He almost shook his head to dispel his confusion. No matter what his obviously scrambled instincts were screaming, there was no way in hell he would ever pursue a lady such as she.
That resolution had him easing his grip and releasing her. Lowering his arms, he ensured his face was devoid of expression and bestowed a curt nod. “Good morning. My apologies. I’m looking for Sir Humphrey.”
He went to step past, but she shifted and blocked him.
“Um…” She hauled in a breath and tipped up her chin. “I regret Sir Humphrey is not receiving.”
What the devil is going on? Christopher frowned at the irritating female. He hadn’t called at Bigfield House for quite some time, and what little he’d seen while returning the goats suggested all was not running as smoothly as it should. He’d wondered if Sir Humphrey had simply overlooked things.
He opened his mouth to insist on seeing his neighbor, but the lady— who the devil is she?—insinuated herself more definitely between him and the study door and suggested, “Perhaps I can assist you.”
The look he bent on her stated very clearly: I seriously doubt it.
Holding fast to her rising temper, Ellen kept her gaze on Christopher Cynster’s handsome face and fought to keep her expression mild. Chiseled planes and aristocratic features, broad shoulders, narrow waist, and long legs garbed in typical gentleman’s country attire of well-cut hacking jacket, buckskin breeches, and top boots, all cloaked in an aura of rigidly controlled physical power wielded with arrogant confidence, unquestionably constituted a potent distraction, but regardless of her silly reaction to his touch, she, he would discover, was made of sterner stuff.
She should have guessed that the Cynsters’ eldest son would be a London rake—a wolf of the first order was her experienced assessment.
She tipped her chin a notch higher and calmly inquired, “Was there some specific issue you wished to address with my uncle?”
The agate-y eyes narrowed. His head tipped as he studied her. “Your uncle?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Indeed. I am Sir Humphrey’s niece—Miss Ellen Martingale.”
He held her gaze for a second, the set of his features giving nothing away, then he smoothly inclined his head. “Miss Martingale.” He seemed to come to some decision and went on, “I’m here because of Sir Humphrey’s goats. I’m aware they are his pride and joy, but somehow, the herd got loose, crossed the lane, and pushed their way into one of the manor’s hop fields. As you’re no doubt aware, the hops in this area are just beginning to flower, a critical stage when, unfortunately, goats are especially attracted to the crop.”
His eyes searched hers as if to gauge how much she’d understood.
She returned his stare levelly while her mind raced.
His lips thinned, and he went on, “I’ve just spent the past hour with my men, rounding up the goats and returning them to Bigfield House.”
She blinked. “Ah. The goat pen is being repaired—that’s why the wretched animals weren’t in it.” Looking past his broad shoulder, she frowned. “I thought my brother had shut the goats into the front field—the one on our side of the lane.”
“He might well have done so, but you can’t hold goats in a field fenced only by hedge—not when they can scent ripening hops on the other side. The animals pushed their way through your hedge into the lane, then broke through the hedge on our side to get to our hops.”
Ellen felt her eyes grow round as her lips formed a soundless “Oh.”
Cynster seemed to be fighting a glare, but then, somewhat to her surprise, he conceded, “As luck would have it, my estate manager spotted them fairly soon afterward, and we got them out before they’d caused much damage.”
Conciliation was surely her best way forward. She clasped her hands before her and earnestly said, “I’m terribly sorry—I assure you it won’t happen again.”
Christopher nearly snorted; he wasn’t all that appeased by her assumption of humility. He still wanted a word with Sir Humphrey. “It can’t happen again, but while returning the goats to their pen—and yes, I saw that it’s now repaired and in good state—I noticed that the barn roof needs attention, and the rear corral fence is shaky and needs to be fixed. I drew Hopper’s attention to both issues.” He paused, then drew breath and more diffidently said, “I know the staff are, understandably and quite laudably, loyal to Sir Humphrey, and I haven’t sought to question them further over what, on the surface, appears to be an uncharacteristic lack of attention to detail.”
He met Miss Ellen Martingale’s pretty eyes. “I thought I would have a word with Sir Humphrey himself.”
He went to step past her, and quick as a flash, she blocked him again.
Her eyes sparked, and she snapped, “As I’ve already mentioned, my uncle is not receiving.”
He arched his brows. “Are we back to that?”
Without further warning, he reached for her waist, clamped his hands over the frills, and lifted her, swung around, and deposited her on the runner behind him. Then he swiftly released her, turned on his heel, and strode into the study.
“Sir Humphrey?” Christopher scanned the room. In this season, at this time of day, he’d expected to find Sir Humphrey behind the large desk.
The desk was strewn with accounts and ledgers, but no Sir Humphrey presided over them.
An agitated rustle of skirts and petticoats heralded the arrival of his would-be denier.
To his surprise, she caught his sleeve and hauled him around—and with fire and fury in her eyes, planted her hands on her hips and all but stamped her foot at him. “How dare you, sir!” Then she flung out a hand toward the desk. “And as you can now see with your own eyes, as I told you, my uncle is not receiving!”
Rather than glance at the uninformative desk, Christopher studied her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. There was something behind her anger, something more along the lines of fear.
Something was going on.
“Your uncle has known me for all of my life. Receiving or not, he will see me.” With that, he strode rapidly for the door.
Predictably, she rushed after him. She was on his heels as he paced along the corridor. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t yet know.” He spared her a glance. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“You can’t just barge in!”
“Watch me.”
Ahead in the front hall, Christopher spotted Partridge, the butler. Approaching the mouth of the corridor, Christopher rapped out, “Partridge, where’s your master?”
He heard a gasp and dodged to the side to hide the outraged female trying to signal around him.
As he’d hoped, Partridge responded instinctively to the voice of authority. “In the conservatory, sir.”
“Thank you.” Christopher tried to keep the smugness from his tone and failed.
From behind, he heard a heartfelt “Damn it!”
But he’d already turned and was all but jogging toward the conservatory, which stood at the end of a long corridor, virtually at the rear of the house.
He ignored the muttered imprecations and the patter of feet behind him. He felt a tentative tug on his jacket and ignored that, too.