Kathryn Smith (2 page)

She didn’t want to return to London because people would talk. They’d talk about the old scandal—how Carny so very publicly jilted her. They’d pity her for still being single and so obviously unwanted.

She had tried very hard to find a husband once upon a time, and when she found him he betrayed her. And it wasn’t as though she had her choice to pick from. Most men didn’t want a wife their height or taller. In Carny’s case, he simply hadn’t wanted her. And she was in no way ready to forgive him for that. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

Not that any of it mattered now. In a little under two months, Blythe would have her inheritance, left to her by her father. It was meant to be her dowry, but if she remained unwed by her twenty-fifth birthday, then she got the money to do with as she pleased. And what she pleased was to buy Rosewood, a little estate just five miles west of Brixleigh. She would be independent, and Miles wouldn’t have any say in her life at all.

But for now he did, which was why she was hiding in the drawing room, waiting until he was out of sight before sneaking out.

A man’s voice drifted through the open window as the guests climbed the front steps. “Will Lady Blythe be joining us for the festivities?”

Blythe’s heart stopped. There was no mistaking that honey-smooth voice. Carny was asking about her. The blighter had the nerve to ask about her!

“Yes,” came Miles’s confident reply. Her birthday couldn’t arrive quick enough.

She couldn’t be certain, but she thought she heard Carny say, “Good.” What did he care if she took part in the party’s activities or not? It wasn’t as though he could possibly have any interest in seeing her. Not unless his situation had altered drastically since she last saw him.

At the sound of her husband’s voice, Varya rose to her feet. “I told Miles I would greet them inside.” She didn’t sound as though the task would be a pleasant one. Dear Varya.

“Where are you going to put them?” Blythe tried to keep her tone indifferent.

Varya’s smile was gentle. “In the west wing, of course.”

Blythe watched her leave with a sense of relief so strong she almost sighed out loud with it. The west wing. Good. Her room was in the east. Now she wouldn’t have to worry about getting up in the middle of the night and running into Carny.

Or the wife he had chosen over her.

She stank.

Brushing a trickle of sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her shirt, Blythe grimaced as the afternoon breeze drifted through the thin linen underneath her arm. She was dirty and sticky, and she smelled as though she hadn’t bathed in days.

Some of the men working with her, however, smelled as though they hadn’t bathed in months.

When she’d left the house earlier that afternoon, she had planned merely to ride out, visit a few tenants, oversee a few minor repairs, and perhaps take tea with one or two of their wives. She enjoyed sitting with these people who seemed to admire her size and strength and ability to work. She liked how the women talked openly and freely about things women of her class were expected not to discuss. She liked how the men included her in their discussions of agriculture and animal husbandry—also subjects ladies of her station were expected to be completely ignorant about. Lord knew she had her share of faults, but ignorance—she hoped—was not one of them.

She had forgotten that today was the day John Dobson planned to put a new roof on his cottage. She had forgotten everything except that Lord and Lady Carnover were arriving that day. Her only thought had been to avoid them. Joining the half-dozen men working on Dobson’s roof in the heat of a warm summer afternoon provided ample distraction.

It also gave her one more reason to make certain she snuck back into the house at a reasonable hour. She was going to have to bathe before dinner. She was also going to have to make sure Suki, her maid, made her look as feminine as possible to keep Miles docile. She didn’t want to give him anything new to lecture her about.

The roof still was not finished when she excused herself an hour later, but she couldn’t afford to stay away from the house any longer. More guests had no doubt arrived in her absence, and she would hate for any of them to spot her as she snuck in through the servants’ entrance and stairwells. The servants wouldn’t tell on her, but visitors to the park would be bound to comment to Miles on his sister’s strange and dirty attire. Her clothing she could almost get away with—after all, many ladies considered it a lark to dress up in male clothing on occasion—but she would not be able to excuse the dirt, sweat, and odor that clung to her. And then
there would be hell to pay for not conducting herself as she should. She was the daughter of a marquess, Miles would remind her. As if she could ever forget their father.

Lord, she would be glad when her birthday arrived! Until then she had to be careful. Miles didn’t know of her plans to buy her own estate. If he did, he would no doubt try to stop her. She couldn’t allow that to happen. Not when all her dreams were so close to becoming reality.

“Thank you for all your help, Lady Blythe.” John Dobson flashed her a broad grin as she lifted herself up into the saddle.

Blythe smiled back. It was no secret among the tenants that young Mr. Dobson was infatuated with her, and to be frank, Blythe was flattered. Dobson was in his late twenties, was ruggedly handsome, and had a body that looked as though it had been sculpted by an Italian master. And as far as height was concerned, he would be her perfect match, if only they belonged in the same world and if only she could bring herself to return his feelings.

“Now that you have that new roof, there’s no reason for you to put off looking for a wife any longer, John.”

His grin widened, his teeth startling white against the tan of his face. Blythe would have to be dead not to respond to it. Dobson was one of the few tenants who did bathe on a regular basis. “Is that a proposal, my lady?”

Blythe laughed at that. Dobson knew the reality of their relationship as well as she did, but that didn’t stop him from being a shameless flirt. And there were times, late at night when she couldn’t sleep, when her body itched with urges she alone couldn’t satisfy, that she thought of taking him up on what he offered, but she had been taught that ladies didn’t do such things, and she had yet to meet a man that could make her forget that rule entirely.

Not even Carny.

“There’s a better woman out there for you than me, John Dobson,” she informed him lightly, spurring her mare,
Marigold, into languid motion, “and I look forward to the day you introduce me to her.”

Dobson’s grin remained, but something in his eyes changed. There was regret in his gaze, along with a frank appreciation that men of the upper classes usually reserved for women they wanted to seduce. “There may be a better man for you as well, but you know where to find me in case you get tired of waiting.” He winked.

Blushing as she took his meaning, Blythe shook her head. His tone had been light, but she knew without a doubt that if she did show up at his cottage late some night, he would not turn her away. “Good day, John.”

As she rode away, Blythe tried to put Dobson’s words out of her head. They flattered and pleased her, but they also rubbed salt into a very old and raw wound. Why couldn’t men of her own class find her as appealing as John Dobson did? Why were her height and strength a detriment in her own world? She knew for a fact that she wasn’t ugly, although her features were as strong as the rest of her, and according to some of the tenant wives, men liked figures that were full like hers. A physically strong woman was a good bed partner and could bear children easily. To these people she was perfect. To her own she was defective. At least where the men were concerned.

Even Carny, that golden blond Judas, had married a little woman, after telling her there was nothing wrong with how she looked.

She absolutely refused to think of him. He didn’t deserve her attention. Instead, as she guided her mare through the sundappled field and down into the sheltered path that wound through the cool, shady trees to the house, she thought only of how glad she was to have Miles, Varya, and little Edward in residence again. As much as her brother plagued her, she loved him, and it felt good to sit and talk to Varya again. Playing with her young nephew brought a deep, sweet joy to her heart.

As much as she loved living in Devonshire, with the smell of the salt sea on the air and the wonderful ocean breeze that blew through her bedroom window at night, sometimes she missed her family. Miles spent all his time in London, and their mother was in Paris for an extended stay. She said it made her feel closer to Blythe’s father, who had spent more time in Paris than he had in London before he died—and before Napoleon got out of hand, of course. That didn’t stop Blythe from missing her, and often longing for her sage advice. Letters just weren’t the same as having her close.

But even more often than she missed her family or, God forbid, London, Blythe appreciated the quiet of Devon and Brixleigh. Here she was free to be herself, and no one judged her. She could roam the beach, swim in the tide, rather than simply “bathe” in it as the fashionable ladies in Brighton did. She could speak her mind and people listened, because in Miles’s absence, she was essentially lord here. No woman in her right mind would give up such freedom willingly.

She would rather die than return to London, where every move a person made was watched and discussed endlessly in the scandal sheets. Somehow some of them had found out about the fiasco with Carny and had depicted her as some kind of hulking monster both in picture and prose. Even worse were the ones that claimed to sympathize with her and made her seem a hapless victim.

It had taken months for her to realize she was neither. Realizing she wasn’t a victim had come first. The monster bit had taken longer for her to reconcile. It was very difficult to convince oneself that something wasn’t true when one was terribly, awfully certain that it
was.

As she entered the Brixleigh stables—her eyes adjusting to the change in the light and her nose picking up the welcome, familiar scent of horse and hay—she noticed a strange horse in one of the stalls. That was nothing unusual, as most guests brought their own horses, whether for carriages or
pleasure riding. What was unusual about this horse was his sheer size.

“Would you like me to take care of Mari for you, my lady?”

“Yes, thank you,” Blythe replied, handing the groom Marigold’s reins. Normally she rubbed the mare down herself, but she was anxious for a better look at this new horse. She had never seen anything quite like him before. It was almost as if he was studying her, as interested in her appearance as she was in his.

“Tom, the big gray down there, who does it belong to?”

The young groom glanced in the direction Blythe pointed and shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Don’t know, my lady. Must’ve come in when I wasn’t here.”

Intrigued, Blythe walked toward the stall where the strange horse stood. The scent of warm horse and manure met her nostrils as she breathed. There was something comforting in these smells that, while pungent, were infinitely more pleasant than some parts of London she had visited. Poverty and human waste had a repellent odor that no animal could match.

The gray watched curiously as Blythe climbed onto the first rung of the paddock door.

“There. Now I can get a good look at you.” Blythe held out her hand. “Come here, sweetie. I will not hurt you.”

The horse lowered his broad nose to her hand, flicking it softly with pink lips. He was deceptively—surprisingly—gentle.

“Lord, but you’re big.” The white blaze running up the gray’s forehead was soft and smooth beneath her palm, his muzzle dwarfing her hand. Large dark eyes stared at her with as much curiosity as Blythe felt. Such soulful eyes for an animal.

“He’s not used to women.”

Blythe started. Turning her head toward the voice, she
watched as a man came out of the dimness further down the corridor. He was obviously the owner of this magnificent beast. She would have guessed that even if he hadn’t spoken.

Horse and master suited each other. Neither was classically handsome, but both possessed a certain attractiveness. Both were long of limb and broad through the chest. Each was also incredibly tall. Standing on the stall door, Blythe was approximately six inches off the ground—eye level with the stranger, who watched her with eyes just as dark as his horse’s.

How had he known she was a woman? He must have heard her voice. Normally people who saw her dressed this way just assumed she was a man.

“He’s incredible.” She glanced back at the horse who stood stock-still beneath her caressing hand. “What is he?”

The man shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled, his thin lips tipping crookedly. “I do not know. I bought him off an Irishman who didn’t seem to know either.”

Blythe peered over the door into the stall as the man came closer. Her heartbeat seemed to increase with every step he took. He intimidated her a little, this man who was so much taller than herself, who was so big and softly spoken. Yet for all his stillness, all his apparent gentleness, there was an energy that crackled around him that awakened every nerve in Blythe’s body.

Better to think of the horse than the man. “His feet are furry and his height is like that of an English Black, but he doesn’t have the slope to his nose.”

“I believe he’s a mix of Scottish and Irish breeds.”

The stranger stood beside her, his own hand coming up to pet the horse’s forehead. His fingers were long and strong and brown, not delicate and white like those of most aristocrats. His clothing was plain and dark, but well made. His hair, also dark, was thick and too long to be styled in the popular “Brutus” fashion but too short to be artfully curled like a cherub’s. But it was his face that really drew Blythe’s atten
tion. None of his features seemed well matched—his eyes were dark and thickly lashed, his nose was slim but long, his mouth was narrow and thin, and his chin and jaw were a tad too sharp—yet when put together, these features formed a face that, while it could never be called pretty, was strangely pleasant to look upon.