a country clod, for no London lady of fashion would ever glance at such a thing!
‘It belongs to—someone else, and, yes, of course you are right, I wouldn’t dream of reading about—farming! Turnips!’ She laughed. ‘Ridiculous!’
He put his head on one side, not smiling back, and said seriously, ‘I have heard that since your father last went away, you’ve had to take on responsibility for the estate yourself, Verena’.
She bit her lip, then, ‘What nonsense people do talk!’ she declared. ‘Why, soon Mama and Deb and I will be going to London, and we will have such fun—going to the theatre, attending parties…’. She casually picked up her copy of the Miss Bonamy’s book and fanned her warm cheeks with it, so he should see it and consider her a lady.
He cut in, ‘I heard there was a bad harvest. And that you’re short of labourers to plant the winter crops’.
She was mortified. ‘It’s true that the summer rains did great damage. But by next spring all will be right again at Wycherley!’ I wish, I wish he hadn’t seen me like this, in my old print dress that must be flecked with dust and straw. He will be used to the company of such beautiful women, and I must look like a farm girl…..
He said suddenly, ‘I’m interested in the new ways of farming too. Everyone should be’.
‘Sh-should they?’
‘Indeed. Unfortunately, this war will go on and on, and it’s vital that every acre of English land should be made as productive as possible. But Turnip Townshend’s ideas are a little outdated now, you know! Have you come across Blake’s new harrow yet, I wonder? My grandfather’s agent has ordered one, for drilling seed in rows, rather than scattering. You could borrow it for Wycherley, I’m sure. Would you show me round your estate’s farms some time, Verena, and I’ll see how I can help?’
She was stunned. So he didn’t despise her after all, even though she was reduced to learning about turnips. He was actually offering to help her!
She realised the sun was beating down on her unruly hair, her cheeks; oh, Lord, her freckles would be coming back! She exclaimed, ‘The Earl, your grandfather, does not approve of my family at all, you know!’
He shrugged. ‘Then I shall tell him it’s a matter of neighbourliness and of mutual benefit. The Stancliffe estate can perhaps help Wycherley for now, but some day, in different circumstances, you might be able to help us!’
She could barely restrain an incredulous laugh. Stancliffe was a vast and rich ancestral home; its estate always ran at a profit, and it had a water-powered corn mill that minted money, David Parker said. Wycherley was paltry in comparison.
He touched her hand. A gesture of friendship, no more, but his long, lean fingers burned her; she felt that silken touch through every nerve ending.
‘Are you in a hurry now?’ he asked her suddenly.
‘No, not at all,’ she lied. Really, there was a great deal to be done: the household accounts to be sorted, Cook’s monthly order for the stores to be cut back as much as possible, Turley’s laments about the leak in the roof of the north wing to be placated….
‘Then let’s ride together,’ said Lucas, Viscount Conistone, ‘now, around Wycherley’s farms. I know the harvest has been a bad one, but there’s time yet to remedy things’.
Her eyes were wide with wonder and surprise. ‘But—you’re home on leave. You must have so many things you’d rather be doing, my lord!’
‘As a matter of fact,’ he said rather quietly, ‘I haven’t’.
Her heart leapt; her soul sang. Quietly, wonderingly, she packed her things into her saddle bag. And as he helped her on to her pony, her thoughts were in utter turmoil. For she’d fallen head over heels in love, and her world was suddenly a different, a marvellous place.
And so, during those weeks of late August and September when the sun shone as if in apology for the dreadful early summer, Lord Lucas Conistone called for her almost daily and they would ride around the Wycherley and Stancliffe estates together, with either Turley or one of her sisters accompanying them as chaperon, talking about crops and harvesting.
Verena’s complexion became golden in the sun and her mother chided her to wear a wide-brimmed sunbonnet. But Lucas laughed at her headgear and told her that he disliked ladies with pallor; he told her also that her eyes were like amber in the sunlight. ‘You must have inherited your grandmother’s colouring,’ he said.
She didn’t even realise that he knew about her father’s Portuguese mother. ‘Her name was Lucia. And yes, I am told that I look like her,’ she said shyly.
‘Then she must have been beautiful’.
She was not used to being complimented on her looks. Her mother had always bemoaned the fact that she was not blonde and blue-eyed, like Deb and Izzy. Her heart thudded. ‘You are making fun of me. I’m sure I would never gain approval at Almack’s!’
‘No, because the others there would die of jealousy,’ he answered lightly. And he added, even more softly, ‘Minha querida’.
The Portuguese endearment—my dear one—went through her like an arrow. A light aside. A frivolous compliment, nothing more, she told herself swiftly.
She also had to damp down her mother’s excited speculation. ‘Lord Conistone has no intentions towards me whatsoever, Mama, I assure you! We are friends, nothing more’.
But it seemed truly marvellous to be Lucas’s friend as they rode together that September, talking about the agricultural improvements that were needed to feed a country at war. Though Lucas never talked about the war itself.
Of course, she always knew that soon he would have to go back. She knew that the harvest festival, in the fourth week of September, would be his last night at home; he was due to rejoin his regiment the next day, he had told her. But it was easy to believe, that warm, moonlit night, that the cruel war was a whole world away.
His friend Captain Alec Stewart, whose reputation as a high liver was just starting to gather pace, was there, too, and of course there was great excitement amongst the local girls when Alec and Lucas stayed on after the supper for the dancing. Yet Lucas danced with Verena nearly all evening. When she suggested that he should ask some of the others, he answered lightly, ‘How can I not dance with someone who is a student of Turnip Townshend? How could anyone else be my amber-eyed harvest maiden?’ Somehow he danced her away from the others, into the shadows offered by the outbuildings, and there, while the music still played, he kissed her.
She’d glimpsed his dark smile seconds before he lowered his head and brushed his lips against her own. His strong arms cradled her close and soft yearning had flooded her. Nothing less than a tremor shook her body as his warm, firm mouth caressed hers, and she felt his tongue lightly trace the parting of her lips, then flicker against her moist inner mouth.
Her hands were trapped, pressed flat against the hard wall of his chest. She could feel the heat of his skin through the fine lawn of his white shirt. Feel the ridges of sculpted male muscle under her fingertips. His hips and thighs were moulded to hers, so close she couldn’t help but be aware of his desire, hard and powerful, where he held her tight. For her. He wanted her….
Verena recognised her own answering desire at the pit of her stomach. Hazy, heated images filled her mind. The whispers she’d heard, about what women and men did together; her sister Pippa’s sighs of rapture as she hinted at nights in her new husband’s arms….
It was Lucas who drew away. But he still held her hands. And whispered, ‘Verena. Remember this night, because I will’.
The sounds of music and merrymaking drifted through to her as if from a great distance. For a moment all she could do was gaze up at him. Every inch of her skin where he had touched her was aching with acute awareness, as she saw