you. You have this presence about you…” She trailed off, her gaze softening.

And someone, bash him over the head with a spade. Because bloody hell, that looked a hell of a lot like affection.

“A comfort,” she murmured. “I suppose it loosened my tongue.”

Och. Cannae think about her tongue, Mal.

“I’m glad to be of service, Lady Bentley,” he said gruffly. “Act as a source of support for you and your bairns and the Bentley estate.”

She started meandering toward the other side of the pen where her children were, and he followed like a puppet on a string. Like a pathetic, pining Scotsman.

“Yes, you are an integral part of the Bentley estate. In many, many ways, Mr. Campbell. You’ve worked here for quite some time. We’ve known each other for what…over a decade now?”

Eleven years, five months.

He didn’t say that, though. He wasn’t that beetle headed. He dipped his chin in a nod instead.

She paused at a bush of hellbores that bordered the pen, her fingers tracing over the deep burgundy petals.

“I’ve always loved these,” she murmured softly, taking a petal between her fingertips and rubbing it gently. “A splash of color in an otherwise colorless season.”

Like her.

“A decade is a long time. Perhaps…it is time you call me Lydia,” she added.

What? His eyes stretched wide. “‘Tis—‘tisn’t proper, my lady.”

He swallowed hard. He’d love to say her name. He knew how sweet it would taste, curling that ‘L’ on his tongue. And to hear her say his name? He stomped out that thought, doused it like cold water on the hearth. Because just the thought brought a sharp, painful joy bursting through his chest.

“You are more than an employee, more than a servant, to this estate, Mr. Campbell. To me. To those children.” She gestured to her bairns, snuggling with the lambs.

“So, in private company…like right now. I would give you leave to call me Lydia,” she said hesitantly.

“And if you would grant me the privilege of calling you—”

“Aye.” Damn it. Ye bloody dobber. But he wanted to hear his name coming from her lips.

And she was the superior here. She, a countess, and he, a mere groom.

She could call him blethering bampot, and he’d never deny her.

“Ye can call me Malcolm, my lady, if you so wish it. But I’m not so sure it is right for me to reciprocate the liberty. ”

Her seafoam irises dimmed slightly, the curve of her lips holding a tinge of sadness. “I suppose I will make do with that.” She held his gaze, her eyes darkening to a stormy sea. “Malcolm.”

His heart rammed against his ribcage. Shite. Now that he’d heard it once, he never wanted to stop hearing it. He wanted to ask her to say it again. He opened his mouth—

“Mama! Come here, come here! You must cuddle these lambs. So sweet!”

Their heads snapped in the direction of Lady Felicity’s voice.

Lady Bentley lifted her hand in a wave. “I’ll be right over, darlings!” Her gaze darted back to his, and she gifted him a half-smile, a small, bashful one. One that had him feeling things he really shouldn’t.

Who are ye kidding, Mal. Every single one of yer feelings about her are ones ye shouldnae be having.

“As always, it has been a pleasure. Malcolm.”

And she walked off to join her children.

And he stood there, no longer a hopeless romantic.

But a hopeful one.

He truly was a blethering bampot. Because she was still married. Still a countess.

Still unattainable.