Page 8 of Until Spring (Breaking the Rules of the Beau Monde #2)

CHAPTER 8

H awke would have to admit that he stepped right into that one. Asking a woman’s age was always a risk and, wisely, a road less traveled. “Put the blades away, sweet. I only meant you don’t look like a girl.”

“Oh? And what do I look like? A young man, an old spinster, on the shelf? Please, your compliments are like butter to my bread.”

He almost chuckled, but she folded her arms tightly and possessively across her chest. Clearly, she had taken offense, and would have taken more if she knew what her position did for her breasts. It rather gave him pause. If he irritated her the rest of the way, the view would be like heaven. Even her eyes sparked like fire as he imagined they would in passion. He was sorely tempted to keep her in this state of irritated arousal. “I only meant you look and act like a woman who knows herself.”

“Well, I’m not eighteen.”

“Exactly. You travel alone.” He indicated the interior of the coach.

“I’m not alone.”

“You travel with strangers.”

“I’m not likely to nurse strangers back to health after they’ve imbibed so much as to be ill.”

He grimaced and bowed his head. “Valid point. And I do apologize.”

She pulled one hand free to wave him on and then replaced it under her bosom, her lovely mouth a grim line.

Sitting back, with one arm supporting his elbow, he rubbed his jaw while regarding her. “What I’m trying to say is you’re a mystery, Lovie Wright. That’s not a bad thing.” He tilted his head, and she mirrored him either unknowingly or mockingly. He couldn’t tell. He sighed. “I take it you’re not going to tell me your age.”

“Does it matter?”

“No. Perhaps.” He shrugged, giving her a one-sided grin.

“You’re a cad, Mr. Hawke.”

“I never claimed otherwise, which is why I know you are not a girl because I don’t flirt with girls.”

One auburn-tipped eyebrow raised. “Are you flirting now? I cannot tell. I’m accustomed to the flirtatious banter of well-mannered gentlemen, but this”—her gaze darted over him—“I cannot quantify.”

“And that is my point. Girls tend to spend all their time giggling in herds. But you do neither.”

“Herds?” She laughed with little humor. “Are we cattle?”

“Girls? Yes. Women? No.”

“I don’t know what to think of you, and you think I am a mystery? Mr. Hawke, I know what constitutes a gentleman because I live with gentlemen.”

“Family.”

“Yes. Even Rochester is more than a cousin. We are like siblings. I confess interaction with my parents was sparse, which may be why you perceive me as you do.”

“Do you want to be a girl?” There was something more here than simple banter. More than mystery. She had the look of someone who had stopped dreaming, stopped living. “I know I’ve botched the charm.”

She looked skeptical.

“But honestly, I am interested in how you came to be so independent. And that, my dear, is all I meant when I asked about your age.”

She conceded a little by unfolding her arms. “Why did you not ask about my independence instead of braying like a donkey about my age?”

“Because I am a man, and we are notorious for sticking our feet in our mouths. We, apparently, have a fondness for the taste of shoe leather.”

Her gaze trailed to his feet. “It would be a shame to ruin those boots. They look expensive. I should know because Rochester likes fine things, and I’m forever putting his boots away.”

“You see? It’s those kinds of statements that drive my interest. Like, how did you come to live together?”

She shrugged, turning her attention out the window. “It just happened that way. Hudson and I lost our mother, and as a result, we spent a good deal of time at our uncle’s.”

“Where was your father?”

“He… was preoccupied with holding a house together, and truth be told, he spent less and less time with us over his remaining years. It had more to do with grief than anything else, I’m sure.”

“And what about your grief?”

She gazed at him through her lashes and swallowed. An answer was not forthcoming, and perhaps she didn’t have one.

“Forgive me. It’s not my place. There are some subjects too deep for idle conversation.” He had done a great deal of apologizing these last couple of days. It wasn’t like him to offend anyone, and it wasn’t like him to ask such personal questions, either. She did more than coax his curiosity or fill his boredom. She was alive. He could see it deep in her eyes, and he wanted more for her as if it were his place to provide it.

She gave the barest nod of forgiveness and licked her lips. “I’m five-and-twenty. Disgraceful, I know.”

“ So, you’re not a girl. Big surprise.” He teased, making light of it and hoping to see her shining smile. She had a right to keep her secrets, and he had no right to ask.

“As for my independence, I am forever in the company of my brother and cousin and am not overly involved with the seasonal amusements, which often leads people to overlook me, assuming I am accompanying one of them. You can go almost anywhere when you’re invisible, as there is little risk of interference or scandal. After all, where is the fun in gossip when the individual in question is virtually unknown?”

“Whoever told you that you were invisible was clearly blind.”

She looked away, but not before he saw a promising smile blooming on her cheeks. “It’s possible to be seen and yet still invisible. In fact, that’s probably the worst kind of invisible to be.”

She said that as if it were personal, and he had already pushed his limits of charm and respected her enough not to pry.

“Tell me something of the infamous Remington Hawke. What is your livelihood?”

“Used to be a sheep farmer.” He raised an ironic smile.

“Then I suppose you know cattle when you see them? I’m speaking of girls, of course.”

“Of course. On both counts. My father worked in investments and banking, much like your cousin, but when I was a boy, I fell in with a wicked runaway sheep, and the rest is history.”

“A runaway sheep?” Her shoulders shook with laughter. “Now you are obligated to share this story. I must know.”

“Oh, it was more trouble than you might imagine. I called her Betsy, but that was before I knew her real name—Forty-one.”

“Forty-one?”

“Because she belonged to a nearby farm, and it would seem our grass was greener than the other side, as is often the case. But we did not yet have a farm. It was Betsy who started the whole thing. My father had anticipated raising horses, but I was eight and couldn’t part with Betsy. I also couldn’t fathom how someone could lose a sheep. It was unforgivable in my young mind.”

“I take it you found the owner?”

“More like he found us. Turns out they did miss her, and I was forced to give her back, which my mother could not abide because she, too, had grown to like her. And why wouldn’t she when I had treated the kindly sheep like family and brought her to my room?”

She laughed outright now. “To your room?”

“I confess it was not the best idea I ever had.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You were a boy.”

“I was.” Even if he had tried, he couldn’t stop smiling. “Eventually, my father agreed to purchase me one lamb if I would learn how to care for it properly and promise never to bring it into the house. So, I asked the farmer who owned Betsy if I might apprentice under him. My father would not permit me to accept a salary since the benefit was in the education, so the farmer gifted me Betsy.”

She clapped, then held both hands to her mouth. “Bravo, to your father and the farmer.”

“To my credit, I did work for it. Do I not get a bravo ?”

“You got a sheep. That was your reward.”

“Lovie, you wound me with all your withholding.”

She shrugged happily. Her lips, like his, permanently turned up at the corners. She beamed. “You are a scoundrel.”

“There’s more if you’d like to hear it.”

“Please.”

He cleared his throat. “This part of the story is far more entertaining.”

“I’ll be the judge.” She bit her lip like a dare.

“By the time I reached fifteen, I had a small flock, and I’d learned to shear and to draw grease from the wool. So naturally, as any good farmer would do, I began joining the fairs that began to pop up in different counties. Locally, the fair consisted of mostly sheep farmers, but their wives had little to do and were evidently eager for competition.”

“Naturally.” She rolled her eyes but held a grin.

“As a result, the women started creating preserves, jams, jellies, and even pies to sell.” He held up one finger. “And this is where it gets a bit sticky. Someone neglected to slide a bolt on one of the paddock gates.”

She tilted her head, a shining question in her eyes.

“All right, probably me.” He bowed his head humbly. “The sheep escaped, as one might imagine, and not just mine. When the raucous broke out, many mistakes were made during the chaos, and more than one pen was affected. By the time I knew of it, there were sheep everywhere, and of course, if you are yet to guess the calamity, mine were headed straight for the white linen-clad tables of jams and jellies.”

“No!”

“Oh, yes. The tables were upended, and several sheep came away jammed. Needless to say, I did not place that year, nor any after, because we eventually moved, and my interests turned elsewhere.” The last word was forced out by a sharp bump and a sudden halt. Hawke leaned toward the window to ensure it wasn’t a highwayman or something equally dangerous. He saw the coachman scramble to the front toward the horses. He excused himself and went in search of answers.

It didn’t take long to ascertain the problem. Directly in front of the team of four horses was a large felled tree.

“I cannot say if there’s a way around this anytime soon, sir,” the coachman said when Hawke joined him.

After evaluating the debacle, he returned to Lovie. The coach bobbed as he took a high step into the cabin because he hadn’t bothered with the steps. “A rather massive tree is blocking the road.”

“Will it take long to rectify?”

“I’d say it will take several days to remove such a large trunk. By the time men are gathered to the task and axes honed, the day will be gone. There’s little chance they’ll even start on it before tomorrow or the day after.”

“Lovely. So now what?”

He looked about the cabin. “Either this is our hotel, or we return from whence we came. I vote we return since we’ll likely starve here.”

Lovie sighed heavily, her shoulders slouched in defeat. “I was hoping to make it back before tomorrow.”

“You have plans?”

“Only the usual.”

“We’ll make it a holiday, and you can show me how remarkably independent you truly are. Unless you’d like to search for another road around.”

“No.” She shook her head, closing her eyes. “The other roads are not as well maintained and are likely to be caked with mud from last week’s rains. We could make it to my uncle’s, but I wouldn’t suggest it. Rochester’s father and brother are not good company.”

“How bad could it be for a few days?”

“Bad enough. My words do them a kindness, and I don’t wish to be there.”

“Well, my new home is grossly understocked.”

“Which leaves my family home. Travel shouldn’t be a problem, and the house has a small staff and a stocked pantry. What do you think?”

“I think you’re stuck with me for a while longer. I will do my best to behave and not vex you.” He kept his voice lighthearted, but her demeanor was stiff and sharp-edged.

“It’s not you. You didn’t uproot the tree. I’m just not good at unexpected plans. I like everything neat and orderly.”

He wondered if it had something to do with losing control of her life at an early age. From what he could surmise, she was the only daughter in her family, and it was possible she had grown up too quickly, passing up her childhood in lieu of taking care of her household. With each passing moment, it made more sense.

A footman rapped on the door, and Hawke opened it, leaning forward. “Plenty of room for moving, sir. We’ll turn about. Just need a heading.”

Lovie scooted close to the open door and leaned into the conversation. Hawke couldn’t take his eyes off her. “We’ll be returning to my home, Mr. Jakes.” She held a confidence about her that he suspected she didn’t feel.

“Yes, miss.” The footman bowed and shut the coach door.

Still leaning in, Lovie looked through her dark auburn lashes, her gaze settling on his mouth before she lifted her eyes to his.

“All you need to do is lean in a bit more.” With that, he pushed himself forward just enough to be within her range. Teasing had a way of distracting most people. “Never doubt I wouldn’t kiss you back. If that’s your concern.”

“Your ego is a constant reminder of why I would never deign to do such a thing as kiss you willingly, Mr. Hawke.”

His lips turned up in an ironic smile. “My name is Remington if you’re inclined to use it. I would even understand if you shouted it.” He emphasized his name again, since she purposely refused to use it, which was more telling than anything.

“And in what circumstance, do you suppose, I would need to shout your name?”

He said nothing, just straightened, sighed, and moved back against the cushions, folding his arms.

She slowly sat up, her gaze locked with his. “I believe you were about to finish your story about the lost sheep. We are certainly not short of time, Remington.” She said his name without breaking eye contact, like a dare.

The coach forged ahead, making as sharp a turn as possible while he and Lovie bobbed side to side, each bracing a hand against the seats before the vehicle gave a hardy jolt, and the springs settled as they fell back into a balanced position.

“Let’s see, where did I leave off?”

“The sheep got themselves jammed and jellied.”

“Yes. It was more than a fiasco. Women screamed, which only confused the sheep all the more. The whole area looked like a keg of gunpowder had been unleashed. The poor little lambs were in tears. And when I say little lambs, I mean the women. By the time I came upon the scene, it was pure chaos. The sheep had mutinied. Farmers scattered, searching for their prize-winning cattle, and my father was shouting at the top of his lungs.”

“You weren’t there when they escaped?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Why do I have this odd feeling that you may have been to blame for it all?”

He laughed, holding the strap and peering out the window. “It was likely my mistake that started it. But I was distracted”—He shifted his gaze back to her, his cheeks sore with smiling—“by a girl.”

Her cheeks dimpled by the force it took to keep from grinning, although she looked adorable trying to keep it in check. “Was it your famous dare-to-kiss-me game?”

“I never play games when it comes to something as serious as desire.”

“You are too much. You know that?”

“I do.”

“How did it end? Did you get your kiss? Did everyone locate their sheep after the stampede?”

“You will be delighted to know that I did not get my kiss, but I did retrieve the flock despite my father’s help.”

“Your father knew nothing about sheep?”

“Sheep are fascinating animals. When it’s almost impossible for a stranger to collect them when they are loose, it’s almost as easy as a whisper when you are their caretaker.”

“Then they really do follow the shepherd.”

“Indeed. I whistled and called, and they were there in a thrice.”

“They knew their master.”

“It’s about trust and care. I liked them.”

“I think you loved them.”