Nicola Cornick - The Undoing Of A Lady

As he spoke he was drawing her beneath him, pinning her with his body above and against hers, and Lizzie felt her bewitched and traitorous senses start to spin even before his lips came down on hers with renewed need and painful desire. He was hard for her again and the knowledge filled her with a wicked sense of power. She did not need to think about the things Nat could not give her. She knew now how much he wanted her and how much it tormented him. That would have to be enough. She could feel the edge of desperation in his touch-it seemed that as such a restrained and controlled man he could not quite believe what she could do to him. When he slid into her he groaned aloud and devoured her as though his very life was in her hands. Lizzie let the delicious sensations of mutual ravishment fill her and take her but as Nat came, racked by spasm after spasm, she held him and thought again, It is enough.

It would have to be enough.

July-2 weeks later

FLORA WAS OUT OF BREATH as she approached High Top Farm. She was nervous and she also felt hot and flustered, for the night was humid and the air itself seemed too thick to breathe. The last shreds of twilight were fading from the night sky and no moon or stars showed. Away on the horizon there was a flicker of lightning.

Flora shivered. Only the direst necessity could have prompted her to come out alone at night, especially on a night like this when there was something strange and elemental in the air. She had been to High Top three times since the day of her canceled wedding a month ago. On the first occasion she had hidden from sight and had watched Lowell working in the fields. He had glanced in her direction on more than one occasion and she had had a lowering feeling that he knew she was there, but he had not broken off his work to come over and speak with her. On the second occasion they had had a short conversation and she had pretended that she was passing during a walk on the hills. She had known that Lowell had not believed her even though he had not challenged her and she had blushed extremely red.

On the third occasion he had told her bluntly not to call again.

Flora paused by the five-barred gate that led into the farmyard. Lights showed in the kitchen. She had seen the interior of the farmhouse on her last visit, when Lowell had drawn her aside from the curious eyes of his farmhands and had then proceeded to tell her in no uncertain terms that she was not welcome at High Top. The kitchen had been exactly as she would have imagined it; neat, clean, functional and lacking the feminine touch. She had longed to pick a posy of summer wildflowers to soften the bare acreage of the wooden table. She had felt strange when she had realized that she had never been in a kitchen before. At home it was the realm of the servants and her mother had never permitted her to visit there.

The gate opened silently to her touch for it was well oiled. She would expect that from Lowell Lister for he kept his farm running smoothly and efficiently. Flora found that she was tiptoeing toward the door, trying to avoid making any sound, and that struck her as amusing for in a moment she would knock-assuming that her hands did not shake too much-and would alert Lowell to the fact that she was there, and then she would have to explain…The nervousness pressed on her chest again, making her catch her breath.

He would think her mad.

He would think her desperate, which she was.

Several dogs barked loudly inside the house and suddenly the door was thrown wide and they streaked out into the yard, circling and barking aggressively. Flora gave a little scream. She did not like dogs. They frightened her.

“Meg, Rowan, here to me!” Lowell’s sharp command subdued them and they slunk back to his side with a wary eye still on the interloper. For that was what she was, Flora thought. She did not belong here.

“Miss Minchin?” There was incredulity in Lowell’s voice as he held up the lantern and the light fell on her face and pooled around her. “What the devil are you doing here at this hour?” His tone quickened. “Has there been an accident? Is something wrong?”

“No,” Flora’s teeth were chattering. “I needed to see you.”

Lowell looked exasperated. “Miss Minchin…Flora, this is ridiculous. I told you last time. You must not come here.”

“Well, I am here,” Flora said, with more bravado than she was feeling, “and I am not going until you hear me out.”

They stared at one another for a long moment whilst the dogs circled and growled and then Lowell gave a frustrated sigh and stood aside to permit her to precede him into the house. He did not invite her to sit down. The dogs slunk off back to their box.

Flora wrapped her arms about her as she stood in the neat little kitchen. There were the remnants of a meal of bread and cheese on the table and a pitcher of ale. She wondered how much Lowell had drunk. Not enough to make him receptive to her suggestions, she thought. He looked all too sober, standing there with a mixture of anger and resignation in his eyes, running one hand impatiently over his tawny fair hair as he waited for her to speak.

“I know what you are thinking,” she said suddenly. “You think that I am here because I have developed a tendre for you and now I am following you around in a most embarrassing way.”

“Haven’t you?” Lowell said abruptly. “Aren’t you? Just because I was foolish enough to take pity on you that morning of your wedding.” He sounded savagely annoyed with himself.

Pity. Flora felt shaken, naive, but she was not going to waver now.

“That is neither here nor there,” she said. “What I am here for is to make you a proposal. I need someone to marry me and I want it to be you.”

She was aware that the words had come out all wrong, but it was difficult for her to keep calm under the scrutiny of Lowell’s cool blue gaze. He is going to refuse me, she thought, and the panic welled up in her throat.

“Why?” Lowell said after a moment. He paced across the kitchen, his boots sounding loud on the red tiled floor. He shot her a look. “Are you pregnant?”

“No, of course not.” Flora could feel her whole body blushing. She knew perfectly well how such a situation might occur; she had simply not done it herself. “I haven’t…I don’t…I’ve never…”

“I didn’t think so,” Lowell said. There was a half smile on his lips that made Flora think that he, on the other hand might have a great deal of experience.

“Then why suggest it?” she snapped, pride overcoming her embarrassment. She turned away from him. This was all going wrong already. She might have known it would never work. She did not even know why she had thought to propose marriage to him. She barely knew Lowell Lister and now it seemed that pity had been his overriding emotion toward her. She clenched her fists tightly at her side, wanting to leave-preferably through a large hole in the floor that could just open up and swallow her-but Lowell was between her and the door.

“So if you are not pregnant, Flora-” Lowell’s drawl seemed to have become even more pronounced, sending hot shivers along her skin “-then why would you urgently require a husband?”

“Because in six weeks’ time I will lose half of my dowry to Tom Fortune,” Flora said, glaring at him, “and since I am to lose control of my money one way or the other I would rather it be to a man I chose rather than to a blackguard like that.”

Lowell inclined his head. “Sound logic.”

“Thank you,” Flora said huffily.

“So any man would do?” Lowell pursued.

Flora could see another trap yawning. Her temper tightened. “No, of course not! I chose you.” She shot him another look. “Do you need me to flatter you and say why?”

Again that half smile twitched at Lowell’s lips. “I think I do,” he said, “for believe me, you would make the worst farmer’s wife in the world, Flora.” He looked at her and under his appraising glance Flora felt her body prickle with mortification.

“How do you know I would be bad at it?” she challenged. “I haven’t tried yet.”

“You are completely unaccustomed to living under straitened circumstances,” Lowell said. “You have no idea how to work.”

“Circumstances would not be straitened if we had my fifty thousand pounds,” Flora said. “Neither of us would need to work.”

“I don’t want to play at farming like a gentleman,” Lowell said, the contempt dripping from his voice. “I need to work hard, Flora. I want to.” He came close to her and she could smell the summer scent of cut grass on him, mingled with something else more primal that seemed to cause a hollow ache in her stomach.

“You’re a lady,” Lowell went on. “You know nothing of rising at five in the morning, winter as well as summer, to light the fires and clean the house and milk the cows and make the cheese. You know nothing of working in the fields until your bones ache or riding to market to sell the fresh produce or of plucking a chicken for the pot.” He turned away. “You are no use to me as a wife, Flora.”

“Very well, then,” Flora said. “I am not going to beg.” She certainly was not going to stay to hear any more. She had evidently made a grave miscalculation in thinking that Lowell would want to marry her for her money if for nothing else. No one she knew had ever turned down a fortune of fifty thousand pounds. It was extraordinary.

She walked toward the door, but when she got there she stopped and turned back. Lowell was watching her, his face quite expressionless, his jaw set hard.

“You asked why I chose you,” Flora said. “I chose you because I thought you were lonely.” She gestured toward the box where the dogs lay curled around each other now, snoring peacefully. “What self-respecting farmer allows his working dogs to sleep in the house?” she said. “You must need the company.” She put her hand on the latch, preparing to leave.