frivolous head. “In what world is disappearing for hours helpful ?”
This time, she could swear he looked slightly embarrassed, but she refused to be fooled any longer. He might be lovely to look at, but so were stinging nettles.
“I am not accustomed to accounting to anyone for my time,” he admitted. “If I caused undue distress, I sincerely apologize. But I brought you better labor than I would be.” He gestured toward the strawberry field.
She had assigned him the strawberries because tending them was a woman’s simple duty, and she assumed he couldn’t do much damage to them. In his place, three strong men in shirtsleeves were hard at work.
She blinked in astonishment. That was Billy gathering the first fruits of the field. And Harry, the grocer, awkwardly hoeing grass from under the leaves. And . . . she swallowed and shook her head in disbelief. John, the barkeep, setting runners into mounds?
“How did you persuade them to help?” she asked, incredulity replacing her tantrum. “Billy’s so shy, he won’t even speak to me.”
“Golden boy?” Mr. Wyckerly studied his laborers. “He’s the one telling the others what to do. He is enamored of you. He’d probably crawl through mud and eat bugs if you asked it of him, but I’d recommend leaving him his pride. Men need something to get them through the humiliations of their day. Sometimes pride is all we have.”
Startled by such candor, she cast him a glance, but he seemed content to juggle his apple and study the work being done. She couldn’t think of any conniving scheme that would benefit from his declaration, so she had to accept it at face value. For now.
“Pride is a pretty poor substitute for substance,” she said. “Billy is two years younger than I am. He’ll inherit his father’s farm some day far in the future. In the meantime, he expends much energy arguing over how things should be done and sulking if he doesn’t get his own way. He may grow up in time, but he has little to be proud of now.”
Mr. Wyckerly nodded as if he understood. “We are not all of us born heroes, I fear. Women expect us to be wealthy and well-mannered and sophisticated. To be witty and thoughtful and honest. To be tender to children, loving to spouses and parents, and tough to bullies. Veritable saints, but . . .” He slanted her a look. “Pardon my bluntness, but women also expect us to be exciting, mysterious devils in the bedroom. Perhaps a contradiction?”
She blushed, not at all certain how to respond. No man had ever spoken to her in such . . . intimate . . . terms. Worse yet, he had to be speaking more of himself than poor Billy, who would never be witty or sophisticated. And now Mr. Wyckerly would have her thinking about what happened in beds, which was no doubt his intention. “I don’t believe I should like mysterious and exciting,” she announced. “I think I prefer honest and prompt.”
He laughed. “That shows your inexperience, Miss Merriweather.”
“I know myself fairly well, sir.” She drew her spine straight and glared at him with hauteur. It wasn’t as if she were entirely ignorant. She nodded at a rooster chasing a hen into the bushes. “I am not a silly city miss who is unaware of the inclinations of males of every species.”
He turned to observe the rooster’s mating behavior. “And here I thought myself more stallion than rooster,” he said mournfully, belying the amusement firmly plastered to his sculpted lips. “I am crushed by your low opinion of me.”
He didn’t appear crushed. He appeared attractively confident, stirring adolescent desires that she’d thought she’d suppressed by now. Salivating over devilish good looks was a recipe for disaster.
“I have no more opinion of you than of a male donkey, Mr. Wyckerly. My concern is with your daughter.” Or ought to be. His overly warm gaze and conversation stirred unwelcome thoughts. Why couldn’t the mail coach have dumped a wealthy solicitor
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