arching over the front door.
The façade was nearly covered in creeper, now dormant, and the windows and doors were freshly painted white, yet the house still held an air of abandonment. The wide stone wall encircled the whole of it, separating the carriage drive from the house itself, as if visitors were being walled out.
Or as if the people inside were being walled in. . . .
With legs that shook, Isabella climbed down, told Dillon to stay put, then pushed open the wrought-iron gate and went up the path to the door. She could hear a hammer ringing in the back of the house, the sound like metal on stone, rhythmically cleaving the silence. She lifted the ornate brass knocker and knocked, but there was no response.
After a second attempt, Isabella simply lifted her skirts and waded into the garden, her footsteps crunching on the stubbled, almost frozen, grass. She wished desperately to get through these first awkward minutes and to reassure herself that Mr. Mowbrey was not a murderous ogre before Dillon abandoned her to her fate.
In the rear, another pretty gate gave onto a graveled yard with a coach house and stable block. Here, however, a section of wall had collapsed, leaving the gate listing drunkenly. A man was chipping away at a piece of fieldstone set on an old mounting block, swinging his arm with a rhythmic expertise and sending chunks of gray flying.
He was bare to the waist, Isabella realized, his leather braces having been slipped off his shoulders to hang loose about a pair of lean hips. A blindingly white shirt had been tossed over a nearby branch, and the man seemed intent upon his work, his muscles bunching thickly as he swung his hammer in cadent, cracking blows.
Despite the cool air and the late winter sun, the man’s broad back was lightly sheened with sweat, and Isabella watched in mute discomposure for some seconds—long enough, apparently, for the man to finish his work. He laid the hammer aside with a grunt, then hefted up the stone and turned.
Recognition slammed into Isabella, seizing her breath.
It was the Earl of Hepplewood.
She froze, gaping at his tall, rangy form that no longer looked so elegant.
Indeed, absent the civilizing effects of a coat and neckcloth—not to mention a shirt—the man looked shockingly barbaric.
Then, to her acute discomfort, he smiled and set the rock back down.
“Mrs. Aldridge,” he said, snatching his shirt from the branch. “Welcome to Greenwood Farm. You’re a trifle early. I shall take it as a sign of eagerness.”
Isabella stepped backward. “Eagerness?” she parroted, her eyes fixated upon a broad expanse of bare chest.
Hepplewood moved with a languid grace, shaking out his shirt as he came. “I was glad to learn you’d taken my good advice,” he said, shoving an arm in a sleeve, “but the coincidence of the thing did take me aback—as it has you, too, I see.”
But Isabella couldn’t begin to make sense of it; her brain felt stuffed with wool and her lungs had ceased to work. Hepplewood dragged the shirt on, his chest wall rippling as he drew it down his lithe, smoothly muscled torso.
Somehow, she forced her gaze to his face, resisting the urge to run back to the carriage. “I beg your pardon,” she said again, blinking slowly, “but what are you talking about?”
He propped one hand on the gatepost that still stood upright, his gaze sweeping her length. “My advice,” he said with a faint smile, “to give up the dull business of governessing for an option that better suits your . . . well, let us call them your God-given attributes.”
Indignation welled up inside Isabella. “How dare you,” she said quietly. “I do not know, Lord Hepplewood, just what sort of deceit you employed to trick me here, but I will have—”
“Mrs. Aldridge,” he interjected, his eyes flashing dangerously as he came around the gatepost. “I should very much like the two of us to get on, but deceit and trickery are not insults I’ll
The façade was nearly covered in creeper, now dormant, and the windows and doors were freshly painted white, yet the house still held an air of abandonment. The wide stone wall encircled the whole of it, separating the carriage drive from the house itself, as if visitors were being walled out.
Or as if the people inside were being walled in. . . .
With legs that shook, Isabella climbed down, told Dillon to stay put, then pushed open the wrought-iron gate and went up the path to the door. She could hear a hammer ringing in the back of the house, the sound like metal on stone, rhythmically cleaving the silence. She lifted the ornate brass knocker and knocked, but there was no response.
After a second attempt, Isabella simply lifted her skirts and waded into the garden, her footsteps crunching on the stubbled, almost frozen, grass. She wished desperately to get through these first awkward minutes and to reassure herself that Mr. Mowbrey was not a murderous ogre before Dillon abandoned her to her fate.
In the rear, another pretty gate gave onto a graveled yard with a coach house and stable block. Here, however, a section of wall had collapsed, leaving the gate listing drunkenly. A man was chipping away at a piece of fieldstone set on an old mounting block, swinging his arm with a rhythmic expertise and sending chunks of gray flying.
He was bare to the waist, Isabella realized, his leather braces having been slipped off his shoulders to hang loose about a pair of lean hips. A blindingly white shirt had been tossed over a nearby branch, and the man seemed intent upon his work, his muscles bunching thickly as he swung his hammer in cadent, cracking blows.
Despite the cool air and the late winter sun, the man’s broad back was lightly sheened with sweat, and Isabella watched in mute discomposure for some seconds—long enough, apparently, for the man to finish his work. He laid the hammer aside with a grunt, then hefted up the stone and turned.
Recognition slammed into Isabella, seizing her breath.
It was the Earl of Hepplewood.
She froze, gaping at his tall, rangy form that no longer looked so elegant.
Indeed, absent the civilizing effects of a coat and neckcloth—not to mention a shirt—the man looked shockingly barbaric.
Then, to her acute discomfort, he smiled and set the rock back down.
“Mrs. Aldridge,” he said, snatching his shirt from the branch. “Welcome to Greenwood Farm. You’re a trifle early. I shall take it as a sign of eagerness.”
Isabella stepped backward. “Eagerness?” she parroted, her eyes fixated upon a broad expanse of bare chest.
Hepplewood moved with a languid grace, shaking out his shirt as he came. “I was glad to learn you’d taken my good advice,” he said, shoving an arm in a sleeve, “but the coincidence of the thing did take me aback—as it has you, too, I see.”
But Isabella couldn’t begin to make sense of it; her brain felt stuffed with wool and her lungs had ceased to work. Hepplewood dragged the shirt on, his chest wall rippling as he drew it down his lithe, smoothly muscled torso.
Somehow, she forced her gaze to his face, resisting the urge to run back to the carriage. “I beg your pardon,” she said again, blinking slowly, “but what are you talking about?”
He propped one hand on the gatepost that still stood upright, his gaze sweeping her length. “My advice,” he said with a faint smile, “to give up the dull business of governessing for an option that better suits your . . . well, let us call them your God-given attributes.”
Indignation welled up inside Isabella. “How dare you,” she said quietly. “I do not know, Lord Hepplewood, just what sort of deceit you employed to trick me here, but I will have—”
“Mrs. Aldridge,” he interjected, his eyes flashing dangerously as he came around the gatepost. “I should very much like the two of us to get on, but deceit and trickery are not insults I’ll
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