Once Upon a Wedding Night
Page 8
True enough. Had not Edmund swept her—a simple vicar’s daughter—off her feet with embarrassing ease? And this man was far more dangerous than Edmund. The sight of him reminded her of mythical heroes rising n**ed from hidden lagoons, water sluicing down their hard torsos, bodies steaming in the cool air. Meredith swallowed and gave herself a mental shake as she reined in her daydreams. Good God. If he caused such a reaction in her—someone who had long ago shelved thoughts of passion—what manner of thoughts raced through Catie’s mind?
“I take the welfare of my tenants to heart, my lord.”
“Rest assured, my lady, Catie is safe from the likes of me. My tastes run to more mature—” His dark stare slid over her, taking in her tumbling hair. “—experienced women.”
Meredith sensed he had just evaluated and placed her in the experienced and mature category.
Ha! If he only knew that was but a half-truth. Surely he was accustomed to his choice of beautiful, sophisticated women in Town? Not a dull drab like her. Perhaps the thought of her carrying another man’s child did not bother him, and he saw her as an easy conquest—a widow already with child and with no one to hold him accountable should he take an unseemly interest in her. Perhaps he even thought she enjoyed bed play and missed such sport since her husband’s demise. Aside of the perfunctory peck on her wedding day, she had never kissed a man.
Ironically, Catie probably possessed more experience than Meredith, a woman nearly twice her age.
With that humbling thought, Meredith wrenched the reins free. “But the mature, experienced woman has more sense than to dally with you.”
He chuckled again, a knowing, intimate sound that sent shivers up her arms and made her neck and br**sts tingle. “It’s the experienced woman who usually seeks my company. They know I can provide what they want.”
Scandalized by his provocative words, his arrogance, and her own reaction, she sought an end to their conversation. “Just stay away from her, my lord.”
“Call me Nick,” he said unexpectedly.
“That would be improper.” Nick. So raw, bold. Meredith looked him up and down. It fit him perfectly.
“And I shall call you Meredith.” Most people pronounced her name harsh and clipped. Not him.
The emphasis he placed on her name sounded strange, his deep voice softening the accents. It was all too alluring.
“I would rather you not.”
He smiled that wolf smile, his teeth a flash of white in his tanned face. “Why is that? We are family, are we not? I am your brother of a sort.”
Brother?
Meredith choked. Undeniably, her thoughts often became muddled in his presence, but one thought stood out clear and confusion free. This man was not her brother.
One look into his laughing eyes told Meredith he did not regard her in a sisterly fashion either, that he merely mocked her with the ridiculous suggestion.
“Good day, my lord.” Meredith clung to the formality of his title, a much needed barrier. His hand on the bridle stopped her. “Release my horse,” she demanded. Petunia whinnied, the bridle jingling as she jerked her head up and down, either sensing her mistress’s distress or simply eager to be off.
All mockery gone, he asked, “I had not given it a thought until just now… is it wise to ride in your condition?”
She stared at him blankly, having no idea to what he referred. Then it dawned. Her fingers drifted to her abdomen, recalling the alleged life there, a life she had completely forgotten about because it did not exist. “The exercise is good for me.”
He frowned. “Do not most ladies in your condition abstain from riding?”
Naturally, he was correct. Most women did not ride during their confinement. It galled her to have overlooked such a consideration before she left this morning. “Honestly, it had not occurred to me that riding was inadvisable.”
His gaze narrowed. “Perhaps you need to adjust your reasoning. You no longer have only yourself to consider.”
Must his high-handedness extend to her person as well as Oak Run? She could not abide his interference. He did not control her.
“Do not scold me like a child. I am quite accustomed to caring for myself… and others. I have been doing that exact thing for years.”
“Then why did your judgment lapse today?” he countered, one black brow rising superciliously.
“Oh!” She fisted her reins in sheer frustration. “Please be so good as to mind your own affairs.”
“I thought we had established that for the time being you and your child are my concern.” He released the bridle and crossed his arms over his broad chest.
“Don’t trouble yourself. I can look after myself.”
“As long as you look after yourself properly, you’ll hear nothing from me, Meredith.”
Arrogant man! His deliberate use of her name chafed her already frayed nerves. Meredith gave no thought to how reckless she appeared as she spun her horse about and tore out of the Finney yard. Digging her heels into Petunia’s flanks, she surrendered to the moment, hoping she sent dirt and earth kicking up into Nicholas Caulfield’s handsome face.
Her satisfaction was short-lived. Galloping away, her head cleared enough for her to realize how foolish she must appear. If she wanted him gone long before the supposed delivery of her son, she would have to rein in her defiant streak. How was he to be fully confident in her ability to care for herself and Oak Run if she behaved so recklessly? And one thing was for certain. The man could not be at Oak Run when she “gave birth.” Matters were already complicated enough without him underfoot then.
“Blast it,” Meredith muttered, slowing her horse to a trot. She had to avoid acting rashly in his presence. When forced into his company, she would be modest, demure, the perfect model of gentility—boring. He would leave for no other reason than to escape the absolute tedium of her company.
The woman fascinated him.
She was not quite the frigid piece of lace he had first determined. The way her eyes lingered on his n**ed chest testified to that. When they quarreled, sparks flew from her green eyes like a hot-blooded virago, lighting a fire in the pit of his gut that could not be quenched by any suitable means. She did not at all resemble the prim, retiring, drawing room lady he first thought her to be. Not when she looked upon him with desire. It was growing impossible to dismiss her from his mind. Especially since she hid something from him. Her nervousness around him could not totally be attributed to physical attraction.
He could not deny his annoyance as he watched her thunder away at breakneck speed, her auburn hair streaming in a wild banner behind her, the final remnants of her plait unraveling in the wind. He had half a mind to give chase and haul her bodily from that bloody horse. The woman was a menace to herself and her unborn child, regardless of how intriguing he found her.
What was she thinking riding a horse like that? The idea of him tapping into all her fiery energy and seeing just how passionate her nature ran seized him. Scowling, Nick gathered his reins and swung himself into his saddle in one easy motion.
How had she managed all these years on her own exhibiting such poor judgment? He sighed and urged his horse into a trot. Most importantly, why did he care? Why couldn’t he just walk away?
Slink back to the life he’d made? Why did he have to feel such bloody obligation to her, a sense of obligation that only increased with their growing acquaintance?
Nick tried to ignore the answer that teased at him like a pesky fly buzzing around the inside of his head. But it was no use. He wanted his brother’s widow, wanted the woman carrying Edmund’s baby. He gave his head a small shake. An attraction wrong on countless levels, but there it was, nonetheless.
As a man unaccustomed to self-denial, this spelled trouble. There was only one solution. He had to leave. Soon. Before he found out it was more than her auburn mane and tempting curves that attracted him.
Chapter 6
Meredith arrived to an empty dining room. Not unusual for a Sunday. Her aunt spent so much time selecting her clothes and turban for church, she often missed breakfast completely.
Especially on the first Sunday of the month, when the vicar dined with them. Her aunt always wanted to look her best.
She exhaled, not realizing until that moment that she had been holding her breath in anticipation— and dread—of facing Nick.
Morning sunlight shot through the mullioned windows in bright beams, bringing the air to vibrant life with tiny motes of unknown particles. Turning, she let the warmth of the sun soak through her dress and into her back as she helped herself to eggs and kippers from the generous spread of food on the sideboard. Maree entered the room, leading her father to his chair with a firm hold on his elbow.
“Now, you sit yourself here and I’ll fetch you a nice plate of eggs and—”
“Coffee, lots of cream,” her father interrupted, his voice petulant as he settled in his chair.
Her father may have changed a great deal over the last years, but his preference for cream-laced coffee had not. Meredith smiled at the exchange as she succumbed to her sweet tooth and selected a plump sweet roll from the sideboard.
As Maree prepared her father’s plate, Meredith set her plate aside to pour her father’s coffee, making certain to include a generous amount of cream. “Here you are, Father.” She set the cup in front of him, warning, “It’s hot.”
Ignoring her, he took a noisy sip, puckering his lips when he singed them with the scalding liquid.
“Careful,” Meredith chided, rubbing her father’s back.
Paying her no heed, he tackled his cup of coffee again. She sighed and exchanged knowing looks with Maree. Her father loved his coffee too much to exercise caution.
Amid this noisy slurping, Nick entered the room.
“Good morning,” he greeted, his gaze skipping over her to the selection of food at the sideboard.
“Good morning,” she responded, ignoring the stab of disappointment at the brief glance he sent her way.
Her father looked up from his coffee to stare broodingly at Nick’s back. Meredith’s breath suspended, anxious to see if her father would behave or not. She breathed easy when he resumed eating, indifferent to their presence as he turned to gaze out the window at the sunlight glinting off the vast landscape of green lawn.
Seating herself at the twenty-foot dining table, she forced her eyes on her plate, battling the temptation to stare at the man occupying far too much of her thoughts. Peeking beneath lowered lids, she discreetly watched him move along the sideboard. Her attention lingered on the superb fit of his breeches. Mortified by the direction of her thoughts, she wrenched her eyes away, pulled apart her sticky sweet roll and stuffed a generous portion into her mouth.
Cheeks burning, she was still chewing when he took the seat directly across from her, snapping his napkin once in the air before laying it over his lap. As she reached for her cup of tea, his gaze caught her. He watched her intently as he bit into a slice of jam-slathered toast. Dropping her eyes, she stared into the milky brown contents of the steaming cup she held with both hands.
“You look fetching this morning, Meredith.”
Her gaze dropped to her dress. It was the finest of her mourning gowns, the one reserved for church, but still depressing. Only a few more frills and some black beads graced the modest neckline.
Nothing about the gown could be described as fetching. And she sincerely doubted her person lended any beauty to its moroseness.
“Your hair is lovely in that arrangement,” he added.
Her hand flew to her hair self-consciously. She usually wore it in a softer fashion for church, taking the time and effort to arrange it into one of her less severely knotted buns. The effort had not been taken on account of him.
Then, horrified that he might draw that very conclusion, she blurted, “Thank you. I always wear it so for church.”
He gave a small nod and returned to his breakfast, digging in with gusto. Clearly, he was a man who enjoyed his food. Meredith liked to cook and believed herself to be a fair hand in the kitchen. True, not many ladies could attest to such knowledge—nor would they want to. But she had not been a countess all her life. Before Oak Run her family had only two servants, and when Cook needed a hand in the kitchen, the task fell to Meredith. She watched as he bit into a sweet roll. He closed his eyes with a look of deep appreciation, and she wondered what he would think if he knew she had helped prepare them.
“I take the welfare of my tenants to heart, my lord.”
“Rest assured, my lady, Catie is safe from the likes of me. My tastes run to more mature—” His dark stare slid over her, taking in her tumbling hair. “—experienced women.”
Meredith sensed he had just evaluated and placed her in the experienced and mature category.
Ha! If he only knew that was but a half-truth. Surely he was accustomed to his choice of beautiful, sophisticated women in Town? Not a dull drab like her. Perhaps the thought of her carrying another man’s child did not bother him, and he saw her as an easy conquest—a widow already with child and with no one to hold him accountable should he take an unseemly interest in her. Perhaps he even thought she enjoyed bed play and missed such sport since her husband’s demise. Aside of the perfunctory peck on her wedding day, she had never kissed a man.
Ironically, Catie probably possessed more experience than Meredith, a woman nearly twice her age.
With that humbling thought, Meredith wrenched the reins free. “But the mature, experienced woman has more sense than to dally with you.”
He chuckled again, a knowing, intimate sound that sent shivers up her arms and made her neck and br**sts tingle. “It’s the experienced woman who usually seeks my company. They know I can provide what they want.”
Scandalized by his provocative words, his arrogance, and her own reaction, she sought an end to their conversation. “Just stay away from her, my lord.”
“Call me Nick,” he said unexpectedly.
“That would be improper.” Nick. So raw, bold. Meredith looked him up and down. It fit him perfectly.
“And I shall call you Meredith.” Most people pronounced her name harsh and clipped. Not him.
The emphasis he placed on her name sounded strange, his deep voice softening the accents. It was all too alluring.
“I would rather you not.”
He smiled that wolf smile, his teeth a flash of white in his tanned face. “Why is that? We are family, are we not? I am your brother of a sort.”
Brother?
Meredith choked. Undeniably, her thoughts often became muddled in his presence, but one thought stood out clear and confusion free. This man was not her brother.
One look into his laughing eyes told Meredith he did not regard her in a sisterly fashion either, that he merely mocked her with the ridiculous suggestion.
“Good day, my lord.” Meredith clung to the formality of his title, a much needed barrier. His hand on the bridle stopped her. “Release my horse,” she demanded. Petunia whinnied, the bridle jingling as she jerked her head up and down, either sensing her mistress’s distress or simply eager to be off.
All mockery gone, he asked, “I had not given it a thought until just now… is it wise to ride in your condition?”
She stared at him blankly, having no idea to what he referred. Then it dawned. Her fingers drifted to her abdomen, recalling the alleged life there, a life she had completely forgotten about because it did not exist. “The exercise is good for me.”
He frowned. “Do not most ladies in your condition abstain from riding?”
Naturally, he was correct. Most women did not ride during their confinement. It galled her to have overlooked such a consideration before she left this morning. “Honestly, it had not occurred to me that riding was inadvisable.”
His gaze narrowed. “Perhaps you need to adjust your reasoning. You no longer have only yourself to consider.”
Must his high-handedness extend to her person as well as Oak Run? She could not abide his interference. He did not control her.
“Do not scold me like a child. I am quite accustomed to caring for myself… and others. I have been doing that exact thing for years.”
“Then why did your judgment lapse today?” he countered, one black brow rising superciliously.
“Oh!” She fisted her reins in sheer frustration. “Please be so good as to mind your own affairs.”
“I thought we had established that for the time being you and your child are my concern.” He released the bridle and crossed his arms over his broad chest.
“Don’t trouble yourself. I can look after myself.”
“As long as you look after yourself properly, you’ll hear nothing from me, Meredith.”
Arrogant man! His deliberate use of her name chafed her already frayed nerves. Meredith gave no thought to how reckless she appeared as she spun her horse about and tore out of the Finney yard. Digging her heels into Petunia’s flanks, she surrendered to the moment, hoping she sent dirt and earth kicking up into Nicholas Caulfield’s handsome face.
Her satisfaction was short-lived. Galloping away, her head cleared enough for her to realize how foolish she must appear. If she wanted him gone long before the supposed delivery of her son, she would have to rein in her defiant streak. How was he to be fully confident in her ability to care for herself and Oak Run if she behaved so recklessly? And one thing was for certain. The man could not be at Oak Run when she “gave birth.” Matters were already complicated enough without him underfoot then.
“Blast it,” Meredith muttered, slowing her horse to a trot. She had to avoid acting rashly in his presence. When forced into his company, she would be modest, demure, the perfect model of gentility—boring. He would leave for no other reason than to escape the absolute tedium of her company.
The woman fascinated him.
She was not quite the frigid piece of lace he had first determined. The way her eyes lingered on his n**ed chest testified to that. When they quarreled, sparks flew from her green eyes like a hot-blooded virago, lighting a fire in the pit of his gut that could not be quenched by any suitable means. She did not at all resemble the prim, retiring, drawing room lady he first thought her to be. Not when she looked upon him with desire. It was growing impossible to dismiss her from his mind. Especially since she hid something from him. Her nervousness around him could not totally be attributed to physical attraction.
He could not deny his annoyance as he watched her thunder away at breakneck speed, her auburn hair streaming in a wild banner behind her, the final remnants of her plait unraveling in the wind. He had half a mind to give chase and haul her bodily from that bloody horse. The woman was a menace to herself and her unborn child, regardless of how intriguing he found her.
What was she thinking riding a horse like that? The idea of him tapping into all her fiery energy and seeing just how passionate her nature ran seized him. Scowling, Nick gathered his reins and swung himself into his saddle in one easy motion.
How had she managed all these years on her own exhibiting such poor judgment? He sighed and urged his horse into a trot. Most importantly, why did he care? Why couldn’t he just walk away?
Slink back to the life he’d made? Why did he have to feel such bloody obligation to her, a sense of obligation that only increased with their growing acquaintance?
Nick tried to ignore the answer that teased at him like a pesky fly buzzing around the inside of his head. But it was no use. He wanted his brother’s widow, wanted the woman carrying Edmund’s baby. He gave his head a small shake. An attraction wrong on countless levels, but there it was, nonetheless.
As a man unaccustomed to self-denial, this spelled trouble. There was only one solution. He had to leave. Soon. Before he found out it was more than her auburn mane and tempting curves that attracted him.
Chapter 6
Meredith arrived to an empty dining room. Not unusual for a Sunday. Her aunt spent so much time selecting her clothes and turban for church, she often missed breakfast completely.
Especially on the first Sunday of the month, when the vicar dined with them. Her aunt always wanted to look her best.
She exhaled, not realizing until that moment that she had been holding her breath in anticipation— and dread—of facing Nick.
Morning sunlight shot through the mullioned windows in bright beams, bringing the air to vibrant life with tiny motes of unknown particles. Turning, she let the warmth of the sun soak through her dress and into her back as she helped herself to eggs and kippers from the generous spread of food on the sideboard. Maree entered the room, leading her father to his chair with a firm hold on his elbow.
“Now, you sit yourself here and I’ll fetch you a nice plate of eggs and—”
“Coffee, lots of cream,” her father interrupted, his voice petulant as he settled in his chair.
Her father may have changed a great deal over the last years, but his preference for cream-laced coffee had not. Meredith smiled at the exchange as she succumbed to her sweet tooth and selected a plump sweet roll from the sideboard.
As Maree prepared her father’s plate, Meredith set her plate aside to pour her father’s coffee, making certain to include a generous amount of cream. “Here you are, Father.” She set the cup in front of him, warning, “It’s hot.”
Ignoring her, he took a noisy sip, puckering his lips when he singed them with the scalding liquid.
“Careful,” Meredith chided, rubbing her father’s back.
Paying her no heed, he tackled his cup of coffee again. She sighed and exchanged knowing looks with Maree. Her father loved his coffee too much to exercise caution.
Amid this noisy slurping, Nick entered the room.
“Good morning,” he greeted, his gaze skipping over her to the selection of food at the sideboard.
“Good morning,” she responded, ignoring the stab of disappointment at the brief glance he sent her way.
Her father looked up from his coffee to stare broodingly at Nick’s back. Meredith’s breath suspended, anxious to see if her father would behave or not. She breathed easy when he resumed eating, indifferent to their presence as he turned to gaze out the window at the sunlight glinting off the vast landscape of green lawn.
Seating herself at the twenty-foot dining table, she forced her eyes on her plate, battling the temptation to stare at the man occupying far too much of her thoughts. Peeking beneath lowered lids, she discreetly watched him move along the sideboard. Her attention lingered on the superb fit of his breeches. Mortified by the direction of her thoughts, she wrenched her eyes away, pulled apart her sticky sweet roll and stuffed a generous portion into her mouth.
Cheeks burning, she was still chewing when he took the seat directly across from her, snapping his napkin once in the air before laying it over his lap. As she reached for her cup of tea, his gaze caught her. He watched her intently as he bit into a slice of jam-slathered toast. Dropping her eyes, she stared into the milky brown contents of the steaming cup she held with both hands.
“You look fetching this morning, Meredith.”
Her gaze dropped to her dress. It was the finest of her mourning gowns, the one reserved for church, but still depressing. Only a few more frills and some black beads graced the modest neckline.
Nothing about the gown could be described as fetching. And she sincerely doubted her person lended any beauty to its moroseness.
“Your hair is lovely in that arrangement,” he added.
Her hand flew to her hair self-consciously. She usually wore it in a softer fashion for church, taking the time and effort to arrange it into one of her less severely knotted buns. The effort had not been taken on account of him.
Then, horrified that he might draw that very conclusion, she blurted, “Thank you. I always wear it so for church.”
He gave a small nod and returned to his breakfast, digging in with gusto. Clearly, he was a man who enjoyed his food. Meredith liked to cook and believed herself to be a fair hand in the kitchen. True, not many ladies could attest to such knowledge—nor would they want to. But she had not been a countess all her life. Before Oak Run her family had only two servants, and when Cook needed a hand in the kitchen, the task fell to Meredith. She watched as he bit into a sweet roll. He closed his eyes with a look of deep appreciation, and she wondered what he would think if he knew she had helped prepare them.
