Falling in Love Again (23 page)

He placed one arm against the mantel, his other holding his teacup, and Mallory was surprised by how close he was standing. “My thoughts weren't very interesting.”

“I don't believe that. I find everything about you interesting.”

For a second, she thought he was going to bend down and kiss her. Then he walked away…and she felt a small stab of disappointment.

“Freddie Hanson wants to accompany us tomorrow,” John said. “I told him he could. Is that all right with you?”

“What? Oh, yes.”

John sipped his tea and nodded at the stack of papers on the table. “We'll take these reports over to him when we pick him up. I discussed them with him this morning and he is actually excited by the prospect of filling them out. He considers them his link to Tyndale. Furthermore, he already has records based upon his crops. If Tyndale is smart, he'll hire Hanson as steward after I'm
gone. The man's a bookkeeper as well as a damn good farmer.”

“Most good farmers are,” Mallory said. She busied herself by putting up the bread and butter, but she couldn't help admiring how long John's legs were, stretched out in front of him, and she had to step over them to cross to the cupboard. She'd want her sons to have long legs.

“Mallory, are you all right?”

She paused. “Of course, why would you think differently?”

“You keep looking at me. I'm starting to feel like a prize horse at Tattersall's and you're the buyer.”

“John, that's ridiculous.”

He laughed and rose from the chair. Before she realized what he was about, he planted a kiss on her lips, a light, quick one. “I'll see you this evening. Enjoy your afternoon with Sylvie.”

Mallory thought about his light kiss all afternoon while she and the women planned the meals to be served during the harvest, when the workers would stop for a midday meal. John's light caresses had more power to slip by her defenses than his hungry, demanding kisses did.

She wasn't sure she liked being under siege—while another part of her liked it all too well!

It took a great deal of organization to feed people during the harvest. However, Mallory discovered, the menus and schedules that used to take her weeks to prepare when she was mistress of Craige Castle took merely hours with the competent help of Sylvie, Mrs. Irongate, and Mrs. Watkins. She enjoyed the work more, too, and
wondered why she hadn't asked for assistance from the wives of her tenants at Craige Castle all these years past.

That evening, she and John discussed the plans that had been made. He was interested in every detail. When it came time for bed, he took her hand and with the coverlet and sheets under one arm, led her up to the barn. The mattress was still too damp to sleep on.

He made a bed for them in the same stall they'd used the night before, only this time he lay down on the covers beside her. Mallory considered protesting, but when John rolled over and fell into a sound sleep, she realized how silly her protest would have sounded.

Instead, she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

 

Freddie Hanson was good company on the way to Horsham. He had John stop beside several wheat fields and the three of them checked the grain heads. Mallory agreed with Hanson's opinion that the fields could be harvested at any time, especially if the good weather held.

In Horsham, amid the activity in the market square, they had very little trouble contacting a harvesting crew. After the price had been negotiated, Hanson ordered the crew to arrive at Cardiff Hall the following Monday. “We'll start with Lord Woodruff's fields first, then cover mine, and then the others.”

John agreed.

Having accomplished their goal, John asked Hanson if he'd excuse them for an hour or so while they did a little shopping of their own.

Mallory was surprised by his request, but she was delighted when a few minutes later, John bought three new ribbons for her hair and a straw bonnet.

“I thought you said you liked my freckles,” she teased, as she tried on the hat. It had a wide brim and shaded her face perfectly.

“I do,” John answered with a lazy smile, “but I also want my wife to feel like a proper lady. In fact, why don't we go in here?” He nodded at a dressmaker's shop.

“Oh, I don't know,” she said, suddenly shy. “I'm sure she won't have anything made up.”

“Let's ask.” He opened the door and a merry tinkle signaled their arrival.

Mallory stepped inside the cluttered little shop. A table in the center of the room held bolts of fabric. Tiny clippings of material littered the floor. The dressmaker sat in a windowseat where the light was good. She was hemming a lovely pale yellow muslin dress with tiny, perfect stitches.

She lay the dress aside and rose to assist them.

“I'm looking for a dress for my wife,” John said.

The woman took in their ragged appearance from the toe of John's scuffed boots to the neckline of Mallory's worn out brown dress. “Can you pay?” she demanded rudely.

“Would I be here if I couldn't?” John said.

The woman sniffed her answer. “I may have something that will work. It's secondhand but quite serviceable.” She hurried into a back room hidden behind a curtain.

Mallory drifted a finger over the pale yellow muslin, the color of sweet butter cream. She was
tempted to lift the dress up to admire its cut, but hesitated.

“The color would be beautiful on you,” John said close to her ear. He reached around, picked up the dress, and held it against her. The muslin fell gracefully to the floor at her feet. A green velvet ribbon trimmed the empire waist, and the short sleeves and modest neckline were exactly to Mallory's taste.

“I'd like to see you in this dress,” John said.

“The dress is already sold,” the dressmaker replied from behind them. “And I'll ask you to set it down.”

John and Mallory turned as one. “But I'd like it for my wife,” he said reasonably.

“I don't think you can afford it,” the dressmaker said bluntly. She'd folded a dress over her arm, which she now shook out. It was a gray cotton printed with small purplish-blue flowers. “This is what I was thinking of. I can let you have it for six shillings, sixpence.”

John considered the dress. “Do you like it, Mallory?”

She stepped forward. It was clean, and, as the dressmaker had said, “serviceable.” “It's fine.”

He smiled. “Good, we'll take the gray dress
and
the yellow dress.”

The dressmaker made a sound of impatience. “Sir, the dress is not for sale…and even if it were, you would not be able to afford it.”

Mallory shifted nervously. She didn't want a scene and tugged gently on John's coat sleeve. “I believe we should go, John.”

He didn't budge. “I will give you fifty pounds for the gray and the yellow.”

The dressmaker's mouth fell open. “Fifty pounds?”

“Fine,” John said, taking the money from his pocket. “I'll give you sixty pounds for it.”

“Sixty pounds?” The dressmaker raised a hand to her forehead. “But what shall I tell Lady Elizabeth? She wants this dress for a house party next Thursday.”

John started counting out the money. “You can either make a new dress or think of an excuse. Tell her she doesn't look good in yellow.”

He offered the money to the woman, who didn't hesitate to take it. “You're right, sir. She looks terrible in yellow. It makes her complexion sallow.” Tucking the money in her bodice, she said, “Let me finish the hem and then I'll wrap up both gowns.” She disappeared with an armful of clothes into the back room.

Mallory, who'd been watching the bargaining in amazement, found her voice. “John, where am I going to wear a dress like the yellow muslin? It's ridiculous to pay that price for a simple dress.”

“You'll wear it to the harvest home. Besides, I've paid three times that amount for dresses before.”

“For your mistresses?” she asked archly.

He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. “You knew I wasn't a saint.” In a hopeful voice, he added, “Jealous?”

Yes
. “No.”

The dressmaker returned with both dresses
wrapped in paper tied round with string, and John and Mallory left.

Their next stop was the tailor's, where John found a linen shirt like the ones most of the men in Tunleah Mews wore. It was also secondhand.

They were on their way to meet Hanson when John spied an ancient cavalier's hat hanging from a traveling peddler's cart. He grabbed the hat off its hook and plopped it on his head. “Look, Mallory, what do you think?” He struck a pose.

“I think you look a spirited young blood in that hat, sir,” she told him dramatically.

“Do you, now?” he said, taking it off. “Do you think my valet would approve?”

“Of course. You shall set a new style,” she teased.

John turned to the peddler, waving the hat with a flourish. “My lady admires this hat and I must have it.”

The grizzled peddler raised doubtful eyebrows and named an outlandish price. After a bit of haggling, John had a hat to wear for the reasonable price of ten shillings.

Freddie Hanson almost doubled over with guffaws at the sight of John's hat. “You look like a regular lord,” he declared. “Lord John, the lord of the harvest feast.”

“I knew you would be jealous.” John held out a paper cone full of lemon drops they had purchased at a confectioner's. “This is for your children.”

“Thank you,” Hanson said. He nodded toward Mallory's packages. “I see you've done a bit of shopping. Your hat is charming too,” he told her.

She sighed. “Thank you, Mr. Hanson, but I fear that standing next to my husband, I'll go completely unnoticed.”

“That would be impossible,” John countered. “They would see your lovely smile and the light of laughter in your eyes and wonder how did such a foolish bumpkin like me end up with you on my arm.”

Mallory at first thought he was teasing and then realized from the serious expression in his eyes that he wasn't.

Before she was forced to reply, Hanson cut in good-naturedly, “No, Dawson, we'd all assume she's blind.”

The three of them laughed and in high spirits headed for home.

On the way, John and Hanson began to discuss politics. Mallory should have warned John that whenever farmers got together there were only three topics of discussion: the crops, the weather, and politics. Actually, Hanson did all the talking and John listened.

“The House of Lords should be abolished. Half those fat and happy lords don't even show up to take their seats during the session. It's a crime we pay for those wastrels while the real work is being done by the common man.” Hanson punctuated his words by pounding his fist against the side of the wagon. “Look at Woodruff or Tyndale. They don't care about us. All they want is their rent money.”

He talked in that vein until they dropped him off at his door. John waited until they were well away before saying, “What do you think he'd say
if he found out I was one of those he'd ranted and raved about?” He shot a sidelong glance at Mallory. “In the six months since I've inherited my seat in the House of Lords, I haven't stepped through the doorway once. I doubt I would know what they were talking about if I did. And I'm not alone. I can't imagine any members of my old set of friends listening to Freddie Hanson and taking his complaints seriously.”

Unfortunately, that's what this country needs,” Mallory answered. “I agree with much of what he said. We do need men in power who understand the plight of the farmer and the yeoman. But so few in the House of Lords realize what those needs are.”

John grew very quiet after that.

They shared a simple supper. John brought the mattress inside and they made up the bed together. He gave her a few moments of privacy.

Mallory climbed in the bed between the sheets, so tired she anticipated falling asleep before he returned. She was wrong. She lay awake waiting for him, certain that he would stretch out beside her, but uncertain how she'd react.

In the end, she was surprised when he lay down on top of the covers. He pulled her close, draping his arm over her body.

Mallory tensed. She waited.

John didn't move. His relaxed fingers were very close to her breast. If she took a deep breath, she could push herself out to touch him.

But she didn't.

Instead, she held herself rigid, ready to snap in outrage if he should attempt to seduce her—
while another part of her waited in the hopeful anticipation of a bit of seduction.

To confuse her feelings even more, he fell right asleep, as if being this physically close to her didn't bother him at all.

It was a long time before she also fell asleep.

 

There was much work to do around Cardiff Hall to prepare for the harvest. Each day, after another restless night, Mallory would rise and work by John's side. She learned to value and trust his judgment. She also enjoyed sharing the work with someone who knew how to laugh and lighten the load.

Evening and the very early hours of dawn became her favorite time because that was when they could talk in private. They didn't speak just about the harvest. Mallory questioned him about the war, his school years, and the places he'd traveled.

He asked her about her childhood and remembered enough details to tease her later. She started to look forward to his teasing—and to his touch.

John touched her often. His hand would rest on her waist while they listened to one of the farmers talk about his crop, or would brush loose strands of hair that had escaped her braid from her face, or would take her hand as they walked side by side.

A sense of longing and frustration began building inside her. She caught herself wishing that he wasn't such a gentleman, that he would sweep her off her feet and not give her any choices—and
yet she understood that John was leaving the decision concerning the next step in their relationship up to her. Unfortunately, she still feared taking that step.