Her face was smeared with mud. She lacked the delicate porcelain fragility prized in the ballrooms he had just escaped. Her features were strong, a sharp jaw, a straight nose, and dark eyes that currently looked at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated hostility. Are you addressing me?
She asked. Her voice was surprisingly steady, lacking the breathy pitch women usually adopted when they realized who he was. Then again, she had no idea who he was. I am the only other person here.
Victor pointed out, resting his gloved hands on the handle of his walking stick. Unless you frequently converse with the sheep. The sheep offer better advice. She shot back.
She didn't curtsy. She didn't even adjust her posture. She simply stood her ground in the mud. And they don't state the obvious.
My fence is broken. Your carriage is stuck. I would say we both have better things to do than critique each other's methods. Victor felt a strange jolt of surprise.
It wasn't offense. It was genuine amusement. It had been years since someone had spoken to him without running their words through a filter of deference. Fair enough.
He said. He glanced at the splintered rail. You lack the leverage to push it back into the joint. The wood is swollen with the damp.
I am aware of the physics of wet wood. She said tightly,"I am trying to force it. May I?" Victor didn't wait for her answer. He stepped over the low stone wall bordering the road.
His expensive Hessians sinking immediately into the muck. His valet was going to weep. He walked up to the fence. Up close, he realized she wasn't as tall as she had seemed, just fiercely postured.
She smelled of rain, wet wool, and faintly of lavender soap. "Hold the top rail," He instructed. She stared at him, her eyes narrowing. He noticed her hands.
They were red with the cold, calloused at the fingers. Working hands, not the hands of a lady of leisure. "I don't need your help," She said,"My carriage is missing a wheel spoke, and my driver is currently walking three miles to the nearest village for a blacksmith." "I have nothing but time, madam. Hold the rail." She hesitated, then grabbed the wet wood.
Victor placed his hands, large, strong, and clad in fine leather, next to hers on the lower rail. "On three," He said,"One, two, three." They shoved together. The combined weight and angle forced the swollen timber back into the joint with a sickening crunch. The fence held.
Florence stepped back, breathless, rubbing her raw hands together. "Thank you." She forced the words out. It sounded as though they tasted sour. "You're welcome," Victor said, turning to look at her fully.
The rain was coming down harder now, soaking through his greatcoat. "I don't suppose you live nearby and have a fire?" Florence looked at him. She took in the cut of his coat, the quality of his cravat, the arrogant, easy way he held himself even in a muddy ditch.
He was handsome in a severe, architectural sort of way. High cheekbones, dark hair plastered to his forehead, and eyes that were a pale, piercing gray. He reeked of money. She thought of Aunt Agatha sitting in the freezing drawing room hoarding her three coals.
My home is not suitable for receiving guests, Florence said flatly. Victor's eyebrow twitched upward. I am standing in a puddle. My standards are currently very low.
And my aunt's desire to humiliate me in front of wealthy strangers is very high. You would not enjoy the tea, sir, and I would not enjoy the aftermath. She was blunt, brutally so. Victor stared at her.
Women simply did not speak like this. They obfuscated. They fluttered. They made excuses about the servants being ill or the parlor being redecorated.
They didn't look a man in the eye and admit to poverty and familial hostility. You are a remarkably forthright woman, Victor said. I find lying takes too much effort, and I have very little energy to spare. Florence pulled her cloak tighter.
The village of Okehaven is two miles down that road. There is an inn, the Boar and Whistle. It has a fire and passable ale. I suggest you wait there for your man.
She turned to leave. Wait, Victor said. The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it. She paused, looking back over her shoulder.
The rain was washing the mud from her cheek, revealing pale, cold skin. "I never got your name." he said. "No," Florence said softly. "You didn't." And with that, she walked away, disappearing into the gray sheets of rain, leaving the Duke of Westmoreland standing ankle-deep in mud, staring after her.
The estate of Lord Harrington was everything Okehaven was not. It was a temple to excess, blazing with candlelight and roaring fires. When Victor finally arrived, hours late, smelling of damp wool and wet horse, Harrington had laughed until he choked on his port.
"Westmoreland, you look like a grave robber." His friend had wheezed, ushering him toward the grand staircase.
"Get bathed. My wife has half the county coming for a dinner party tonight. You are the guest of honor." Victor had bathed. He had allowed his valet to scrape the country off him, dressing in impeccable evening clothes, stark black and pristine white.
He descended into the dining room, looking exactly like the Duke of Westmoreland was expected to look, cold, powerful, and utterly unreachable. The dinner was agonizing. He sat at the head of the table next to Lady Harrington, surrounded by the local gentry. They were all desperately trying to impress him.
The women simpered, the men boasted about their hounds. Victor ate his roasted pheasant and gave noncommittal answers, his mind drifting. He kept seeing the woman in the mud. "My aunt's desire to humiliate me in front of wealthy strangers is very high." Who was she?
The raw honesty of the interaction had rattled him. In his world, everyone wanted something from him. That woman had looked at him, seen exactly what he was, and decided she wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. She had chosen the freezing rain over his company.