The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(20)
“How kind of you to offer,” she demurred. “But we’ve gone over this before. There’s no use in rehashing old arguments. My sisters shall have a Season in London before they marry.”
“What nonsense! You’re just wasting money you don’t possess. Let me marry Julia, and I’ll see you and your sisters are welcomed into society with open arms.” He walked to the door and turned. “I’ll come to dinner on Sunday. We can discuss it in more detail then. Oh, by the way, I’m running the hounds over Lawson Court’s acreage in next week’s hunt. In exchange for the courtesy, I’ll present the foxtail to Faith after church. It’d be a high honor.”
“Pompous, cruel arse,” March whispered. White-hot anger lit a fire through her veins. Her cousin’s only purpose was to humiliate Faith publicly with his cruel deed. Just another attack in his war to win Julia’s hand. No doubt, the Marquess of McCalpin’s signature and wax seal might come into use when she dealt with the odious Rupert Lawson.
Tonight, she’d write a letter forbidding Rupert from trespassing at Lawson Court. It would be her last act with the marquess’s seal before she sent it to him. Even if the marquess wasn’t currently responsible for the estate, he had a vested interest in her family. He’d not allow Rupert to hunt on the property.
Without waiting for her response, he continued, “Did I mention that the north pasture wall has fallen? Your sheep looked to be escaping.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” March dropped the fire iron and whirled to face him, but he’d left the room. For such a large man, he moved incredibly fast. “Because, no doubt, you probably caused the damage,” she whispered to no one.
She pushed a stray lock of hair from her face as she raced to the entry of the house. They couldn’t afford to lose a single sheep. She had counted on that wool this spring to pay for part of the estate expenses.
She struggled to free her cloak, hat, and gloves from the hook by the front door. “Bennett, come quickly.”
Book in hand, her brother bounded down the steps. “What is it?”
“The sheep are free in the north pasture. I need your help bringing them back. Do you know where Hart is?”
Bennett shook his head. “He left early this morning.”
Without waiting for her brother, she flew down the drive. Bennett would follow immediately. When they reached the pasture, the scene before them was utter chaos. Sheep streamed through the fallen rocks of the wall as if invited by the Prince Regent himself to an outing. Some of the animals stood within feet of the opening chewing grass, while the more adventuresome had roamed into the furrowed field beside the north pasture.
Both she and Bennett made quick work of herding the animals back into their own pasture. Their sheepdog performed marvelously as he nipped the hind legs of the most rebellious rams and ewes, forcing them farther back into the field away from the fallen rock.
With Bennett’s help, she stacked enough stone back into place so that the sheep would have to jump if they wanted to escape again. It wasn’t a permanent fix to the problem, but that would have to make do.
“Let’s see if we can move this one.” March waited for her brother to heft one side of a particularly large rock. “If we can manage this one, it’ll keep the opening closed until Hart can repair it properly.”
Bennett nodded and took a deep breath. His arms surrounded one end of the rock, and she took the other side. On the count of three, they hoisted the limestone mass. He stumbled under the weight, and the stone shifted toward March. She managed to step away before the rock smashed her boots, but a sharp edge ripped through the glove on her left hand.
“March, I’m sorry.…” Bennett’s eyes widened, and his lower lipped trembled.
She glanced at all the red that bubbled through the rip in her glove. Once through, the blood flowed fast like a raging river in a flood. Time stood still, and she was unable to think of anything else as she waited for the pain to catch up with her thoughts. The throbbing sensation finally slammed through her hand. “Go get help,” she whispered.
Her brother took a step toward her, then pivoted on a foot and broke into a frantic run.
With every beat of her pulse, pain thumped throughout her hand and spread up her arm as if laying siege to her body. Instinctively, she raised her hand above her heart and pressed the wound close. The sticky liquid seeped through her clothing, and a heady metallic smell wafted through the air. She turned from the smell and took a deep breath, hoping it would calm her thundering heartbeat. She wobbled on her feet. The sight of her own blood always made her feel faint. It was ironic, really. She was a farmer and never bothered by it when she hunted or dressed a fowl for dinner. Nor did it bother her to take care of Bennett’s many scrapes and bruises.
However, when she saw a drop of her own blood, her mind reeled with images of poor Faith lying on the field with her broken leg covered in blood.
She shifted her feet apart to steady her stance.
“Miss Lawson?” A deep voice hovered above as if an angel called her forward. It reminded her of brandy—smooth, dark, rich. “I was on my way to the house when I saw you and the boy.”
She shook her head to clear the miasma that blanketed her. With a stumble, she squared her shoulders.
“Miss Lawson, are you unwell?” The warm voice was one she now recognized and came from over her shoulder.