Page 80 of Rough and Rugged
“Yes, I live more or less here and in the kitchen. Mrs. Jenkins, the only one left, brings in fresh bread, prepares the coffee, and leaves me cheese or a meat pie for dinner. I could not survive without her.”
After we tour several salons on the first floor, I feel the need for a bath. “The first thing you need is a throng of cleaners. No one has washed a window in ages. Shall I ask Mrs. Peterson to hire a crew?”
“Uncle was something of a miser, but his solicitor tells me there are some funds available, though little prospect of any income soon. Let’s get started.”
“It will be a challenge, but we’ll try our best.”
Philip’s grin is a welcome reward. I must take care to shield my heart from my one-time opponent.
Two days later, after William and the duke recruited friends and some servants to join in the activity in the woods, Betsy reports she’d heard several of the village maidens found the spectacle of men working in the hot sun without shirts worth walking to the forest to observe.
She and I take her donkey cart to see them also. When we arrive, it isn’t yet hot enough for discarding shirts. Soon after, one at a time, the workers do so, my brother joining in, as the heat bears down. The young women all sit in the shade, giggling at the bare-chested men showing off their skills with the axes. Betsy is as wide-eyed as I am, stunned, yet fascinated.
“I see what they mean,” she says, her eyes focusing on my brother’s shoulders. “Indeed, a sight to behold.”
I am struck all over again. My gaze bonds to the duke’s muscled form. Now, with the luxury of unrestricted observation, I can admire Philip’s chestnut hair, streaked with gold in the sunshine. His blue eyes look almost black from a distance. His wide shoulders and arms are bronzed and burnished. I imagine my fingers stroking across his flesh.
When the men apparently grow too warm to continue, some yank off their boots and plunge into the river, shouting out at the chill. When they emerge from the water, their soaked britches outline every feature of their bodies. Betsy gasps. The duke dives in and comes up laughing. He hastens out, and the breath vanishes from my lungs. My hands clutch one another, squeezing together, nails pressing sharply into my palms. I hear a little sigh that must have come from me.
Betsy exclaims, “Like peeking at those ancient marble statues.”
“Better,” I proclaim. “Those are real men, not stone. A captivating sight.” Philip’s unforgettable shape is etched into my memory.
Chapter Four
WhileIamatAberfeld House with Mrs. Peterson and three maids, I concentrate on my tasks, anything to prevent me from worrying about my feelings for the duke. Am I falling in love with him? Or am I letting my fancy run wild, overwhelmed by his body’s magnificence? When Betsy and William are around, the duke treats me casually, as an old friend. When we are alone, he is affectionate, definitely showing an increasing desire for intimacy. The crazy thing is, I like it. Always in my mind there is the image of that bare back, those sinewy arms, that strong swing of the axe, his obvious strength.
Dreaming is hardly a new experience for me. I have dreamed of having a man desire me, but not a specific man. Up to now, that being was imaginary, a fantasy, with no specific hair color, eyes, or features. Now my dreams feature Philip. I know the beauty of the male body, with so many examples in paintings and statuary. But they cannot compare to his bare skin, glistening with perspiration, muscles rippling, or the sensuous feel of his lips, the heat of his embrace, the touch of gentle hands. When he caresses my neck, nuzzles my hair, and presses me to his chest, I feel like a woman. He is equally worthy for his concerns and responsible attitude, no longer a care-for-nothing rogue. And I can no longer avoid admitting it to myself. I have fallen in love with Philip Trent, the tenth duke of Aberfeld.
When the duke calls on me at Bowen Hall, my father comes out of his library to greet him. We take seats in the morning room and Philip begins the conversation.
“The new saplings, I have read, start producing nuts when they are four or five years old, though the trees live fifty, sixty years, or more. The larger, the better, for timber or paneling.”
Father speaks up. “Did you know the Romans introduced walnut trees to England almost two thousand years ago?”
“You don’t say? That gives us a common bond, Lord Bowen.”
After little more than another quarter hour, Father heads back to his library for more reading. “I am very pleased to hear about your progress, Duke. Now I wish you good night and good weather tomorrow for your clearing work.”
“A fine man, the Baron,” Philip says as he moves beside me on the sofa.
“Oh, yes, a wonderful father. If he ever writes that book, it will be a gem.”
The duke talks of receiving several letters seeking a position as his valet. “I also need a new steward. I’ll pension off Mr. Cavel and see the old fellow comfortably retired, one of the few whose honesty I trust. All that and splitting old tree stumps, chopping down the scrawniest of the saplings that crowd out sunlight from one another.”
“I thought you said the old duke had not planted any trees for a long time.”
He gives me a peck on the cheek and laughs out loud. “What the humans don’t plant gives way to what the squirrels bury and then overlook.”
I join in his laughter. “Of course, Mother Nature has her way.” I snuggle against him.
“We foresters sometimes have an audience. It seems the village females like to watch us sweat.”
“Betsy and I have also admired the view.”
“By Jupiter, what is the attraction?”
“Come now, men without shirts?”