Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,82

and borrow horses.”

Her equestrian skills had been another marital disappointment.

“I’m not dressed for riding.”

“A carriage or cart then.”

She straightened her spine, determined to match his courtesy. “It’s not long until dinner. We can walk in less time than it will take to arrange transport.” She brushed snow from her bonnet. “And I do love the snow. Such a welcome change from rain. Run along and hire yourself a horse. I intend to walk.”

“A gentleman wouldn’t—”

“Don’t be silly. You’ve arranged for my purchases to be delivered, so I’m not lugging packages, and I’m perfectly capable of walking a mile by myself. Besides, I’d not wish to be the cause of ruining your boots.”

He gazed down at her feet. “And what of yours?”

“They’ve withstood worse.”

One dark eyebrow rose.

Fine. They were the worse for that wear, but never mind. Her boys’ boots were sturdy and new, and that was what mattered.

“Go then.” She shooed him and stepped out.

Footsteps crunched next to her as he caught up, pulling her hand over his arm.

“I take it you’re one of those country ladies who tramps about through the fields with her dogs.”

“I walk, certainly.” She’d escaped at every chance when Glanford was underfoot.

“Except when your coachman is driving you about. That is more my mother’s style.”

She focused on the road, ignoring the teasing kindness. They’d dispensed with the coach and the coachman even before Glanford’s death.

“Or you drive out in your own gig,” he mused.

“I’ve never been much of a whip.”

“No? Well then, you had the company of your dogs, perhaps. A great pack of them, like the Duchess of York?”

“Glanford had hounds.” He’d lavished more attention on them than his family.

“You had no lap dog?” he teased. “No giant mongrel standing guard?”

They’d reached the turn for Loughton Manor. She freed her hand and passed through the gate ahead of him.

“Neither,” she said. Much as Glanford loved his hounds, he’d banned the sort of pets that would have brought comfort to the boys or warmth to her bed…a dog or a cat or two.

He touched her arm, stopping her.

“I’ve offended you. Or…”

He gazed down at her, not quite frowning. She took a step back, quelling her rising anger.

Damn the man. She didn’t need his pity.

“I’ve raised bad memories. How thoughtless of me.” He stepped closer, backing her off the lane, into a sheltered patch between a large showy yew and the boundary wall.

“Lady Glanford. I’ve been wanting…want to…to apologize.”

Her pulse pounded in her ears. This close, she could see the spiky late afternoon stubble peppering his cheeks. She curled her fingers in, resisting the temptation to touch, gathering her composure.

“For the kiss, Mr. Lovelace? It was nothing.”

He blinked. “No. That is, I wanted to say how sorry I am about the scene in the Townsends’ garden so many years ago.”

A dull ache started up near her heart and she felt her color rising under his warm gaze.

Drat the man. She wasn’t that young girl anymore. She’d withstood the disgrace. She’d weathered the whispers. The past mustn’t matter. It was the present that must concern her.

“Apology accepted.” As she pushed by, he snatched her hand and the hard planes of his face softened.

“Thank you. I’ve always been ashamed I didn’t—”

“What? Confront Glanford?” She inched away, catching her breath as a branch poked her back.

“Defend you. Especially after I heard your father had just—”

“Stop.” She yanked her hand away and fought a surge of tears. For months she’d grieved Papa’s death and her miserable marriage. Her boys had saved her, and now she must save them. Noble they might be, like their father, but they’d have the good sense of common Englishmen.

Glanford had run through Papa’s hard-earned money at a dizzying pace and then somehow got his hands on her dower and Ben’s trust as well. If Papa had lived… But he hadn’t. And now she had only the boys’ guardian to help her, a man who wouldn’t answer her letters or speak to her.

“You have no need to take on my husband’s shame.” She gritted her teeth. “On the other hand, there’s the matter of your brother’s.”

His mouth turned down into a guarded frown. “He’s dishonored you?”

“Dishonored?” She blinked. Then scoffed. “Dishonored me? Fitz? No, he hasn’t dishonored me in that way.” Her hands curled into fists as she struggled for breath. “He’s been dishonorable in other ways. He’s dishonored his duty, to my sons. Fitz…Fitz is like Glanford. A…a ramshackle, cork-brained booby.”

His gaze narrowed on her, his lips firming into a white line. Indignation or anger?

At