Harriot Atherton couldn’t quite wish the full complement of woe the Lord vowed to inflict upon the idle shepherd who leaveth his flock to rain down on young Laban Dawber, the herdsman in charge of this bit of pasture. Laban was, after all, only a child of ten. And heavens’ knew, rumors of the new Lord Saybrook’s slothful doings in London did little to encourage his Lincolnshire tenants to diligent labour. Yet Harry could wish Laban had not chosen this particular day to leave his sheep unattended. So close to shearing, the animals were so weighted down by thick spirals of fleece that when they tried to rise from a spot of rest on the ground, they were only too likely to lose their centers of gravity and find themselves flat on their backs, unable to regain their footing.
Like the poor struggling creature lying on the sward before her.
Harry shook her head, her lips turning up in a rueful smile. So much for trying to shave a few precious minutes off the walk to the rectory by cutting through Saybrook’s home farm pasture. But she’d been so engrossed by the Saybrook estate account books, attempting to make sense of her father’s scribbled entries of the May rent receipts, that she’d lost track of the time. And no young lady wished to appear rushed or out of breath when arriving at a meeting of the neighboring village’s worthies.
Still, she could not help but laugh. Yes, she’d look a far sight worse than rushed once she finished helping the struggling ewe find its footing. But truly, neither vanity nor amusement should stand in the way of duty. A cast sheep might seem foolish, bleating and squirming in such a pathetic fashion. But even she, who had spent more time of late in fashionable Brighton than in the farmlands of Lincolnshire, knew that any sheep forced to lie on its back for more than a few hours could die.
“Laban?” she called, hands on hips as she scanned the empty pasture. “Laban Dawber?” But of Mrs. Dawber’s youngest, nor any of her other strapping boys, was there the smallest sign.
It looked as if Harry were the only person available to put the sheep to rights.
And so Harry it would have to be.
With a sigh, she knelt in the grass and laid a calming hand on the ewe’s side. After a few moments, when the animal had quieted, she forced her shoulder under its belly and pushed until she tipped it nearly upright. After making sure it had its hooves underneath it, she pulled away, trying hard not to sneeze as a stalk of hay stuck in the animal’s wool tickled her nose.
The ewe wobbled, weak from its earlier efforts. “Come, girl. You can do it,” she said, clasping her hands as if praying her encouragement.
But after taking a few unsteady steps, the ewe fell to the ground in a heap of wool and dirt.
She coughed at the cloud of dust rising around them. Not as easy as young Laban and his fellow shepherds made it look, was it, righting a fallen sheep?
Perhaps if she stood behind it? After scooting over the grass—oh, heavens, what stains she’d find on her second best gown—she positioned herself in back of the ewe’s head, one leg on each side of its body.
“Ready for another try, poor thing?” she asked as she bent down and laced her hands under its upper torso. With a grunt, she pulled up, as if she were raising a child who had taken a fall.
The ewe strained forward, trying to get its legs under it. In spite of its obvious exhaustion, though, its strength still proved greater than that of its would-be rescuer. With a jerk, it shot across the field, sending Harry tumbling to all fours into the dirt.
From behind her came a low, appreciative chuckle.
“Yon sheep may not be black, but it looks to have far more than three bags of wool on its back. Are you certain, though, fair shepherdess, that you’re using the best method to shear?”
Harry groaned. What a spectacle she must present! And not even to a fieldworker or a farmer, but to a gentleman, if the man’s way of speaking were any indication. Just what she needed, a smugly superior clever-boots, come to bear witness to her indignities. Watch, next he’d be “ba, ba, baa-ing” at her as if they were characters from the old nursery rhyme.
She jerked her head up and down, banging the brim of her bonnet lightly against the ground.
But the ground was hardly likely to open and swallow her and her embarrassment whole. Gathering her scattered dignity, she pushed up to her knees and turned round, wondering which of the local gentry she’d had the misfortune to meet.
A large gentleman strode across the pasture, his carriage and driver stopped in the lane close by. The afternoon sun, shining directly behind him, made it difficult to discern his features. Too tall to be Sir John Mather, who held the estate closest to the Saybrook home farm. And not Mather’s son, visiting from Market Rasen, either; Haviland was far too proper to accost any woman so, genteel or not. Besides, this man’s voice hadn’t sounded at all familiar. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glare.
“Unkind of me, wasn’t it, to make sport of your plight?” The gentleman stopped a few feet from where she still knelt on the ground. “But if our positions were reversed, I’d wager you’d have laughed, too. Such a sight! But here, sweet maid, allow me to assist you.”
His shadow fell over her as he bent down, holding out a gloved hand. Eyes blinking to adjust to the sudden change in light, she placed her own in his.
With a gentle tug, the gentleman pulled her to her feet. She stumbled, and her hands pressed against the silk of his waistcoat. Beneath them, she felt him chuckle—what, did he think she had fallen against him on purpose? Before she could upbraid him, he bent his head to hers, as if intending to steal a kiss.
Sudden recognition flooded her senses. Oh, no. Not again.
She pulled her hand free of his and took a step back, then another. Chin raised high, she lowered into her most respectful curtsy, no matter that the man deserved none of it.
“Lord Saybrook. Welcome home.”
Theodosius Pennington, the new Viscount Saybrook, gazed down at her, his eyes crinkling in puzzlement. No, he wouldn’t recognize her, not after spending years in London surrounded by elegant ladies of the ton, as well as those of more dubious repute. All of whom would be far more memorable than the daughter of his father’s steward, whom he’d last seen as a lanky, awkward adolescent. Even if he had given said adolescent her first kiss.
She recognized him, though the intervening years had changed his appearance more than hers. The same blond curls, the same gray-blue eyes, yes, but no longer the skin-and-bones figure she remembered from their youth. Theo Pennington had grown into a large man, far taller than even her tallish self, with shoulders almost twice as wide as her own. His dress, which once had been careless at best, was now far more stylish than even that of Sir John Mather’s, who was known throughout Lindsey for his fashionable attire. The only outward sign of the dissipation in which he was rumored to have sunk was a slight redness about his eyes. Although to be fair, one might just as easily attribute that to the dust kicked up by his horse than to overindulgence in drink.
The lines bracketing those eyes, and his mouth, both suggested that smiles, not frowns, were his expression of preference. The one he donned now, tinged with both rue and amusement, would have charmed any woman meeting him for the first time.
“My apologies, ma’am, for mistaking you for a shepherdess. I should have remembered that my father’s—no, my—steward does not allow females to tend the Saybrook flocks. And certainly not a lady of quality such as yourself.”
Harry bent to brush the grass from her skirts, avoiding the sight of that inviting twinkle in his eye. “Do not trouble yourself, my lord. My actions hardly suggested gentility. In any case, many would not deem the daughter of a steward genteel, never mind one of the quality.”
His eyes widened. “Daughter of a steward? Do not tell me you are little Miss Atherton?”
“Little? Did I not tower over you for the longest time, gawky girl that I was?”
He laughed. “And how I plagued you for it. My brothers still have not forgiven me for placing those frogs in your bed.”
“More out of concern for the safety of the animals than for my girlish sensibilities, no doubt,” she said, laughing herself.
But no, this would not do. She would not allow herself to be swayed by an easy smile and a bit of town polish. This was Theo Pennington, after all, the man who had not troubled to visit the estate he’d inherited, not even once in the year and a half since the late lord’s passing. Nor had he replied to any of the letters she’d sent him on her father’s behalf, asking for permission to release funds for the cottage building and for the preparation for the annual village fete. This new Viscount Saybrook seemed well on his way to becoming as inattentive a landlord as his father had been, and without the excuse of an active political career to justify it. No, if even half the rumors from London were true, laxity and dissipation were all that kept him from fulfilling his duties to his land and its people. Best to remember that, before she found herself beguiled by his handsome face and inviting manner.
“And it is concern for an animal that finds me in such unladylike circumstances today,” she said, stepping away from him to scan the pasture. “What has become of that ewe?”
His whip pointed across the field. “There she is, cropping the grass as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Ungrateful beast.”
“Yes, well, the ovine are not reputed to be all that intelligent, or loyal, are they?” she answered. Like some people that way.
His eyes narrowed, even though she’d not spoken the words aloud. But if he sensed her mistrust, he did not acknowledge it. “If you’ll accept my company, I will make sure no further ovine interruptions distract you from your intended destination,” he said, and crooked an elbow in her direction.
“I was to have been at a meeting at the Oldfield vestry at one o’clock,” she replied, gazing toward the lane that led to the village. “But I’ve no idea of the time. Have you a pocket watch?”
Lord Saybrook stared at her for a moment, then patted at his greatcoat. “Don’t seem to have one.”
She frowned. A gentleman who carried no timepiece? How odd.
“But I’d guess it’s far past midday,” he added, looking up at the position of the sun in the sky. “Meeting’s like to be over by now, especially if Parson Strickland was the fellow in charge. If memory serves, any gathering he convenes proceeds with all due dispatch. Come, I’ll walk you home.”
“Hoy!” A rough, boyish shout split the air, followed by a series of short barks. “What the plague are you doing, mucking about with my sheep?”
Harry grimaced. Of course young Laban Dawber would show up now when he was no longer needed.
“Your sheep?” She stomped over to where the boy stood, waving his battered hat and shepherd’s crook at them as if they were a swarm of pesky flies come to infest the herd. “Since when have you become the owner of the flock, Laban Dawber? And a fine job you’re doing taking care of them, leaving them unattended for hours on end. And at this time of the year, too! What would your father say if the cast sheep I’d found had up and died? Never mind Mr. Atherton or Lord Saybrook.”
Laban snorted. “As if our grand lord cares a hang about a sheep.”
She shot a quick glance at the lord in question, but his eyes crinkled in amusement, not anger. Still, she stepped closer to the boy and lowered her voice to a whisper. “You shouldn’t speak that way about the landlord, Laban. Especially since he is standing right in your field.”
Laban gripped his crook with both hands, his mouth rounding into an “O.” Harry pressed her advantage. “You need to take better care, Laban.”
“I do take care, miss,” he cried, his freckled face scrunching tight. “But—”
“Good day to you, young Dawber. That’s a fine looking animal you’ve got there.” Lord Saybrook’s voice gave her a start. When had he moved to stand beside her?
He knelt and offered his hand to the barking dog, who, after a few searching sniffs, settled by his side. “One of old Rabe’s get, I’ll warrant.”
“You know Rabe, my lord?” Laban asked, his eyes widening.
“And who does not know the finest sheepdog in all Lincolnshire?” Saybrook’s fingers rubbed, rough but friendly, over the beast’s ears. “And what is this fine fellow’s name?”
“Her’s Moss, my lord.”
“Ah, a lady fair. Good at her job, no doubt?”
“Aye, my lord. The finest.” Laban’s eyes shone.
“Lets you know if a member of the herd is in trouble, does she? Plagued by a fox, or tumbled onto its back?”
Laban nodded.
Saybrook stood, then laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Next time, then, when you must leave them unattended, best to tell Moss to stay here, eh?”
What a guilty blush raced across poor Laban’s face. Yes, he knew he wasn’t supposed to take the dog with him.
She opened her mouth to offer a proper scold, but Saybrook spoke first. “See that you do” was all the reprimand he gave.
“Aye, my lord.”
How good he was with the boy. Most adults would have yelled at him, perhaps even whipped him. How did an indulged aristocrat such as Lord Saybrook understand how attached a child could become to an animal, even one meant for work, not play?
“Wouldn’t have been a problem if Mr. Atherton hadn’t called us all in from the fields to talk over the shearing,” Laban said, scuffing his crook in the dirt. “And then he didn’t even come, either.”
Her glance shot to Laban. Only just this morning she’d sat down with her father to go over what he had planned for the day, and he hadn’t mentioned any meeting with the shepherds. She could remind him over and over when he should be where, but it would be little use if he never told her about his appointments in the first place . . .
“That sounds most unlike Mr. Atherton,” Saybrook said. “His quarterly reports always arrive in a timely fashion.”
Yes, they did. Because they’d been prepared not by his increasingly forgetful steward, but by his steward’s daughter. Not that her father, or Lord Saybrook, needed to know that little fact.
“Might he have met with an accident, Miss Atherton?” he asked, his voice warm with concern. “Shall Laban and I set up a search?”
“Oh, no need for that, my lord.” Henry Atherton had always taken pride in being an active man; if he’d fallen into yet another fit of abstraction, as he seemed all too wont to do of late, he’d not thank her for inviting his callow new employer to witness it. “A steward is often called away to see to some pressing, if unplanned, business about an estate.”
“Pigs in the garden?” Theo Pennington grinned.
“A goat in the henhouse, perhaps.” Her own lips curved despite her worry.
“Oh, I know.” He held up a hand. “Frogs. A plague of frogs in the bedrooms.”
“A true emergency, indeed.”
The fresh smell of grass, the warmth of the sun kissing her back, laughter inspired by fellow-feeling—the sweetness of it all sank deep into her bones. She’d not shared such simple pleasures with another of God’s creatures in ages. At least not since she’d returned from Brighton.
Their laughter gradually faded, then their smiles. But Theo Pennington’s eyes remained fixed on her face. And hers on his, caught by the sunlit waves of his hair, the streaks of gold in his blue-gray eyes.
How disconcerting! Blinking away her distraction, she turned back to young Dawber. “Now, Laban, be sure to keep an eye on that ewe, the one over by the oak. She’s already fallen once today.”
“Yes, miss.” The boy took up his crook, shot a wide smile in Saybrook’s direction, then scrambled away across the grass, his dog following in his wake.
“Are you ready to return home, Miss Atherton?” Theo Pennington asked. “Perhaps by way of road, rather than field? I would not want to fail in my promise of a sheep-free stroll.”
“Yes, of course.” She waited while he waved his driver and carriage on ahead, then fell into step beside him. How odd, to be walking next to someone so much taller than herself. Great Aunt Lucretia had been a tiny woman, and Lieutenant Chamberlayne—and why should her insensitive erstwhile suitor still pop so quickly to mind?—had stood little higher than her. Even her father, whom she’d once looked up to both literally and figuratively, now only topped her when he donned a hat.
“I hope whatever emergency caused Mr. Atherton to miss his meeting with the shepherds does not take up too much of his time,” the viscount said, laying a hand in the small of her back and guiding her away from a branch protruding into the lane. “I confess, I am eager to meet with him, so I might return to London as soon as possible.”
She fixed her eyes on the ground to hide her disappointment. She’d assumed he’d come to stay for a while, at long last ready to see to his responsibilities as a landowner. Would she ever learn to hold judgment, instead of presuming the best of everyone?
“I will be sure to send you word as soon as he returns to the estate office, my lord,” she said, shaking free of his hand. “Or perhaps, in his absence, I may be of help?”
“Oh, please, do not trouble yourself. Just a few questions I have about the rent reports.”
She jerked to stiff attention. Putting her father’s scribbled notes about the rents he’d collected into some semblance of order had not been an easy task. But still, she’d checked and rechecked those figures, making sure she’d tallied everything correctly before sending her report off to London. Theo Pennington could not have discovered any significant errors in it.
But would he take exception if he discovered that she’d been the one to prepare it, rather than his steward?
And if her father found out—
Harry pulled the sides of her bonnet close, praying she could hide her blush of guilt better than poor Laban had.
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