A “straightforward farming estate” was how the family solicitor, Mr. Vickers, and Hopper referred to the Bigfield House lands. Ellen absolved Hopper of being deliberately difficult in not noting down which grain grew in each field; the man was trying his best, just as everyone involved was. But sadly, Hopper was an unimaginative sort; a local man, country bred, he consistently failed to allow for Ellen’s lack of local knowledge—indeed, her complete lack of knowledge of farming.
She sighed, closed her eyes, and massaged her temples. A faint headache threatened, and she really couldn’t afford to have it develop further.
The truth was she harbored zero ambition to manage the many enterprises of the Bigfield House estate; she was sitting there, being slowly driven insane, only because there was no one else willing and able to shoulder the burden—and there were so many people dependent on the estate functioning as it should, she couldn’t just allow the farming to bumble along without any oversight.
Of all those under the Bigfield House roof, she was the best qualified to manage the reins her poor uncle could no longer grasp. Her younger brother, Robbie, her aunt Emma, the staff of the large house, all the estate workers, and even Mr. Vickers were counting on her to keep the estate’s wheels rolling, however slowly, in the right direction.
That, Mr. Vickers had assured her, was really all she needed to do.
A pity the good solicitor knew nothing about farming himself!
After a further minute of indulgence—of closed eyes and blessed peace—Ellen drew in a calming breath, lowered her hands, opened her eyes, and studied the sheets before her. Then she looked around the small study. “Perhaps there’s a map that shows what crops are grown where?”
She was about to push back her chair and go hunting when a tap fell on the door. “Yes?”
Partridge, the butler, a tall man with a rotund belly and spindly legs—in his butler’s garb, he forcibly reminded her of his namesake—poked his head around the door, spotted her, and came quickly in and shut the door behind him.
Alerted by his furtive movements, she stared at him, her “What is it now?” conveyed without words.
Partridge cleared his throat and announced, “Mr. Christopher Cynster has called, miss, and is asking to see Sir Humphrey.”
“Well, he can’t.”
Partridge inclined his head in a careful way that suggested there was some doubt about that. “Mr. Christopher is the eldest son of the Cynsters of Walkhurst Manor, miss. You’ve met the elder Mr. Cynster and Mrs. Cynster—Mr. Christopher’s parents—several times.”
Unease welling, Ellen said, “I thought they’d gone traveling to America.”
Partridge dipped his head. “Indeed, miss. And Mr. Christopher—being the eldest son—has come home to manage the estate.”
And is doubtless making a much better fist of it than I am here.
She rose. “Be that as it may—”
“Mr. Cynster has called because there’s been an incident with the goats, miss.”
She’d asked Robbie to move the goats into a field while the ornery animals’ pen was being repaired. With growing trepidation, she asked, “What incident?”
“I believe the herd somehow found its way into one of the manor’s hop fields. One where the hops are just coming into flower.”
She didn’t need to be told that was not a good thing; she’d already discovered goats ate just about anything. Quashing the urge to close her eyes and groan, she stepped smartly out from behind the desk. “I’ll speak with Mr. Cynster.” She’d weathered his parents’ visits; one way or another, she’d manage the son’s. “Sir Humphrey doesn’t need to be disturbed.”
Mr. Cynster certainly didn’t need to exchange words with her uncle.
She swept past Partridge on her way to the door. “Where did you leave Mr. Cynster?”
Partridge swiveled to follow. “In the front hall, miss.”
Thank heaven for small mercies. She opened the door, stepped into the corridor, swung right—and ran into a wall.
One of solid muscle.
“Oh!” She would have staggered, but hard hands grasped her forearms and steadied her.
Her senses fizzed; her nerves leapt. The skin on her arms, under the firm grip, flushed hot.
She stilled and looked up—into a pair of agate-brown eyes. Mid-brown flecked with mossy green and caramel and set beneath almost-straight dark-brown eyebrows, those alluring eyes widened, then captured her gaze and held it…
Time seemed to suspend. She realized she wasn’t breathing—that her lungs had seized in a most peculiar way.
And she couldn’t stop gawping.
Yet as she studied those fascinating eyes, the expression in them hardened, sharpened; even as she stared, something like suspicion rose and swirled in the moss-and-caramel depths.
No—no suspicions allowed.
She swallowed and forced her lungs to operate at least enough to hold giddiness at bay, then scrambled to locate her wits and harry them into order.
Christopher found it impossible not to stare—and stare—at the vision before him. He’d felt the jolt of pure sensation when they’d collided, and the startling frisson of awareness that had streaked through them both when he’d seized her arms had put the implication beyond doubt.
His every sense had locked on her. When it came to women, he was an experienced wolf, and every instinct he possessed had focused, unrelentingly and unwaveringly, on her.
He saw her eyes widen, her pupils flare. Saw telltale tension afflict her, constricting her breathing, while the seconds ticked past and he held her—because he hadn’t yet managed to force his fingers to ease and let her go.
He knew—to his soul knew—what those signs plus those afflicting him portended, but…
Impossible.
She looked like a doll, one some young girl had dressed in her most gaudy finery. Hair the color of ripening wheat formed a corona of large curls about her head. Someone had attempted to scoop the silky mass high, into a knot, but numerous curls had slipped free to bounce about her face and shoulders—competing with the trailing ends of a mass of ribbons wound about the knot.
The face thus framed was a sculpted oval, perfect in every delicate line and sheathed in a milk-and-roses complexion that was so unmarred and pristine it looked painted, as if the lady truly was a doll come to life.
Large green-flecked hazel eyes, presently wide and fringed by long brown lashes, plus lush, full lips tinted a pale rose did nothing to counter the unnerving illusion. The lady’s slender neck led down to delicate collarbones and a figure that, courtesy of their collision, he now knew well enough to describe as nicely curvaceous. Yet the doll-like theme rolled on, with her curves clad in a dress that, had he not seen it with his own eyes, he would never have imagined adorning a flesh-and-blood female.
In some lightweight material suitable for summer days, the gown—although in a pretty shade of teal—sported multiple frilled layers about the modest neckline, with more below the waist and about the hem. The skirt was fashionably full, but the combination of narrow white lace and darker-teal ribbon that edged every frill made a mockery of any claim to elegance.
Yet despite what his eyes could see—every evidence that this young lady was the worst sort of frivolous female—his senses continued to insist that she was a pearl beyond price.