Page 78 of Rough and Rugged
Philip shakes his head in dismay. “Hard to believe that Uncle abandoned the care of the walnut plantations, even when he was in his prime. The wood is the best revenue source from the estate.”
“Who would have thought those nuts would be so valuable?” Betsy asks. “I think of them simply as flavoring for cakes.”
“Exactly, tens of thousands of cakes,” Philip says with a crooked grin. “And timber for paneling and furniture.”
“Gun stocks.” William nods. “Walnut is the best of the woods.”
I now understand why Philip swings that axe.
“We ought to get a bunch of our men to join in,” William continues. “We have quite a few batters on our village cricket team who could use stronger arms. I’ll see to it. Now tell us about the army.”
My attention wavers to a scrutiny of Philip, or His Grace, I should say, now in a sober dark jacket and starched neckcloth. In the field, his naked torso glistened with sweat, muscles flexing as he swung the axe. My insides flutter as if filled with dragonflies. I bite my lip to keep from blushing as my brain fills with images of his bare back and wide shoulders. I silently recite the morning’s prayers to rid myself of the ache of desire.
Before we leave the table, His Grace beckons to me. “William says you are quite the expert on housekeeping, Meg. Or should I address you as Miss Bowen now that we long ago left our childhood behind?”
“Meg will do, Your Grace.”
“Please, stop that ‘your grace’ nonsense. It makes me sound like a valetudinarian, the very last thing I am.”
“Is that not the proper term, Your Grace?”
He grimaces. “Now you are teasing me.”
I nod. “A little. But why would you and William talk about housekeeping?”
“The old house not only needs roof repairs. It is rundown, dingy, and the carpets are threadbare. Mrs. Moore is very old, nearly blind, and deaf as a post. I want her to retire to one of the cottages near the Home Farm. Most of the maids and manservants left long ago.” He shakes his head and draws a long breath. “You see, I do not know where to start to improve the place. Can you come over and take a look?”
As he speaks, I try to keep my gaze turned away from him, anywhere but on his handsome face or his shoulders, or his sun-browned hands. But when I stare straight into the intensity of his deep blue eyes, I am at a loss for words. “I… I might not ah, be able to help,” I say, my voice hardly more than a whisper. “I only know my own household, for the years since Mama died.”
“Perhaps, between the two of us, we can begin to list what needs to be done.”
I nod, simultaneously fearful and overjoyed.
“Together,” he says.
Later, His Grace and I walk to the vicarage orchard to see if any blossoms are left on the apple trees. At least that is the excuse for leaving the others. But the blooms are gone, leaving dried petals all over the grass. I touch the latch of the gate. He covers my hand with his, gently warming it. My heartbeat races and my shoulders tense. He smiles, lifts my hand, and touches his lips to my wrist. Pulse pounding, I tingle in every nerve. Where could this lead?
We walk back to the garden, my hand now feeling cool where his kiss left a trace of moisture.
Chapter Three
LeavingWilliambehindtoroam the shrubbery hand-in-hand with Betsy, Philip offers to drive me home to Bowen Hall. As he helps me into his gig, I cannot quench the earlier vision of his rippling muscles, glistening shoulders, the damp curls that fell across his forehead, or his strength as he swung the axe.
“This is a modest vehicle for a duke,” he says with a laugh. “It’s all I could acquire on my way to Aberfeld after arriving at Dover.”
“I hardly know what a peer would drive, but this looks perfectly serviceable for your park.”
“It is, especially when I inspected the stables and found them empty.”
He takes a roundabout route I do not try to follow. Being alone with him is enough. He drives up a hill and turns the gig to face a view of Aberfeld House.
“How distinguished it looks from a distance,” he says.
“Yes,” I agree. “Old and mellow. I love the way the red bricks have softened.”
“For centuries, to be sure. From here, the roof looks solid and the vines add color without showing how they eat away at the mortar.” He loops the reins over the dashboard and turns toward me. “I teased you, Miss Bowen, but now I have to admit… confess… I often thought about you when I was away.”
“You did?” I am suddenly devoid of voice. I suppose my jaw is hanging open in surprise.As often as I dream about you?I wonder, but he keeps talking.