Page 9 of The Earl’s Hoyden

With one last smile, she spun from him, cat in hand, and strode away without limping. Lucien waited as she strolled away, his eyes watering until she was out of sight, when he could finally yield to his tremendous urge with a great and unfettered sneeze.

Only when Hannah was entirely certain Lord Brightstone was out of sight did she allow herself to limp. After the excitement of her accident and the energy charging in her system as she’d chased little Leaf ebbed away, the sting of her injury made itself known. As did the biting cold.

She hadn’t realized how much of a chill the wind held until she swept the heat of his coat from her shoulders to return it to him. There had been a pleasant smell to the coat—shaving soap, the familiar aroma of books and an underlying spice.

“I’m grateful you are safe,” she said to Leaf.

It nuzzled closer to her, purring furiously where she cradled the warm puff against her bosom, completely heedless of her limp.

“It was kind of Lord Brightstone to save you,” she continued. “And to be so gracious about his broken fence.”

Mortification washed over her at her folly, at the way her skirts had flipped up with her graceless tumble.

“And my indecency,” she added miserably to the uninterested cat.

What was more, he had not regarded her with the bewildered horror he should have, which most certainly would have.

No, Lord Brightstone had been understanding and gracious, almost appearing somewhat flustered himself.

She recalled him well from of the few times they’d been in one another’s company in her youth. He’d never wanted to climb trees or catch frogs in the streams, preferring instead to sequester himself in the vast silence of the library. Hannah loved books as well, an appreciation she’d garnered at Elizabeth’s enthusiastic behest, but Hannah never could bring herself to be as quiet as the room warranted.

The years had been good to Lord Brightstone. He was now a handsome man with blue eyes that possessed an undeniable keenness. Granted, his wavy blond hair was several weeks overdue for a trim, and a slight shadow of whiskers over his strong jaw suggested he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. Even his clothes appeared somewhat disorderly and rumpled. She rather liked the lack of airs he took on in the country, being so much like herself.

When away from London, she could set aside the discomforts of society fashion. She far preferred comfortable attire as she reveled in her freedom in the open fields and endless forests amid the wildly beautiful allure of nature.

As she limped toward the house, she already anticipated the theatrics of her mother’s reaction. Suddenly, Hannah was immensely grateful to Lord Brightstone for his offer to have his man fix the fence. The less her parents knew of her humiliation, the better.

In fact, she could pretend as though the entire meeting had never happened. If Lady Westwich knew Hannah had been speaking to the earl next door, the baroness would surely attribute far more to the meeting than need be. The last thing Hannah wanted as she was propelled into another fruitless season was to be shoved in Lord Brightstone’s direction.

2

From the warm comfort of his library, Lucien gazed out at the field near the elm tree where he’d been speaking to Hannah. His groundskeeper strolled toward the broken fence, the length of wood for a new slat tucked against the man’s side.

The prickling of an itchy throat and watery eyes had finally abated after Lucien scrubbed at his face and changed his attire. But it wasn’t physical discomfort that lodged itself in his thoughts.

It was her.

Miss Bexley.

The intrepid saver of cats, unusual in a markedly exciting manner. Beautiful and radiant.

“What is amiss with the fence?” A stern voice at Lucien’s side inquired.

He turned to find his mother staring hawkishly at the groundskeeper with a steely gray gaze that missed nothing and found everything wanting. A beam of sunlight shone through the windows, stopping short of her slippered feet as if too afraid to approach her.

“I believe the wood rotted,” Lucien replied easily. It wouldn’t do at all to inform his mother of how Miss Bexley had climbed over the slat, snapping the wood before tumbling to the ground with her skirt flung up to her knees.

Pretty knees though they were—or at least the uninjured one with the fallen stocking. Granted, he was no scoundrel and hadn’t ogled her in her precarious state. But neither was he a saint. And her legs were far too fine to ignore, long and slender, yet perfectly shaped with a sensual curve at her calf and ankle.

“Rotten wood?” Lady Brightstone echoed with a frown. “It was redone last year.”

He gave a non-committal shrug and returned his gaze to the book in front of him.

“I saw you speaking to that Bexley chit,” his mother said in a tone that was anything but casual.

“You mean Miss Bexley,” he corrected.

Lady Brightstone harrumphed. “Have I told you that Lady Townsend is in a delicate way?”