An Inheritance for the Birds Page 6

  “Ow!” The man jerked to the side and rubbed his calf. “And through the boot, too, you blasted bird.”

  Angela rose, every man leaping up with her. “That is quite enough, Obadiah. Come here right now.”

  His head tilted, Obadiah stared at her as if considering her words. Then he waddled around to the far side of Mr. Fane’s chair to Mr. Lewis. He bit Mr. Lewis.

  “Ow!” Mr. Lewis grabbed for the bird. Squawking his outrage, Obadiah bounded away. Orange webs flapping, wings outstretched, he raced straight for Angela.

  She caught him up and held him to her breast. “That is the outside of enough, you bad bird. Out you go, right now.”

  ****

  Kit’s ears pricked up at the rustling of silken feminine skirts.

  At long last, after he had spent an interminable week awaiting her return, Miss Stratton would visit him at the dam.

  He dragged his shirt off over his head and tossed the garment onto the near bank beside his boots and stockings. Dropping onto his haunches in the stream, he splashed water over himself. Time for the show.

  More than anything, he wanted to finish last week’s kiss. Since she liked him half-naked and wet, maybe a repeat of their previous encounter here would entice her. As to why he had his shirt off, the weather had continued so deuced hot, stripping had become a necessity. At least, that was his excuse, if asked.

  With his back to the patter of those dainty footfalls, Kit straightened, his sodden breeches clinging to his hips exactly as he wished. Smiling, he raised both hands to swipe his wet hair out of his face, thereby flexing his back muscles the way she liked. Lowering his arms to his sides, he turned toward his audience. His smile froze.

  A veritable tidal wave of ladies approached. Two ran, their skirts hiked up above their ankles to help them outdistance the others.

  The breeze chilled his previously hot skin. He took a startled step backward and almost slipped on the muddy stream bed. He cast a frantic glance behind him. Did he have time to escape into the woods before they descended?

  The five ladies, eyes wide and jaws sagging, slowed to a halt at the bank and stared. Their gazes started at his bare chest and descended lower…

  “Good day, ladies.” Hell and the devil. His ploy had turned back on him. While he enjoyed displaying himself for Miss Stratton’s admiration, he didn’t appreciate having five ladies ogling his privates, especially outlined by the sodden breeches.

  With no choice, he waded out of the water to retrieve his shirt. Unfortunately, one of the ladies had trod on the garment. Damnation. Why had he left his shirt on this bank? If he had thrown it on the other side, he could have covered most of the explicit details. How could he convince her to lift her foot?

  “Oh, we came to see your progress.” One lady—Miss Needham? Gads, the ducks’ names were easier to remember—waved a distracted hand at the water, but her fascinated gaze never left him. Or rather his chest and below.

  A second lady bumped into the first. Miss Stapleton? “Oh, yes.” She fluttered her almost colorless lashes fast enough to create a windstorm as she looked him up and down. Especially down. “We dearly wanted to see your…dam.” Forcing her gaze upward, she glided so close the cloying odor of her too-strong rose perfume battered his nostrils. “Would you show me—er, us—your handiwork?” She grabbed his arm.

  As if they couldn’t see the entirety of the small dam from here. He turned back to the waterway, the lady tightening her hold. “Nothing much to say. I want to restrict the water enough to form a small pond, but still let the excess flow downstream. I cut trees for logs to form the base of the dam, and I will layer stones on top. Water will seep through the spaces between the rocks.”

  “How strong you must be!” Miss Bane grabbed his other arm and massaged his shoulder. “Oh, just the thought of such a virile man—” She squeezed his muscle. “—makes me weak.”

  Kit suppressed a wince. Miss Bane’s grip was tighter than most men’s handshakes.

  Miss Needham pushed in front of him. “Oh, how fascinating.” She tittered.

  Kit gritted his teeth. He turned back toward the mansion. No easy task, with a lady glued to each arm, the third in front of him, and the fourth, Miss Beevor, almost leaning against his bare back. Thank God, Mrs. Needham didn’t join the fray, although the appreciative gleam in her eye said she would like nothing better.

  How could he rid himself of these ladies? He cast a frantic glance toward the house.

  Miss Stratton, her forehead puckered in annoyance, approached the dam. Like him, she had a partner attached to each arm, Mr. Palk and a man Kit hadn’t yet met. Three disgruntled gentlemen trailed in her wake, a quacking Obadiah nipping at their heels.

  Fortune hunters, the whole lot. His irritation flared.

  “Mr. Winnington, we have come to inspect your dam.” Her voice was stiff. With both hands pinned on her partners’ sleeves, she tipped her head toward the smug man on her left. “I believe you have not met Mr. Martyn.”

  So, here was the pockets-to-let son of Viscount Martyn. Back only a few days, and already he had gambled away a small fortune at the village tavern. According to the gossip, he hadn’t a farthing to his name until his next quarter’s allowance at Michaelmas, over three months hence. Unfortunately, with his stylish clothes, thick black hair, and solid physique, he was also a handsome devil, enough to turn even the most discriminating lady’s head. Was Miss Stratton vulnerable to his rakish charm? She didn’t look smitten, but one could never tell.

  His irritation ratcheted higher.

  With his free hand, Mr. Martyn lifted to his haughty eye the quizzing glass dangling from a black velvet ribbon around his neck. For a long moment, he examined Kit’s bare chest. He sniffed. “I would never lower myself to work as a common laborer.”

  Kit’s irritation flashed to the burning point. Shaking off the ladies, he stepped forward until he stood toe to toe with Mr. Martyn. “Would not?” He flexed his arm muscles. “Or could not?”

  Mr. Martyn’s face mottled with anger. “Why, you—” He dropped the looking glass, released Angela’s arm and lunged forward.

  With an inward chortle of glee, Kit braced his legs and jerked up his fists.

  “QUACK!”

  Mr. Martyn stumbled backward.

  Obadiah again poked Mr. Martyn’s leg above his Hessian boot.

  “Blasted bird!” Mr. Martyn swiped at the drake.

  Squawking, Obadiah jabbed once more and then flapped away.

  Angela jumped away from Mr. Palk and sprang between the two men. With a palm on each of their chests, she pushed them a few inches apart. “Gentlemen, please, behave yourselves.”

  Rubbing his calf, Mr. Martyn backed up, but his narrowed eyes sparked with fury.

  Angela grabbed Mr. Martyn’s arm and tucked her other hand in the crook of Kit’s elbow. She beamed a too-wide smile at both men. “Let us return to the house and have some tea.”

  Kit and Mr. Martyn shot visual daggers at each other over Miss Stratton’s head all the way back. On Kit’s other side, Miss Beevor chattered, but he didn’t hear a word. Behind them, the other ladies giggled, probably at the sight of his arse outlined in the soaked breeches, until Mrs. Needham herded the girls before them. Grinning like demented fools, they peeked back over their shoulders, Mrs. Needham included, but he didn’t care a jot.

  When they arrived at the front entrance, he had no choice but to run up to his bedchamber to change. When he entered the drawing room, Mr. Martyn, the smile of a cat with feathers in its mouth creasing his damnably handsome face, had ensconced himself on the chair beside Miss Stratton.

  One of these days he would rearrange Mr. Martyn’s features.

  ****

  Angela brushed aside the lacy curtain covering the study window. Dark green shrubbery splashed with scarlet masses of roses hugged the side of the mansion, the flowers’ sweet, heavy fragrance drenching the air. Bright sun glittered in a blue, cloudless sky, but the oppressive heat that had dominated this s
ummer had not yet overtaken the day. Soft quacking wafted from her completed duck coop. More ducks frolicked in the pool formed by Mr. Winnington’s dam.

  She sighed. Was the competition over already? Mr. Winnington had finished his dam weeks ago, including, with Mr. Holt’s blessing, cutting the promised logs for her duck house. Now he spent most of his time helping Mr. Jones, who had thawed towards him. The local carpenter’s previous commitments had delayed his start on her duck coop, but he had completed the little building a fortnight ago. Since then, she had trained the ducks, who required quite a bit of convincing, to stay outside. The occasional duck, usually Obadiah seeking Mr. Winnington, still sneaked into the house, but the forays had become fewer and fewer. Every day, visitors thronged the drawing room, usually the same five ladies and five gentlemen, with one or two extra now and then.

  Today, she, Mr. Winnington, Mr. Holt and Sophia would celebrate the end of the contest with an outing. Tomorrow was Lammas, and Mr. Holt would announce the winner.

  Tomorrow would be the last day she would see Mr. Winnington.

  She gripped the curtain tighter. Had they really met only two months ago? She couldn’t remember a time without him. Each day they ate their meals together, his bright smile warming her heart. On clear nights, they sat in the cool outdoors with Mr. Holt and Sophia and drank lemonade. Mr. Winnington’s deep voice as he pointed out the constellations whispered over her skin like a caress.

  If she lost, she would hate to depart Apple Tree Manor. But, after enjoying Mr. Winnington’s company, leaving him would be even harder.

  Her heart heavy, she released the curtain. As much as she disliked the thought, this interlude had been a time out of time and, like all fairy tales, had come to an end. With slow steps, she gathered up her bonnet and quit the study. She must shake off this sadness before she met the others.

  The breakfast parlor was still empty when she arrived. To still her nervous fingers, she smoothed down the folds of her best day dress. Now why had she worn this particular gown? To pique Mr. Winnington’s interest? After that first almost-kiss, he had never made another advance. Disappointment slid through her. Was he no longer interested?

  I could have tried to attach his affections. But with the competition between them, she hadn’t thought that course a good idea.

  A knot of regret lodged in her breast. Alas, nevermore would she see Mr. Winnington clad only in wet breeches that molded to his splendid body. She fanned her face with her hand. Gracious, that image still kept her up at night.

  Voices drifted from the corridor and Sophia and Mr. Holt entered.

  “Oh, there you are.” Sophia crossed to the central table. She poked at the basket there and the folded blankets on its top. “I see everything is ready.”

  Angela peered out the open casement. “No sign of our daily guests yet. I hope Mr. Winnington comes soon. I wish to be off before they descend. I have already instructed Bates to turn everyone away.”

  Boot heels tapped on the passage floor, and Mr. Winnington, a wide-brimmed straw hat in his hand, dashed through the doorway. “Sorry to be late.” His hair was damp. “I have been working with Mr. Jones since sunup and almost forgot the time.”

  Outside, hooves crunched on the gravel drive. Angela glanced out the window again as she tied her bonnet ribbons beneath her chin. “Oh, dear, one of our visitors is early.”

  “Come.” Mr. Winnington jammed on his hat, tossed the blankets to Mr. Holt, and grabbed the basket. “We can escape out the back.”

  With all haste, they made their way to the kitchen and exited from the rear door. Avian squawking arose as four ducks detached themselves from the duck coop’s shadow and waddled towards them.

  Angela waved at the ducks. The ducks quacked in response.

  Mr. Winnington shaded his eyes. “Let me see…those four are Horatia, Bamber, Alwyne, and Thaddeus.” He gave a theatrical shudder. “Gads. I never thought I would recognize individual ducks.”

  “Well, you have not.” Angela pointed at the hen. “That one is Albina, not Horatia.”

  His lips creased into a wry smile. “I stand corrected.”

  Forming into a perfect queue, the ducks followed them to the pond. The birds waded into the water to paddle and wash their feathers with the three ducks already there.

  “And who are those three, sir?”

  “Oh, they are easy. Busick, Theodore, and my best friend, Obadiah.” He grinned. “I can distinguish the males more easily than the females.”

  “Well, I think your pond has made the ducks happy.”

  “As happy as your duck coop has?”

  She peered over her shoulder at the structure. Several ducks slept on the roof. “They do seem to like it.” She slanted a mischievous smile on him. “Now one more test. Who are the two ducks perched on top?”

  He squinted. “Dulcibella and…Ethelred.”

  “Very good.”

  “I have never heard some of these names before. Where did you find them?”

  “The ducks’ names are Lady Bridges’s doing. She wanted names that did not belong to any of her cronies.” Her smile turned wicked. “Or she wanted to use the names of people she described as bird-brains.” She bent and petted the nearest duck, Bamber. “Although, I dispute the notion our ducks are stupid. These birds are smarter than many people I know.”

  He howled out a laugh. “I agree.”

  Mr. Holt and Sophia in the lead, they forded the stream using the stepping stones Mr. Winnington had set at a narrow point above the pond. Mr. Winnington helped her across and afterwards tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. He slowed after they entered the woods. “Ah, shade. Most welcome on a day like today.”

  They strolled in companionable silence until they found the others in a small meadow dotted with purple foxglove, yellow cowslips, and white daisies. Mr. Holt had already spread the blankets under the cool shadow of the lone oak in the center of the field. He gestured for them to sit as Mr. Winnington set down the basket. Angela and Sophia sank to their knees and laid out the food, napkins, glasses, and cutlery. Corkscrew in hand, Mr. Holt attacked the champagne bottle until the plug flew out with a loud pop. Laughing, he poured the foaming contents into the glasses Sophia held ready.

  After Sophia handed the champagne around, Mr. Holt lifted his tumbler high. “To the contest and the contestants.”

  Laughing, they clinked their glasses together and then enjoyed the fizzy wine. Soft quacking floated on the breeze from the direction of the pond. Insects buzzed and robins trilled. The green odor of dried grass wafted on a gentle wind.

  Taking their time, they helped themselves to an alfresco meal of cheese, bread, pickles, apples, grapes, and roast chicken. After they had finished eating, the two men leaned back on their elbows while Angela and Sophia packed the remnants of the food in the basket.

  Mr. Winnington plucked a long blade of grass and then chewed on the end. “Well, Mr. Holt, our projects are done. Have you made your decision?”

  “No.”

  Angela cast a quick glance at Mr. Winnington. His confused expression must mirror hers. “But why? What can happen between now and tomorrow? Do you want to keep us in suspense?”

  “Not at all. I expect no difficulties, but I must abide by the terms of the contest.” He spread his arms. “Let us enjoy our outing. You can wait one more day for my verdict.”

  Shaking her head in resignation, Angela leaned back against the tree’s rough bark to enjoy the day.

  Blue tits and chaffinches glided and chirped over their heads. Sophia jumped as a jackdaw swooped down to catch up a discarded bit of bread. “I do so like birds, even naughty ones.” She waved her hands to shoo away the black-feathered interloper. “Off with you, you bandit.” The jackdaw, the bread lodged in its beak, dropped a haughty glare from his pale eyes before he took wing.

  Mr. Holt pushed himself up to a sitting position. “I like birds, too, but I see few in the city. There are some unusual ones here, I daresay.” He peered into the
woods, his face intent. “Do I spy a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker over there?”

  Sophia turned in the direction he indicated. “Oh, where? I would love to see one.”

  He stood and offered her his hand. “Then let us take a look.” Smiling at each other with a decided twinkle in their eyes, they strolled into the forest.

  Angela bounced up. “Oh, let us go, too. I have never seen a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker—”

  Mr. Winnington caught her skirt. “There is no bird. The Yellow-bellied Sapsucker is native to North America. Our chaperones want to be alone.”

  She plopped down beside him “Gracious, mayhap we should follow and chaperone them.”

  “I think not. They are older, and Mrs. Castin is a widow. The rules allow them more latitude.”

  “True.” Angela subsided back onto her elbows and inhaled a deep breath full of the odor of green plants and rich earth. “How nice not to have to entertain visitors today.”

  Mr. Winnington turned on his side toward her, his eyes dancing with mischief. “What, do you not enjoy having five men at your beck and call?”

  She glared at him. “No, I do not.”

  He tossed away the blade of grass and assumed the guileless stare of innocence. “Why not?”

  “None of them paid the least attention to me before this competition. Although I probably should not count Mr. Palk. He has always been most kind. And Mr. Jones, too.”

  Mr. Winnington snorted. “Fortune hunters all. Do not let them deceive you. They want you for the Manor.”

  “But I may not win.”

  “They know that, but they may settle for the annuity.”

  “I cannot believe it. The amount is small.”

  Puzzlement spread over Mr. Winnington’s chiseled features. “Now that I think on it, Mr. Holt never mentioned the size of the annuity. For all we know, the sum might be substantial.”

  “Perhaps. But what about you and your Greek chorus?” She batted her lashes. “None of them had met you two months ago.” She flicked her hand. “Now, here they are, fluttering in your wake like ducks in a cornfield.”