Return Of Scandal's Son. Janice Preston
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Название: Return Of Scandal's Son
Автор: Janice Preston
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
Серия: Mills & Boon Historical
isbn: 9781474006231
isbn:
As he straightened, his bright eyes locked with Eleanor’s, appreciation swirling in their depths. Eleanor’s insides performed a somersault. Oh, yes, she agreed silently with her aunt, he was certainly attractive. She switched her gaze from Mr Thomas to Fretwell, who had returned and now joined them, a frown creasing his brow.
‘Fretwell, I do hope this hasn’t aggravated your head wound. It has only just healed.’
‘I’m all right, milady, barring a few bruises. Lucky nothing was broken; leastwise, nothing human,’ he added gloomily.
‘Indeed, it could have been much worse. What—’
‘Milady—’ Fretwell shot a suspicious glance at Mr Thomas before lowering his voice ‘—if I might have a word?’ With a jerk of his head he indicated the far side of the road.
Mystified, Eleanor excused herself and followed him. ‘What is it?’
‘We must get away from here as soon as we can, milady,’ he said. ‘It’s not safe. You’re too exposed and we don’t know who he might be, either. He appeared very timely after that shot, don’t you—?’
‘Fretwell! Surely you’re not suggesting the horse was shot deliberately?’ Eleanor denied Fretwell’s suspicions despite her own doubts. ‘Why would anyone—?’
‘After the fire, milady, it seems a mite coincidental.’
The fire... The by-now-familiar coil of unease snaked through Eleanor. Irritated, she suppressed it. It was her duty to maintain her composure in front of her servants. If they began to view her as a feeble woman, their respect for her, and her authority, would soon diminish.
‘Nonsense!’ she said. ‘There is nobody there—it was surely a stray shot and, as for your suggestion that Mr Thomas might have had any part in it, I’m surprised at you. You are not normally given to such flights of fancy.’
Fretwell reddened, but stubbornly held her gaze. ‘Be that as it may, milady, I know what happened to me the night of the fire. That was no accident. It was deliberate.’
‘Very well, I shall take care, but please keep your conjectures to yourself. I don’t want Lady Rothley upset and there is no reason for Mr Thomas to become further embroiled in our problems.’
Movement further along the road caught her attention. Her footman was on his way back, accompanied by another man leading a pair of draught horses.
‘Come, Timothy is here now with help. Let us go and sort the carriage out, then we can all get away from here and put your mind at rest.’
Although how she was to contrive that, with a damaged carriage, she could not imagine. Aunt Lucy, Lizzie and Matilda, the latter still sobbing into her handkerchief, were sitting on a grass bank a short way along the road. Eleanor, more shaken by the accident than she would admit, wished for nothing more than to join them, leaving the men to cope.
But this was her carriage, her horses and her servants.
Ergo, her responsibility.
She joined the men, ignoring the curious looks of both Mr Thomas and the farmer, a wiry, weatherbeaten individual of few words, but surprising strength. Her own men knew better than to question her desire to be involved.
It soon became clear that Mr Thomas still considered himself in charge and Eleanor, at first bemused at being relegated to a mere onlooker, grew increasingly indignant at being totally ignored.
She stepped forward, preparing to assert her authority.
Matthew Thomas studied the overturned carriage.
‘Tie the chain there,’ he said to Timothy, pointing to a position on the spring iron at the rear of the carriage and trying to ignore the baroness, who was clearly itching to get involved.
‘Timothy,’ she said in an imperious tone, after the footman had attached the chain, ‘you ought to attach that chain further forward—it is too near the back there.’
Matthew straightened from checking that the chain was secure and turned to face Eleanor, lifting a brow.
She raised her chin, holding his gaze in typical aristocratic haughtiness.
‘If you pull from there it will surely pull the carriage around, rather than upright,’ she said.
He felt his temper stir and clamped down on it hard. He was not the wild youth he had once been and the intervening years had taught him to control his emotions, particularly in fraught situations like the present.
‘When the other chain is attached—as it will be shortly—towards the front of the carriage, it will counteract the pull on this chain. And pull the carriage upright.’
He deliberately blanked his expression, hiding his amusement at her indignation as she drew herself up to her full height—which was considerable, for a woman. She was barely four inches shorter than his own six feet. Her bright blue cloak had swung open to reveal a curvaceous figure, which Matthew perused appreciatively before returning his gaze to clash with her stormy, tawny-brown eyes. Her dark brows snapped together in a frown.
His interest had been aroused the minute he had leapt from his curricle and stared down into her face, pale with shock. She was strikingly attractive, although not a conventional beauty—courageous, too, leaping in front of his horses that way. His heart had almost seized with terror as he had fought to avoid her. Admittedly, he had been springing the horses—keen to test their paces—but that fact had not mitigated his fury, which was fuelled as much by the fear of what might have happened as by anger.
Now his interest was still there, but tempered with reality. He could admire her beauty, as one might admire, and even covet, a beautiful painting or a statue. But he would admire from a distance. He was no longer part of her deceitful world. He turned his attention once more to the stricken carriage.
‘We will need some poles to lever the carriage as the horses pull,’ Eleanor declared some minutes later.
Matthew once more stopped what he was doing. He took a pace towards Eleanor, catching a glimpse of—was that fear?—in her expression as she retreated. Then her lips tightened, and she stepped forward, bringing them almost nose to nose. Pluck? Or was that merely her innate feeling of superiority?
‘If—’ he kept his voice low, in order that the others shouldn’t overhear ‘—you are so keen to help, might I suggest you go and hold the horses so Henry can come and assist? Unless, that is, you really are capable of putting your shoulder to the carriage as the horses pull? I would suggest, with the utmost respect, that you are neither built, nor dressed, for such an activity.’
‘Hmmph!’ Her gaze lowered.
‘Good point about the poles, though, my lady.’ He waved an arm to the rear of the carriage, where two stout poles lay on the ground. ‘The farmer, as you can see, has thought of everything.’
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