The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(23)

Her gaze darted to his. Fear clouded her eyes. Again, he held the glass to her mouth. This time she took a sip and immediately coughed.

“Four or five quick stitches ought to do the trick,” Mrs. Oliver announced. She gently placed March’s outstretched hand on the table, then turned her back in such a manner that it hid her movements from both of them.

He glanced around the neat, but barren kitchen. The house would once have been quite a handsome establishment. The architectural details included intricately carved moldings and two large crystal chandeliers. The previous viscounts had quite a fine taste for all things. The spacious kitchen had the facilities to accommodate a large staff. The oven and massive fireplace rivaled the ones in his father’s London home. Though it was the dead of winter, the fire consisted of only a couple of logs. Just one small roasting pot sat nearby.

Mrs. Oliver turned briefly and gave McCalpin a nod to signal she was about to sew up the wound. She resumed her position with her back to them. Silence descended, and March tightened her hold on his hand as she waited.

The lines around her pursed mouth reminded him of pure agony. A woman should never suffer like this.

“If I have forty-three sheep that all need to be groomed before shearing, how will I get the work done?” March muttered to herself. “If I get on average of a half-pound per fleece … no, now that they’ve gotten into the mud, I’ll be lucky to get a quarter of a pound. What’s that amount?”

Her grip was surprisingly strong. When he’d examined her out in the field, the coldness of her hand, heightened by her roughened skin, indicated she was accustomed to physical work.

She jerked slightly and pressed her eyes closed as Mrs. Oliver sewed the first stitch. “Help me with the figures.” Her voice thinned to a suffocating whisper as she pleaded with her eyes for his help. “I need to know how much we’ll have.”

His heartbeat raced as he realized what she wanted. He had no earthly clue how to calculate such a number.

Not here, not without chalk. Not without a board. Not in front of her.

“Miss March, leave your damnable sheep worries be. You have more important things to concentrate on at this moment.” The affection in the servant’s voice was unmistakable. “Those animals will be your downfall. Try to think of something pleasant while I work.” Without a glance, she addressed McCalpin. “Perhaps, my lord, you could get her mind off those wool bags.”

There was only one thing to do to keep March preoccupied. Gently, so as not to scare her, he brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek and brought his mouth close to hers. Her eyes flew to his.

“Think of this,” he whispered before he brushed his lips against hers. It was the perfect way to take her mind off the needle, but more important, off her calculations.

March exhaled and opened her eyes. Her gaze darted to his once again, and the pulse in her lovely neck throbbed in answer. The copper color of her irises was stunning, and flecks of brown and gold accented it. He’d never considered brown eyes particularly attractive, but hers were rich and sweet like warmed brandy. The dullness gone, and in its place was surprise.

March’s servant was completely absorbed in her work. He took advantage of the opportunity and lowered his mouth to hers again. Shocked at his own eager response to her taste, he wanted to explore her luscious mouth at leisure. He drew his tongue against the seam of her lips.

She flinched.

What was he thinking to have stolen a kiss?

“I apologize,” he whispered and drew back. “I’d hoped the distraction—”

“Mrs. Oliver,” she whispered in return, “another stitch.” Her pale complexion had warmed to a hue that reminded him of the spring’s first roses.

“That didn’t take too long, now did it? I’m proud of you, Miss March,” the old woman chortled with her back still turned. Gathering the necessary wraps to protect the stitches, she stepped away from the table, then stilled. With a wry smile, she winked at him. “I’m grateful for the comfort you offered too, whether she realizes it or not.”

Completely oblivious to the old woman’s teasing, March lifted her hand and examined the wound.

“My pleasure, madam.” He devoted his attention to March. “May I?”

Her gaze drifted from her hand to his eyes. He focused on the brilliant pink of her cheeks and her red swollen lips. She took deep breaths, as if she’d run across the estate. She held her hand, palm up, for his inspection. Sewn in even neat stitches, the wound was pink, but there was little sign of bleeding.

“An admirable job, Mrs. Oliver,” he offered while smiling at March. Her eyes widened in answer.

The old woman nodded as she stepped close with clean white strips of linen. “I’ve done my fair share of tending wounds over the years. You have to be quick with the needle and not dillydally.”

As she wrapped March’s hand, a young lad stepped into the kitchen. “Are you all right?”

For the first time, McCalpin saw March smile, one that bespoke true affection. It was one of those rare smiles that he’d remember his entire life. She was breathtakingly beautiful.

“I’m fine, Bennett.”

“I’m sorry…”

“It was an accident, sweetheart. Let’s not mention it again.” Her normal refined brightness finally replaced her earlier flat tone. “Let me introduce you to Lord McCalpin.”