How to Treat a Lady (23 page)

He smiled down at her, noting that the sun had decorated her nose with a faint spray of freckles. Strange how he'd never considered freckles appealing, but on Harriet they were charming as could be.

Under his close scrutiny, her smile wavered. “What…what is it?” She rubbed her nose. “Do I have mud on my nose—”

“No. Not at all.” He looked around at the sun-drenched fields and neat barn. The faint sound of laughter came from the others as they talked and teased one another. The sweet scent of cut hay filled the air, as did the faint baaing of the sheep. It was an
idyllic, wonderful moment. One destined to be etched in his mind forever.

Chase looked back at Harriet. “You belong here.”

That appeared to surprise her. She glanced around for a moment before saying softly. “Yes, I do. This is home.”

“Do you ever see yourself going anywhere else?”

She hesitated and he could see her weighing her words. After a moment, she shook her head. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I love this place. My parents moved here when I was six. And I've never wanted to live anywhere else. But…one never knows how one will feel in a year or more.”

Chase tried to picture Harriet in town, dressed for dinner, or on her way to a ball. But somehow, he knew she'd be miserable. And London, with its penchant for the wealthy and the beautiful, would never stop long enough to see the true beauty in the woman before him. “I can't imagine you in London.”

Her smile seemed pained, though she said lightly enough, “And I can't imagine you living in the country.”

For some reason, the words caught at him. What was this? Maudlin nonsense at the thought of…of what? Of leaving Garrett Park? What foolishness.

To be honest, he had to admit that what he truly enjoyed was the time he'd spent with the Wards. They reminded him of his own family before everyone had grown up and left home. And perhaps he felt a fondness for Harriet that was more intense than his usual flirts, but that was to be expected. After all, they'd spent untold hours together, talking and working, things he rarely did with his flirts in London.

Chase realized that he rather enjoyed working. It was invigorating in a way, facing each day's challenge. Town life was all he'd ever known, all he'd ever thought of knowing. Farming, after all, was hardly the pursuit of a true gentleman. It was possible to dabble in trade a bit, so long as one didn't take it too seriously.

Chase yanked his hat a little more firmly onto his head and glinted a smile at Harriet. “Regardless of where I used to be and where I will be going, I am in the country now.” He looked down at his muddied boots and grimaced. “Very much so.”

“For the moment.” She tightened the ribbons beneath her chin. “You would be discontent indeed if you thought you would be stuck here for the rest of your life.”

“Harri!” Ophelia called.

Harriet turned toward the sheep pen. Everyone had left the table and was now lined along the fence where Ophelia had sat perched just a half hour earlier, giggling behind her hand.

“Harri!” This time it was Stephen. “You need to come and see this.”

Harriet glanced at Chase. “What did you do?”

“Me? Nothing. Perhaps they are admiring how quickly we managed to get them done.”

“Yes, but—”

“Harri!” This time it was Sophia, her voice breaking as if on a giggle.

Harriet's brow lowered. “I suppose I should see what they want.” With that, she walked to the gate.

Chase stayed where he was for a moment, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his shoulders, the scent of hay and the fresh-baked bread they'd had for lunch. He felt amazingly well. There was something
to be said for the simple life, he supposed. If only it wasn't quite so…wholesome.

Yes, that's what it was—wholesome. Something Chase most decidedly wasn't. The thought caught at his heart, and he realized that as welcoming as the Wards were now, they wouldn't be once they realized what he really was. What he'd done. His heart sank.

The sun seemed suddenly less bright. He made his way to the pen where the Wards were gathered, looking over the fence at his protégés, a lively spring breeze tugging at skirts and ruffling shirts. Chase came to stand beside Harriet, looking at his work critically.

The sheep weren't all perfectly sheared, of course. But this was his first time. Chase defied anyone else to have gotten as close or as even on their very first venture into the shearing business.

He glanced at his companions. “Well?”

Stephen raked a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on the sheep that grazed before him. Sophia just looked stunned. Only Derrick looked happy, his face split in a wide grin, while Ophelia hid her mouth behind her hand, her eyes crinkled with laughter.

What the hell? Chase looked at Harriet. Her eyes wide, her fingers pressed to her lips, she was regarding the sheep as if she'd never before seen one.

“What?” he demanded, a feeling of unease flickering through him.

Harriet's gaze met his, laughter sparkling in her brown eyes.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed. “You said the closer the better.” He knew he sounded defensive, but something was not right.

“Yes, but—”

Sophia burst out giggling. “Oh, I'm so sorry,” she choked when Chase whirled to face her. “It's just that…the sheep. They all look like poodles.”

“Poodles?” Chase followed her gaze.

Ophelia tilted her head to one side, her lips quivering. “Poodles or lions. Some definitely have a lion-ish appearance. I thought he did a very good job on the ram.”

“Chase,” Harriet asked, laughter burbling in her voice, “why did you shear them like that?”

Chase grit his teeth. “Because it's what you have to do. I left the wool around their heads and tails so I wouldn't snip anything vital. Derrick said that was often the way you had to…” Chase's voice trailed off as he turned to look at the youth.

But Derrick was nowhere to be found.

Bloody hell! “That bast—”

“Chase!” Harriet said, grinning as the others broke into loud shouts of laughter. “He was just funning you.”

Ophelia wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “You should have heard Derrick. Even I thought he was serious at first.”

Chase clenched his hands into fists. They'd made him look a fool. “I've had enough funning.”

“Nonsense.” She looked back at the sheep, a giggle escaping. “No one can have enough funning.”

Chase thought glumly of all the work he'd done. “If I catch Derrick, I'll—”

“Oh, don't be upset,” Harriet said, grinning up at him.

“We don't have time to play these games.”

Her smile faded a little at that. “No, we don't. But it's not such a horrible thing, after all.”

Stephen chuckled. “We can't leave that much wool on those sheep, so we'll trim them again.”

Harriet nodded. “Actually, why don't we allow
Derrick
to trim them. Pray find him and tell him that I want it done before the next batch is brought in for shearing.”

Stephen nodded, but before he left, he slapped Chase on the back. “I had no idea you were so talented with shears. If you've the time, perhaps you can do something with those bushes in the front of the house. A little topiary would not be amiss.”

Ophelia giggled. “Since he made the sheep look like poodles, perhaps he can make the shrubbery look like sheep.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Chase said dryly, the beginning of a smile teasing his lips.

He looked around at the sea of grinning faces that surrounded him, aware of a comfortable feeling of belonging. “What did I do to deserve being rescued by a family of sheepherding wits? Why could I not have been found by average, normal people with no sense of humor and not a single sheep on the premises?”

Harriet lifted her brows in mock horror. “And what would you have done for three weeks without our wit or our sheep? You have to admit that you've learned some very important life lessons.”

“Such as?”

“The art of rising early.”

Sophia nodded. “He's still a bit surly, but Stephen no longer has to beat him about the head with his pillow.”

“A lovely talent, that,” Chase said. “I suppose I would never have known how to get up at such an ungodly hour without your help.”

“Yes,” Ophelia said, “and you've learned that sheep ointment is best used only on sheep.”

“I believe I already knew that lesson. It is Harriet who did not.”

“Oh, I never use it on myself,” Harriet said airily. “Just on braggarts who do not appreciate the efforts expended on their behalf.”

“And you've learned to be far more pleasant,” Sophia said brightly. “Mother was just saying that she could not imagine dinner without your stories of town and the people there, although I still do not credit it that Lord Byron eats naught but potatoes and vinegar.”

Chase sighed, though a grin tickled his mouth.

Ophelia frowned. “How will we find Derrick to tell him he has work to do?”

Stephen pushed himself from the gate railing and grabbed his crutches. “He'll be in the library, reading a book. I'll fetch him myself.”

Harriet nodded and looked at Ophelia and Sophia. “Help Mother clean up luncheon. Chase and I will sharpen the shears in the barn and we'll all be back here in an hour when the next batch of sheep is brought in.”

They nodded and scurried off, laughing and talking as they went.

Harriet watched them go, a bubble of laughter still in her throat. She collected the shears and walked toward the barn, aware of Chase falling into step beside her.

As they neared the barn, she stole a glance up at him. He strode beside her, his shirt open at the throat, his sleeves rolled up, his skin already tanning a light brown. The breeze played with his hair, sending it over his brow.

He looked different from the man they'd found in the woods, she suddenly realized, wondering what it was. He didn't seem so…sullen. Angry. “Are you happy?”

He looked down at her. “Happy?”

She hadn't meant to voice the question aloud. But since she had…“Yes. Are you happy? It's an easy enough question.”

“I don't know. I hadn't thought about it.” He pursed his lips.

Harriet tried not to watch, but she couldn't help herself. Chase's lips had kissed her, possessed her, tasted her in ways she'd never thought lips could.

He caught her glance, and his gaze immediately darkened. He bent and said into her ear, “Don't look at me like that unless you're willing to pay the consequences.”

His voice brushed over her, sending a trill of shivers down her back. “I didn't look at you any particular way.”

“Didn't you?”

“No.”

His hand snaked about her wrist and suddenly, she was jerked into the barn, the shears tumbling to the barn floor. Harriet could only blink as Chase pushed the large doors closed and dropped the bar into place.

He leaned against the doors, a devilish smile curving his lips. “Now I have you. And right where I want you, too.”

“W
h—what are you doing?” Harriet asked, uncertainty and excitement warring for expression.

“I am making sure we aren't interrupted.” Chase tested the bar once, then turned and walked toward her, his boots crunching on the hay-strewn floor, his thigh muscles rippling with each step.

Heaven help her but he had the most beautiful thighs…the memory of those thighs between her own made her close her eyes, a heated shiver rippling through her.

He reached her side and traced his finger down her cheek. “Since that first night I arrived and your brothers and sisters tried to convince me that I had a liking for the barn, I've been wanting to visit the barn with you.”

He captured the ties that held her hat. He twined
the faded blue ribbons around his fingers and then gently drew her forth.

Her eyes widened and she leaned away, one hand bracing the hat in place. “I—I don't think that is necessary.”

She was hot and disheveled, her hair falling in wisps from beneath the hat and sticking damply to her neck and cheek. Her flushed skin held a dewy moisture that begged to be tasted.

In all his years, Chase had never been so close to a woman engaged in such physically demanding labor. He tugged the bonnet ties a bit harder, pulling her forward another reluctant pace.

The neck of her washed-out dress was damp, as if beads of sweat had trickled to rest there. He marveled at her. This plain little woman would practically fade from sight when dressed in white muslin, sitting in a parlor. But here, in a musty barn, damp from her exertions, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with mischief…she was beyond beautiful.

She was bold and lovely, loud in actions and brave in thought. She was, in a word, the most amazing woman he'd ever met.

He released one ribbon of her hat and ran the back of his finger over her cheek. “You are incredible.”

The air about them thickened, deepened, as if the heat had slowed the pace of the earth. She licked her lips as if they were suddenly dry. The movement of her pink tongue was almost more than he could bear.

She glanced wildly around, as if to find rescue from the fields, or perhaps the sheep. “We—I—you—”

He raised his brows.

She flushed, deeply, the color creeping up her
neck to flood her hot cheeks with even brighter streaks of red. “We should get a drink of water.” She turned stiffly on her heel and marched to the bucket of water that hung from one of the loft poles as if on her way to the guillotine.

He grinned even as a fat trickle of sweat ran between his shoulder blades. “You're right.” He followed her closely, reaching past her to take the dipper that hung from the side of the barrel. “Allow me.”

“I don't need assistance getting a drink of water. I am perfectly capable of getting it myself.”

“I know.” He plunged the dipper into the water, then lifted it clear. Water dripped from the shiny metal and pooled into the barrel below. Chase was suddenly aware of how thirsty he was. It was hot, sticky, dry work. Work he wasn't accustomed to doing. The whole world seemed covered in a haze of dust that made the water seem all the more pure. All the tastier. He began to lift the dipper to his own mouth when he caught sight of Harriet's face.

Dust smeared a dark path from her temple to her chin. Her skin was flushed and ripe. As he looked at her, she ran the edge of her tongue along her lower lip as if in anticipation of the cold drink. Chase reached over with his free hand and pushed her hat from her hair.

She blinked. “Wh—”

He lifted the ladle and poured the water on her head. It cascaded down her face, drenching her shoulders, cooling her heated skin.

She gasped, sputtering. “You—Why—”

“You were hot.” He dipped out more water and poured it over his own head. The water bathed him in an instant, cooling and cleansing.

He opened his eyes to find Harriet looking at him, amusement warming her brown eyes.

“You are impossible.”

He grinned in return. “I just wanted to help.” He refilled the ladle and then handed it to her. “Drink.”

Her gaze met his for the briefest of moments, the deep brown still sparkling with laughter. To his surprise, she didn't say a word, but reached up and cupped the cool metal in both hands and took a deep, cold drink.

Chase watched, all amusement leaving him as her soft lips closed over the curved metal bowl of the ladle. She drank deeply, unabashedly gulping the water, a thin trickle escaping her lips and running down her chin.

Chase found his hands had curled into fists. Not out of anger, but out of need. He wanted this woman, wanted her so badly that his entire body ached with the effort to hide it.

She dropped the ladle from her mouth, her eyes still closed as if in ecstasy. Chase could not breathe. He could not swallow. He could not do anything but stand numbly beside her as she sighed happily, her pink tongue tracing the last bit of moisture from her plump bottom lip.

Suddenly, Chase knew that he was standing too close to her. Too near to stop himself. Before he realized what he was doing, his hands had come un-fisted and he was holding her—pulling her to him.

She melted against him, warm and willing, her mouth curved in a welcoming smile.

He wanted to kiss her. To taste her as deeply as she'd drunk the water. He wanted to devour her taste, her scent, claim her with his mouth, his tongue, every inch of him that pressed against her.
But instead, he merely held her, imprisoning her within his arms. Then he reclaimed the ladle from her limp hands and reached behind her to dip it deep in the water.

Harriet's gaze followed his arm as he held it over their heads.

She stared up at the ladle, her throat inadvertently exposed. Her gaze widened as he began to tilt it. “You wouldn't da—”

He dumped it all, the coldness cascading over their heads, shoulders and back.

Water clung to her lashes and bathed her cheeks, cooling their hot color to pink. She tilted her face up, a chuckle escaping her wet lips. “That was divine. You're worse than Stephen, you know. He is forever pouring water over poor Derrick when the poor boy least expects it. It makes Derrick furious for there are times his beloved books get a good splashing, too.”

“My brothers and sister were much the same,” he murmured, pulling the pins from her hair.

Her breathing came a bit quicker, but she managed to ask, “What did your brothers and sister torment
you
about?”

“I'll never tell.”

Harriet knew a challenge when she heard one. “Won't you?” She leaned against him, her wet dress pressing against his soaked shirt as she traced a finger down the side of his throat. “Not even if you have inducement?”

His gaze glittered then, a sudden heat that quite took Harriet's breath away. “What kind of inducement? Would you…take this off for me?” His finger traced the neckline of her gown.

Harriet drew a quick breath as his fingers slid near her breast…then away. “In exchange for what?”

He dropped his hand from her gown. “For something my brothers and sister used to torment me about.”

She considered this a moment. “How much did they torment you?”

“Every chance they got.”

She eyed him uncertainly. “I don't know.”

“One of my brothers even carved my nickname in the headboard of my bed. I thought my mother would explode into flames when she saw what we'd done to that bed. It was four hundred years old and had been in her family for centuries.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “She was not pleased, to put it mildly.”

“Whatever your secret nickname it must be something horrid. Hmm. That
is
tempting indeed.” She looked down at her gown. It was a round gown. Like all round gowns, it had a large neckline through which a ribbon was threaded, pulled tight, then tied, making for a modest appearance.

All she had to do was untie the ribbon, give a slight tug, and the entire gown would fall off her shoulders. Harriet's body tightened at the thought. Chase made her feel…freer somehow. Rich like a plum pudding, and as decadent as ice in the middle of summer. “Tell me your secret.”

“And?”

She swallowed, aware of a trembling in her limbs. “Tell me your secret and I'll show you mine.”

He grinned. “They called me the Frog, which was pure mockery since I have never managed to learn to swim.”

“The Frog? That's it? That's your horrid secret?”

“I was six. It seemed horrid at the time.”

She had to grin.

He reached out and traced the line of her gown with his fingertips, his skin brushing hers. “Now you owe me.”

“So I do. But…it doesn't seem fair that I might be the only one without any clothing.”

He pulled his soaked shirt over his head before she could draw a breath.

Harriet chuckled. “A man of action. I like that.”

Chase's grin broke through, and he leaned against one of the large poles that held the loft as he pulled off his boots. “I've never been one to linger except, of course”—he flashed a smile, wickedly intent—“in certain instances. And then I can stay till dawn.”

“Braggart.”

“That's for the lady to say.” His gaze dropped across her, as if seeing through her gown, brushing her breasts, stomach, and thighs. Each place his gaze touched, a shimmering of heat was left behind, like a dusting of hot ash.

She shivered. The fine hair on Harriet's arms were all on end, her nipples pebbled into hardness. He was the most sensual man she'd ever met. Even something as simple as talking became a heated dance, a silky waltz of entendre and double entendre.

And she loved it. Savored it. Reveled in it. Harriet found the ribbon that tied her gown. She laced it between her fingers and tugged ever so gently. Chase's gaze followed her every move even as he threw his boots into the corner of the barn and undid his breeches.

Harriet's breath grew rapid. The air was warm and sweet, the scent of cut hay and feed tickling her nose. Every day she walked into this barn; every day
she saw the piles of hay, the empty stalls, the plain plank walls. The shimmer of the tin dipper that hung from the bucket of water on the loft pole.

She saw every detail each and every day and yet she didn't see a thing. But now, after this, she had the feeling that from now on, the inside of the barn would be firmly fixed in her mind, and she'd see it with startling clarity.

Chase gave a tug and his wet breeches were off. He tossed them aside with the same careless disregard he'd thrown the old worn boots and the shirt. Now he stood before her, unclothed, his black hair falling over his brow, his blue eyes devouring her as if he was already touching her, his well-muscled body glimmering in the golden slants of light that cut through the barn.

Oblivious to her gaze, he pulled an old blanket from the tack room and tossed it over the hay. Then he turned to face her, a devilish glint in his gaze. “It's not as luxurious as I'd like, or you deserve, but it's ours.”

Ours. There was something indescribably beautiful about that word. Harriet tried to swallow, but couldn't. He was so beautiful. And for this one precious moment, he was hers.

She knew as certainly as she stood before him, her fingers threaded through the ribbon that held her gown closed, that this moment was ephemeral, as substantial as the golden dust motes that trickled through the air and disappeared once they floated out of the light.

Her gaze dropped to her hand where the talisman ring glistened, a silver stripe across one finger. Harriet knew the day would come when Chase St. John, the arrogant scion of a wealthy family—perhaps one
of the wealthiest in the land, would discard his Captain John Frakenham disguise forever and rejoin the real world—his world. A world that had nothing to do with Harriet or the Wards, or Garrett Park.

But it didn't matter, she decided, closing her hand tight about the ribbon, the ring pressing into her skin. All that mattered was him, the feel of him, the taste of him. Harriet tugged the ribbon and her gown loosened. She slipped it from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor, then stepped out of it.

Chase had never seen anything so beautiful. Harriet stood in the center of the barn, clothed only in her shift. It was a plain shift, with far fewer buttons and ribbons than Chase was used to seeing. The material was thin, but as was all the clothing worn by the Ward family, it was neat, tidy, studiously clean, and in this instance, driving Chase St. John wild with impatience.

There was something masterful about the way the fabric hugged Harriet's slender body. It clung lovingly to the gentle slope of her breast, fell in delicate folds to her flat stomach, then smoothed across her hips before falling to a narrow froth of white lace at her knees.

“You are beautiful,” he breathed. “So beautiful.”

In answer, she placed her hands on his chest and tilted her face to his, stepping closer. Her hair curled wetly about her shoulders and clung to the shadowed hollows of her neck. The warmth from her palms sent a tingle of heat through him, the hot white band where the talisman ring rested seeming to burn a mark in his skin.

Chase reached for her, his heart racing. He would never remember unlacing her shift. Or taking it off and tossing it aside. All he would remember was the
feel of her beneath him when he joined her on the blanket. She reached up and pulled his mouth to hers even as she locked her legs about his hips.

Chase was lost, awash in instant heat and welcoming wetness. He closed his eyes, his entire body aflame, his muscles tightening as he moved inside her. Harriet was made for him. The thought was both a revelation and a calm, orderly fact. An icy certainty in a heated moment that cooled and calmed even as it invigorated his spirit, fueled his pounding pulse.

He would be leaving soon. It was inevitable. He simply could not stay. There was no place for him at Garrett Park, or there wouldn't be once Harriet knew of his past mistakes. There was goodness here, with the Wards, but most especially with Harriet herself. And he was far, far less than he should be.