Dust. That was dust. She shook her head, nearly losing her wig.
Strong feline paws—hands—that she had (countless nights) imagined all over her, patted down his horse in praise while she clenched her trouser-clad legs together.
His wavy dark locks whispered to her fingers, calling them out to play. Which was patently ridiculous. For she had only ever snuck away with his eight sisters Honoria, Celeste, Georgiana, and usually Rosamund. Sometimes Eugenia and Imogen had joined the group, and on the rare occasion, she had played with the two youngest, Josephine and Penelope. But Charles? Never.But oh, what would Honoria think of her now? Honoria, the ray of sunshine that she was, would probably laugh in delight and then fix her cravat. Possibly join her in disguise. Though her giggling would give them away.
Forbidden play with the Harrington sisters had always been amusing. But interacting with Charles?
No. His company had been saved for her dreams.
This may well have been a dream for all that her mind was actually present for what Mr. Fernbottom was explaining to Charles.
“...Mr. Loxley, representing the Earl of Oakbridge, also here to submit an offer on the land.”
Before Charles could respond, Felicia braced herself. Surely he would recognize her. Surely, he would see her ample bosom and the curve of her hips for what they were. That being a woman’s figure. Surely he would admonish her and send her home, laughing at her the entire way.
At the very least, there would be fiery ire in his eyes, as there always was. Animosity that only a generation of hatred could engender.
But instead, she saw bewilderment, quickly chased by the twins of unrest and turmoil. Which made little to no sense and was in stark contrast to the absolutely terrifying pyrotechnics going off in her stomach.
This was going to be anything but simple.
Chapter 2
By Cathy Maxwell
Why in the blazes was Lady Felicia Montclair posturing her winsome self as a pot-bellied land steward?
Charles was now thankful he had decided to attend to the matter of purchasing the land himself and not leave it to thehands of some minion. He had arrived ready to chew Loxley's offer into tiny pieces. In truth, he didn't like Loxley. The man was greedy. Charles was certain he didn't serve the Earl of Oakbridge well.
However, instead of Loxley, he found himself facing Lady Felicia in a bad wig and even worse tailoring. He'd be lying if he claimed he wasn't intrigued. He remembered Felicia from the days when she and his sisters would clump together the way women did at parish dances, all giggles and happy gossip. He'd never approached her. It would not do for the Harrington heir to ask anything of a Montclair… except, he'd wanted to. There was something about Felicia--a daring, a vibrance, a spark for life that he was discovering few people possessed. But he hadn’t known she liked traipsing around in boots and breeches.
Lady Felicia focused sternly on Fernbottom, who was so intent on fawning over Charles he was oblivious to what was right before him. In a gruff voice, she barked, "Let's be on with this, Fernbottom. I don't have time to waste. How are you taking the bids for the land?"
Ah, the land. Of course, the Montclairs wanted it, but Charles would not let them have it. This acreage would increase his holdings, burnish the reputation of the Duke of Kenbrooks in Court, and make him a reckoning force in Parliament. And then there was the pesky matter of not appearing weak around the countryside for letting a Montclair win something over a Harrington. But this charade in men's clothing was too strange. Someone needed to protect Lady Felicia from herself. He decided it must be him.
Therefore, as the obsequious Fernbottom was rattling on, "We must see what His Grace wishes. Are you ready to take up the matter, Your Grace…" Charles gripped Lady Felcia's arm at the elbow and half marched her to a stand of pines that would provide them some privacy. He moved so quickly she was caughtoff guard but not for more than a second. She dug in her heels except, although she was a robust woman, a tall one, Charles was bigger and more commanding.
"Your Grace?" a perplexed Fernbottom called. "I have a plat of the property for your review."
Charles ignored him as he guided his hostage to the shelter of the pines. The floor of needles would dampen their words from being overheard. He loosened his grip.
Lady Felicia wasted no time in lifting her arms and throwing off his hold. She would have run from the place, but not only did he block her path, but that damnable wig fell over her eyes from her exertion, momentarily blinding her.
"Is that a wig or a ferret pelt?" Charles couldn't help asking. "That thing is atrocious."
She shoved the wig back to the top of her head and shot him a glare so furious it would have cowed another man. But not Charles.
Instead, he found himself bemused. He had forgotten that her eyes were a particular shade of lavender, a blue so deep it could pass for the purple of royalty. The hidden light in them gave away her every mood. With those eyes and her dark hair, now untidily mussed after pushing the wig around her head, she had once ruled Charles’s youthful dreams. If their families had not been enemies, he definitely would have danced with her all those years ago.
He realized he was staring when her brows came together in an expression of exasperation.
Then, in a gruff voice, she stated, "I'm Mr. Loxley, land steward for—"
"My lady, what game are you playing?"
Her lips compressed in a mutinous expression. She wasn't going to tell him.
In a softer tone, Charles hazarded, "You know Loxley has been cheating your father."