He looked startled. Instead of replying, he apparently made a hasty reassessment of their exchange. “I did not mean to imply—”
“Oh, no need to apologise.” She waved away whatever he meant to say. “I’m aware of my shortcomings. Instead of sitting prettily in my parlour, I climb in haylofts and trees. I shout at dogs. I crawl about in henhouses. I will never be considered decorative, by any means!”
“As you say, decorative is for churches. I’d much rather see a woman who isn’t afraid to help a child or an animal.” He said it uneasily, as if afraid he was walking into a trap.
“One who argues,” she suggested, listing her many flaws. “And speaks up for herself. You do not prefer polite, pretty ladies who demurely nod their heads and make men swoon with a smile.”
“Exactly,” he said, apparently pleased that she understood his requirements. “I hope I am not being too forward. When I went to your father, it was because I remembered you with fondness and hoped to press my suit. But Verity … Verity does not make it easy for me to court in a traditional manner. You are a woman of exceptional understanding. I would like to call on you, if I might be so bold.”
“You wish to call on a woman who is not a lady, one who argues and rudely rucks up her skirts and isn’t remotely attractive enough to be decorative?” she asked in feigned astonishment, raising her eyebrows. “I think not, sir. You may call on me when Verity needs rescuing again, perhaps. Until then, I give you good day.”
Ribbons bedraggled from being crushed by an unthinking military man, Harriet rose from her chair and, head held high, sailed from the yard with bits of straw stuck to her crumpled muslin.
Dropping his best visiting coat over a chair, Lucas rubbed his aching head. After an hour of listening to Miss Elizabeth Baker and a few of her dearest friends prattle in high-pitched voices about London fashion and the best teacakes, he was ready to stick his head in a bucket to clean out his ears. He was evidently not meant for feminine company.
He stared morosely out the kitchen door at the fields separating his cottage from the Briggs’ estate. He wished he understood the feminine mind. He’d thought he and Miss Briggs had reached a level where they could talk honestly. He’d hoped …
But she’d thought he was insulting her, when he thought he’d been showering her with fevered compliments and his genuine delight at finding a sympathetic ear. He had porridge for brains.
He’d sent round a note of apology. He’d asked the vicar to put in a word for him. He’d spoken to the Squire himself. But nothing had worked. They muttered platitudes about Miss Harriet coming around in her own time. But she was never at home when he called.
He sighed as he watched his daughter climb the back fence to gather wildflowers from the field. Verity apparently had a passion for flowers. He didn’t know one from another. A woman could help Verity grow a garden. He didn’t even know where to acquire seeds.
Perhaps he could ask Miss Briggs how one went about finding flower seeds. He could help Verity collect a bouquet, tie a ribbon about it and deliver it as a peace offering. Or gratitude for the kitten wrecking the furniture. Verity adored the creature.
He could practise a few compliments, although he felt a fool telling her she had eyes the colour of the sky and skin as soft as silk. She did, but he didn’t know how to say that.
After spending an hour in the company of the village ladies, Lucas knew of a certainty that Miss Briggs was the only local woman who met his needs, all his needs. He could hire a maid to clean cat hair. He could not hire an intelligent, desirable wife, one who could keep up with Verity and not drive him mad with inanities.
He saw no reason to give up on the woman he wanted, if all that parted them was his thickheaded pride and her damnably sensitive feelings. He would not have made major had he given up and simply obeyed orders instead of thinking for himself. Which was what Miss Briggs had been telling him — although he had difficulty applying such leadership to women. He’d learn.
The day was warm and there was no sense in making his laundry more difficult by dirtying a coat while hunting flowers. With no one about to see him, he abandoned his coat and followed Verity into the field.
Verity looked up in surprise when Lucas leaned over to pick a daffodil. She laughed in delight when he handed it to her. Together, they wandered deep into the field and a wooded area, collecting a ragged assortment of blooms that might make a lady smile. Maybe.
“Do you think we should put a ribbon around these and take them to Miss Harriet?” he asked when Verity seemed to be tiring of the game.
She nodded eagerly. Lucas was about to lift her on his shoulders and carry her back to the house, when he heard an impatient shout. He might be a thickheaded oaf, but he recognized Miss Harriet’s voice.
It was coming from the pasture where the Briggs’ tenant farmer had just loosed his bull.
He shoved the bouquet into Verity’s hands. “Take these back to the house and put them in water. I’ll bring Miss Briggs to visit shortly.”
He didn’t have time to wait and see that she obeyed. He took off at a lope around the fence, racing in the direction of the Briggs’ estate. He had a feeling Miss Harriet was much like Verity, often climbing into situations from which she could not easily be extracted.
The one he found her in caused him to stumble in horror.
The redoubtable Miss Briggs had climbed over a stile on the far side of the field, in apparent pursuit of a puppy. While she was scolding the terrified hound, a ton of beef on the hoof pawed the ground and swung its massive head back and forth behind a bush, where she could not see it. Even the puppy could sense the danger and cowered on its belly amid the grass.
Lucas would strangle the woman if he did not have failure of the heart first.
He had no weapon other than himself. Trotting alongside the fence, he sought to distract the bull from this woman in her unfashionably shortened riding skirts. He waved his arms to catch the animal’s attention and, when that was not sufficient, he climbed the fence and sat atop the rail, roaring curses.
Astonished, Miss Harriet looked up at his odd behaviour, then turned to follow his gaze. Her eyes widened as she glanced behind her to the bull pawing the ground.
Lucas nearly fell off the rail when she grabbed the pup, and the bull snorted and lowered his head at her motion.
“Don’t move!” he shouted at her. “He’s just looking for an excuse to attack.”
“I can’t very well stand here for the rest of my life,” she retorted, holding the wriggling pup.
“It will be a very short life if you move.” Too furious and terrified to be polite, Lucas leaped off the fence and began running around the bull’s rump, away from Miss Briggs.
The bull swung its head in his direction, bellowed and charged.
Running for his life, and Harriet’s, Lucas raced across the corner of the enclosed field, reaching the hedge on the other side with the bull’s hot breath on his neck. Grabbing a hawthorn branch that gave beneath his weight, he vaulted across the wizened limbs — into a mud puddle on the other side of the hedgerow.
“Major Sumner, Lucas!”
He heard Harriet’s panicked shouts as he tried to catch his breath after having lost it. Mud puddles were softer than the ground, but not by much.
Dainty ankles exposed, she climbed the stile, her expression gratifyingly concerned. He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled for being so careless, but the frightened tears streaking her cheeks dampened his temper. And in the end, she had listened to his orders and stayed still.