A Lady for Lord Randall. Sarah Mallory
a feather over her skin. Even over deeply intimate places. Just the thought of it sent a delicious shiver running through her.
Perhaps she was becoming an old maid. She had observed how elderly ladies could turn positively skittish in the presence of a personable gentleman. They would simper and fawn over him in the most embarrassing way. Was that what was happening to her? She stopped, aghast at the thought. Good heavens, did she have so little self-respect that she was prepared to make a fool of herself over a handsome face? It must not be.
She pulled her pelisse a little closer and set off again, striding out purposefully along the track beside the stream. She would not allow herself to become such a figure of fun. She was an intelligent woman with more strength of character than that.
Anxiously she thought back over her ride yesterday. Thankfully she had done nothing, said nothing to show herself infatuated. Indeed, she had barely spoken to Lord Randall and when they had parted he had not rushed to help her dismount, but remained on his horse and at a distance, as if eager to get away. In fact, looking back, he had done nothing at all to win her good opinion.
‘So the attraction is all on your part,’ she told herself. ‘And you would do well to nip it in the bud, since it can bring you nothing but trouble.’
She was so caught up in her thoughts that she barely noticed the discomfort she felt in walking until it became positively painful. Something was rubbing against her left foot with every step. Coming upon a fallen tree trunk on the edge of the water, she sat down to investigate. The cause of the pain was soon discovered, a piece of grit had lodged itself in her boot. It had not only worn a hole in her stocking but had rubbed away the soft skin at the side of her foot, which was bleeding and throbbing painfully. How she had come so far without noticing it was a mystery. She looked around to make sure she was alone then removed her ruined stocking and dipped her bleeding foot into the stream. She gasped a little as the cold water rushed over her inflamed skin but after the initial shock she found the cool stream very soothing.
While her foot was soaking she picked up her discarded footwear. The brown half-boots were almost new so she was relieved to find the soft kid bore only the slightest trace of blood on the inside. They were so comfortable she planned to wear them on the long journey home, so she was very thankful they were not ruined.
Mary pushed aside the skirts of her walking dress and began to dry her foot on one of her petticoats. It was then that she heard the unmistakable sounds of hoofbeats. Someone was approaching.
‘Lord Randall!’
‘Miss Endacott. Can I be of assistance?’
Mary’s heart sank. Why did he have to come upon her when she was sitting with her dress pulled up over her knees? Her instinct was to shake her skirts down to cover her ankles, but after taking so much care to keep the blood from her gown it would be foolish to pretend there was nothing wrong.
‘I have a cut on my foot,’ she explained, trying to be calm, as if she was quite accustomed to exposing her leg to a gentleman. ‘It is only a small cut, so please do not...’
Too late. He had jumped down from his horse and was coming over to her.
‘Let me see it.’
‘No! It is nothing, I assure you. You do not need to trouble yourself.’
He ignored her protests and dropped to his knees, taking her heel in his hand. Mary kept very still and concentrated upon her breathing, which had become very erratic.
She said, with as much dignity as she could muster, ‘Thank you, my lord, but I do not wish to keep you from your ride. I am about to put on my boot—’
‘Nonsense,’ he said crisply. ‘It is still bleeding and needs to be bound up. Allow me.’
He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and shook it out. Mary wanted to protest, but somehow the words died. His touch was sure and gentle, and a pleasant lassitude stole over her as he quickly folded the handkerchief into a bandage and wrapped it around her foot.
‘There, that should hold.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘However, your boot will not fit over it.’
‘Oh.’ Mary tried to drag her thoughts away from how disappointed she was that he was no longer cradling her ankle. ‘Oh, well, I—’
The earl handed her the empty boot.
‘I shall take you home on Pompey.’
Before she could protest he swept her up and placed her sideways on the pommel, then he himself scrambled up into the saddle. Mary felt herself blushing as he pulled her back against him.
‘There,’ he said. ‘You are perfectly safe.’
Safe in the sense that his arms were either side of her and she could not fall off, but she had never been so close to a man before, apart from her father, when she had been a little girl and he had pulled her up on to his knee. Now she felt the earl’s hard thighs pressing against her. She sat bolt upright, clutching at her empty boot and fighting the temptation to lean back and rest her head against his coat. As they rode off she noted that her bloodied stocking was still lying beside the stream. She said nothing. It was ruined, so there was no point in going back for it.
It was strange, thought Mary. Everything seemed much more intense than when she had been walking this same path only minutes earlier. Then she had barely noticed the bluebells and wild garlic that carpeted the ground, now the sight and the smell of them filled her senses. The sun shone more brightly through the budding trees and the birdsong was even louder and more joyous. It made her think of spring, and poetry. And love. She pushed the thought aside. She despised such sentimentality.
The earl made no effort to converse, but neither did he squeeze or fondle her. She began to relax.
‘I suppose I must thank you, sir, for rescuing me. It would have been a long walk back.’
‘I would do the same for any lame creature. Although if it was Pompey who had lost a shoe I should be obliged to walk with him rather than ride.’
She said unsteadily, ‘Are—are you comparing me to your horse, Lord Randall?’
‘Pompey is very valuable, Miss Endacott.’
He sounded perfectly serious and she stole a glance up at him. He was staring ahead, his countenance sombre but she had the distinct feeling that he was laughing at her. As if aware of her regard he looked down and she saw the glimmer of a smile in the depths of his blue eyes, like a sudden hint of gold at the bottom of a deep pool.
She dragged her eyes away. It could not be. This was Lord Randall, the stern soldier, a man completely without humour, Hattie had said so. But that look unsettled her.
‘If you put me down here, sir, there is a little gate in the palings that leads directly into the Bentincks’ garden. I need not trouble you to take me any further.’
‘It is no trouble, Miss Endacott. Pompey can easily take the extra weight, I assure you.’
Mary discovered that it was possible to want to laugh and to be angry with someone at the same time. She tried her firmest voice.
‘I think I must insist, my lord.’
‘But the gates are in sight. I shall deliver you to the door.’
Mary looked down. Pompey was a very big horse and it was a long way to jump. That is, if the earl did not tighten his arms and prevent her from escaping.
She said angrily, ‘Lord Randall, I find you odiously autocratic.’
‘And I find you annoyingly independent.’
She put up her head.
‘I am very proud of my independence,’ she told him. ‘I own my own house and my establishment is much sought after. It is patronised by some of the foremost names in the land.’
‘I am sure it is. But none of that is going to make me put you down so you can hobble back to the Bentincks and risk