My Lady's Trust. Julia Justiss
in their passions. Any minimally satisfactory female would do until a more appealing prospect happened along, and there were surely few prospects in Merriville.
She was still smiling at the notion of the Lord Beaulieu ogling the village baker’s buxom daughter when the earl pulled up in the gig.
Sunlight glistened in the burnished ebony of his dark hair and warmed the brown eyes to amber flame. Apollo cast in bronze, she thought, as a now-familiar slash of awareness stabbed her belly and quivered down her legs. She didn’t realize she was standing motionless, simply staring at him, until the earl addressed her.
“Should I call someone to assist you up? I’m afraid the horse is so fresh, I cannot leave him.”
“No, I can manage,” she replied, cheeks warming. The cat looking at the king, pathetic as the old nursery rhyme.
Transferring the reins to one hand but keeping his eyes on the restive chestnut, Lord Beaulieu leaned over to steady her elbow as she climbed in, his touch light and impersonal. Nonetheless, tension simmered between them as she took her seat.
“Is the day not truly as splendid as I promised?” he asked, and turned to give her a brilliant smile so full of comradely enjoyment she had to smile back.
“Indeed it is. Thank you for offering to drive me.”
“Let’s be off, then. Do you need to gather wild herbs as we go, or just those in your garden?”
“I need only garden-grown medicinals.”
“Nonetheless, if you spy anything on the way that you can use, let me know. This fine animal isn’t capable of blazing speed, so it will be no trouble to bring him to a halt. Squire Everett told me your uncle was a botanist, and you came to Merriville to be treated by your aunt. Had you worked with herbs before then?”
Laura tensed. “No.”
But his tone was easy, almost teasing as he continued. “I understand you were quite ill. A lady whose mind is active enough to acquire Greek must have found the forced inactivity of convalescence irksome. Learning about herbs would have blunted the frustration, I should guess.”
She glanced at him, surprised at his perspicacity. “Yes, it did.”
“A fascinating art, the business of healing. From time immemorial men have attempted to understand it, sometimes with appalling results. Imagine, recommending the ingestion of black powder and lead to relieve stomach distress!”
She laughed. “Barbarous indeed.”
“Did your aunt start treating illness at your uncle’s behest? Or out of her own concern?”
Laura paused, uncertain how to frame a monosyllabic answer—or whether, in truth, she needed to do so. Unlike the unnervingly probing inquiry he’d subjected her about her family the last time he drove her, these questions were less personal.
Perhaps, given his brother’s illness, Lord Beaulieu had developed a genuine interest in the practical use of herbs. What harm if she replied at more length on this relatively safe topic?
Cautiously, tracking his reaction with quick, cautious glances, she began, “My uncle studied the makeup of plants and how the elements in them affect healing. He believed, and my aunt practiced, that only natural materials, especially such long-utilized botanicals as willow bark, foxglove, rosemary, and the like be used to treat the sick, and then in small doses. ’Tis best to intervene as little as possible, let the body’s natural strength heal itself.”
“That sounds wise. Do we pass any beneficial wild herbs on our route?”
“Several, though they are not at the peak moment for harvesting now.”
“Point them out, if you would.”
And so during the remainder of the drive, she indicated stands of willow and horehound, pockets of tansy, goldenseal and echinacea. At his prompting, she added details of the teas, infusions and poultices one could make from them.
Having the earl’s intense, probing mind focused on treatments rather than the individual describing them was an immense relief. Though a strong awareness of him as a man still bubbled at the edges of consciousness, by the time they reached her cottage Laura had relaxed to a degree she wouldn’t previously have believed possible in his lordship’s company.
As soon as Lord Beaulieu handed her down from the gig, which he did with business-like efficiency that further reassured her, Misfit bounded up. Whining with joy, tail wagging at manic speed, he blocked her path and insinuated his head under her fingers. Perforce halted, Laura laughed and scratched hard along the knobby bones at his tail while the dog groaned with delight.
The earl laughed, as well. “I believe he missed you.”
“He becomes distressed if I’m away for long.”
“Don’t like being left alone, do you, old boy?” Lord Beaulieu reached over to rub his long fingers behind the dog’s ears. “Misses his fellows, too, I’ll wager. Why doesn’t the squire take him out with his pack?”
“Having been caught in a poacher’s trap as a pup, he shies so at the sound of gunfire he’s useless as a hunting dog. After I healed him, the squire let me keep him.”
“As your guardian?” the earl guessed.
She shrugged. “Something like, I suppose. Please, do go in. I’m afraid I haven’t much to offer, but there will be cool water in the kitchen.”
“Knowing you’d likely not have anything in the house, I had the squire’s cook prepare us a basket of refreshments. I’ll fetch it when you’re ready.”
That so wealthy a gentleman, who doubtless had his every need anticipated by a small army of servants at every one of his numerous establishments, should have noted and planned for that small detail impressed her. “Thank you. Should you like to wait in the parlor while I tend the garden? I have a set of the studies my uncle published. You might find them interesting.”
“I’m sure I should, but I can’t imagine remaining indoors on so glorious a day. Let me help you.”
The idea of the impeccable earl down on his knees pulling weeds was too ludicrous to resist. Stifling a grin, she recommended that if he preferred to stay outside, he might seat himself on the old willow bench on the porch.
The same one, she recalled with a jolting flash of memory, on which he’d discovered her drying her hair that afternoon.
If he remembered the incident, too, he gave no sign. Thanking her, he inclined his long form on the bench and sat watching her.
At bit uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she donned her faded apron and a tattered straw bonnet. But after a few moments she fell into the familiar, satisfying routine, wholly absorbed in freeing the beds of weeds and snipping the leaves, stems and branches she needed.
A short time later he materialized at her side, startling her. To her surprise and amusement, there he remained, questioning her about each plant she weeded out or clipped to save, holding the trug for her to deposit the harvested bounty, and twice, over her laughing protests, carrying off a load of weeds.
After she’d finished, the earl fetched the picnic basket. Once more claiming it was too lovely to go indoors, he insisted on seating her beside him on the willow bench and unpacking the refreshments there.
Having abandoned them during the dull weeding process to sniff out rabbits or other pernicious vermin, at the first scent of food Misfit ambled back, waiting at Laura’s feet with polite, rapt attention for the occasional tidbit.
The golden afternoon dimmed to the gray of approaching dusk and the mild air sharpened. As if sensing his mistress would soon depart, Misfit trotted off and brought back a fallen tree limb, then looked up at Laura with tail wagging, an irresistible appeal in his eyes.
“All right, but only for a few moments,” Laura told him. With a joyful bark, Misfit dropped the limb and danced on