still had to ensure that her family’s business survived. Focus was essential, but throughout the morning, she’d accidentally poke a bruise left behind from their delicious, torrid lovemaking and be transported back to the larder. Back to his kisses, his exquisite tongue, and his glorious thrusts.
God how she adored him. And she couldn’t have him.
Now is not the time to start pining, she mentally snapped. Pay. Attention.
“We’re almost there,” she said, nodding out the window.
“How can you tell?” Noel asked.
Yes, right. She’d never been here before. “The cottages are closer to each other, and I think I hear the tolling of a church bell.”
Noel, Lady Farris, and Mr. Walditch all nodded. Jess nearly told them that the village truly showed itself to its best advantage at Christmas, when fir garlands were hung on gates and Mrs. Osterby tied red ribbons on everyone’s front door.
Soon, the carriage reached the village green. It was bound on all four sides by shops and a taproom, with a stone cairn erected to the memorial of the men lost in the war in the center of the square itself.
“Someone is supposed to meet us in the village,” Jess said, “and then they will guide us to the establishment itself.”
Noel rapped on the roof of the carriage, and it came to a stop outside Lucy Devin’s mercer shop. Jess heard the carriage behind them also stop, and within short order, everyone stood on the high street.
Jess glanced up and down the road. Where the deuce was Cynthia? “They are supposed to be here,” she offered by way of explanation. “We can wait.”
She recognized every passerby, from Emma Ferring, the vicar’s wife, to John Lennox, who often wandered about in his bare feet, even in the depths of winter. Nearly everyone stared at her—and why shouldn’t they, since she’d arrived in an expensive, glossy carriage and stood with people far more elegant than had ever graced the homely little village.
Thankfully, however, it seemed that Fred and Cynthia had briefed everyone that for today she was Lady Whitfield, an outsider. So the pedestrians’ gazes never lingered on her for too long. Besides, if anyone did stare, she had the convenient excuse that they were simply staring at a wealthy stranger.
It was Noel, however, who attracted the most attention. Regardless of the fact that they were in a tiny village deep in Wiltshire—or perhaps because of it—he drew everyone’s notice. No wonder. He radiated wealth and power, and in his expertly tailored clothing, with his absurdly handsome face, he’d draw anyone’s regard.
“No need to wait.” Noel tipped his head toward the mercer shop. “I’ll ask in here for the direction of the McGale business. It won’t take but a moment. Join me, Lady Whitfield? The shop looks charming.”
“I cannot resist anything charming.” Despite Jess’s outward calm, her stomach briefly clenched. The fewer interactions she had with the villagers, the better her chance of avoiding a potentially dangerous situation.
He opened the door for her, and the bell chimed in that same double ring Jess had heard for most of her life. Ring-ring! She’d always loved that bell because it meant they were getting cloth to make new dresses—a rare treat.
Fortunately, there were no customers in the shop. But Lucy Devin stood behind the counter, and gazed at Jess with recognition. Thank God Noel had turned to examine a bolt of wine-colored fabric, because he didn’t see Lucy open her mouth to greet Jess, nor Jess giving her head a small shake at Lucy.
The shopkeeper frowned. Thankfully, however, she said, “Fine afternoon, sir. Got lots of fine merchandise for you today.”
“Afternoon,” Noel said, turning back with a polite nod. “We’re looking for the McGale farm.”
Lucy looked at Jess, and Noel followed Lucy’s glance, so Jess made herself peer into the glass-topped counter and pretend to admire a bowl full of sparkling beads.
“’Tis but a short ride from here,” Lucy said. “Follow the high street north out of the village. It follows the river, which flows past the McGale farm. You’ll see the gate plainly on the right side, just a mile after the church.”
“My thanks,” Noel said.
“Of course, sir. Madam.”
Jess exhaled.
The bell chimed its double ring, and a man entered the shop in the clean but coarse garments of a farmer. Jess recognized him immediately as “Oaty” Williams, a man of her parents’ generation. Oaty paused just on the threshold.
“Aye, Lucy, there’s some carriages outside that look right costly,” he said, then tilted his head. “Jess? What’re you about in them