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Authors: Ruth J. Hartman
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man’s hair.
Lucy widened her eyes. “Conrad! Are you hurt?”
His hand to his head, and then hand held in front of his face, he stammered. “M-my hair. Th-that bird has stolen my h-hair!” A few straggly wisps hung from his fingers.
Oliver stepped forward. “Say, let me have a look. Make sure the bird didn’t leave a wound.”
“No!” Conrad batted at Oliver’s hand, much the same as he’d done to the bird.
“ Now, now. I’m just trying to help you. Let me lo—”
“ Away from me! Get away! I’ll thank you to keep your hands and those of your insane bird apart from my person.” He bent down and snatched his hat from the grass and then plopped it on his head. “Good day to you both. ” He stomped away in a fury of ill temper and dusty clothes.
Lucy shook her head. “He does realize, I hope, that cuckoos don’t possess actual hands?”
Chapter Seven
Oliver climbed from his carriage and trudged toward the door. That Lofton fellow was a piece of work. Poor Lucy for having to put up with him. Still… there was the question of what exactly their relationship was. Were they friends? Betrothed? No, surely not that. They didn’t act like any betrothed couple he’d ever met. But perhaps that was wishful thinking on his part.
Lucy certainly didn’t seem too fond of him, but Lofton… it almost seemed as if he had designs on her. Could that be possible? If that were the case, didn’t he realize Lucy did not appreciate his companionship? It was obvious to anyone with eyes. The daggers she shot him could have brought down the largest goose in the Sanctuary.
Oliver’s hands tightened into fists, the impulse to pummel the rogue so strong that he nearly did an about-face to his carriage to seek Lofton and call him out. What an insulting, condescending, prissy man. No wonder Lucy was not in any way pleased to see him running toward them like some lunatic escapee from Bedlam, waving his arms and yelling across the Sanctuary grounds. If Oliver had had a net handy, he’d have tossed it over Lofton’s head and had him hauled away.
The door opened with a creak. Kirby, the butler, stood at attention in his black coat, pants, and boots and white gloves and shirt. Not a wrinkle or stain would ever be found on his person. He made very sure of that. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“ Good afternoon, Kirby. Is Father at home?” He stepped into the entryway.
“ Yes sir, in the drawing room.”
“ Thank you.” Why would Father be in there? Was he with someone? Oliver couldn’t imagine him sitting in there alone.
Oliver crossed the entryway and climbed the stairs two and a time. He needed to change from his soiled clothes before speaking to his father, who never appreciated Oliver bringing the out-of-doors inside with him when he’d been at the Sanctuary. Anything to do with dirt, mud, water, or feathers disgusted him. Which pretty much summed up the Bird Sanctuary.
Once in his room, Oliver changed into clean, suitable clothing, leaving his soiled ones for the maid. Wouldn’t Father have an apoplexy if he arrived at dinner looking like something that had jumped in the duck pond and then rolled in the mud like a pig in its trough?
Pond .
A smile tugged at his mouth. Attempting to rescue Lucy’s hat from the goose may have been one of the smartest things Oliver had done to date. Otherwise, might she have been so gratified? So friendly and open? Surely seeing him in his work garb would have put someone of her status off under normal circumstances. It was a wonder she spoke to him at all in his old clothing and dirty gloves.
Thoughts of the pond also stirred something in his belly. When he and Lucy were playacting for Lofton’s benefit, part of Oliver wished it had been real. The glance. The touch. His arm about her shoulders. Their lips so close, a kiss was just a whisper away. How did she feel about it? Was it all in fun? Or had she felt something more, too? Something deeper. A pull of
Lucy widened her eyes. “Conrad! Are you hurt?”
His hand to his head, and then hand held in front of his face, he stammered. “M-my hair. Th-that bird has stolen my h-hair!” A few straggly wisps hung from his fingers.
Oliver stepped forward. “Say, let me have a look. Make sure the bird didn’t leave a wound.”
“No!” Conrad batted at Oliver’s hand, much the same as he’d done to the bird.
“ Now, now. I’m just trying to help you. Let me lo—”
“ Away from me! Get away! I’ll thank you to keep your hands and those of your insane bird apart from my person.” He bent down and snatched his hat from the grass and then plopped it on his head. “Good day to you both. ” He stomped away in a fury of ill temper and dusty clothes.
Lucy shook her head. “He does realize, I hope, that cuckoos don’t possess actual hands?”
Chapter Seven
Oliver climbed from his carriage and trudged toward the door. That Lofton fellow was a piece of work. Poor Lucy for having to put up with him. Still… there was the question of what exactly their relationship was. Were they friends? Betrothed? No, surely not that. They didn’t act like any betrothed couple he’d ever met. But perhaps that was wishful thinking on his part.
Lucy certainly didn’t seem too fond of him, but Lofton… it almost seemed as if he had designs on her. Could that be possible? If that were the case, didn’t he realize Lucy did not appreciate his companionship? It was obvious to anyone with eyes. The daggers she shot him could have brought down the largest goose in the Sanctuary.
Oliver’s hands tightened into fists, the impulse to pummel the rogue so strong that he nearly did an about-face to his carriage to seek Lofton and call him out. What an insulting, condescending, prissy man. No wonder Lucy was not in any way pleased to see him running toward them like some lunatic escapee from Bedlam, waving his arms and yelling across the Sanctuary grounds. If Oliver had had a net handy, he’d have tossed it over Lofton’s head and had him hauled away.
The door opened with a creak. Kirby, the butler, stood at attention in his black coat, pants, and boots and white gloves and shirt. Not a wrinkle or stain would ever be found on his person. He made very sure of that. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“ Good afternoon, Kirby. Is Father at home?” He stepped into the entryway.
“ Yes sir, in the drawing room.”
“ Thank you.” Why would Father be in there? Was he with someone? Oliver couldn’t imagine him sitting in there alone.
Oliver crossed the entryway and climbed the stairs two and a time. He needed to change from his soiled clothes before speaking to his father, who never appreciated Oliver bringing the out-of-doors inside with him when he’d been at the Sanctuary. Anything to do with dirt, mud, water, or feathers disgusted him. Which pretty much summed up the Bird Sanctuary.
Once in his room, Oliver changed into clean, suitable clothing, leaving his soiled ones for the maid. Wouldn’t Father have an apoplexy if he arrived at dinner looking like something that had jumped in the duck pond and then rolled in the mud like a pig in its trough?
Pond .
A smile tugged at his mouth. Attempting to rescue Lucy’s hat from the goose may have been one of the smartest things Oliver had done to date. Otherwise, might she have been so gratified? So friendly and open? Surely seeing him in his work garb would have put someone of her status off under normal circumstances. It was a wonder she spoke to him at all in his old clothing and dirty gloves.
Thoughts of the pond also stirred something in his belly. When he and Lucy were playacting for Lofton’s benefit, part of Oliver wished it had been real. The glance. The touch. His arm about her shoulders. Their lips so close, a kiss was just a whisper away. How did she feel about it? Was it all in fun? Or had she felt something more, too? Something deeper. A pull of
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