Good Manors Page 5

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked once I had my arm inside his very expensive sheep.

  “Bit late to ask that now, but yes, I trained to be a vet for a while.” I smiled over at him then cocked my head to the side. “Ah, there’s the problem, little one’s got its elbows locked and mum can’t push it any farther down.”

  Scrunching up my face, I concentrated on manipulating the lamb backward a bit until the legs extended straight.

  “Right.” I pulled my hand free. “She should be able to do the rest herself.”

  “How did you know what to do?” Xander asked as Harriet once more shivered and shook with a contraction.

  “Veterinary school, like I said. Mum wanted me to be a doctor, I couldn’t stomach it so we compromised and I trained to be a vet. It wasn’t my calling, though, and after two years I changed my degree to journalism and the rest is history.”

  “So you’ve done this before? I mean, practically.” Xander carefully watched Harriet, petting her nose tenderly.

  “No, I only ever read about it.” I looked up from washing my arms in the soapy water and focused on looking solemn. His face dropped, and I laughed. “Of course I’ve done it before, spent time with a country vet in the spring. I brought many animals into the world, including a few sheep.”

  “Good, sorry, I’m a bit all over the place. Harriet means so much to me, to the hall, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve read up, I talked to the vet, but I just froze.” He sighed. The poor man was seriously frazzled.

  “It’s okay.” I ran my hand down his arm. “It’s difficult to know when to intervene and you can do more harm than good if you don’t know what you’re doing. Hey, look, the nose is appearing.”

  I’m sure the relief showed through my voice. I was confident that the birth was finally going the way it should.

  “Oh yeah.” Xander’s face lit up. “Look at that!”

  “Won’t be long now. Look, already the legs are following through!”

  “It’s amazing,” he gasped.

  “A miracle,” I sighed as the little life burst forth from the relieved ewe. She immediately set to looking after her offspring, licking its face to remove the mucus. Soon the little thing was bleating happily.

  “Harriet’s a brilliant mum.” I smiled. “She’s a natural.”

  Chapter Six

  Xander Patrick

  “God, India, thank you. I’d have lost her without you.”

  I’d been completely paralyzed with fright. I’d read up so much on what to expect from the labor and what might go wrong, but I couldn’t seem to remember any of it as I’d watched Harriet strain and strain again.

  She shrugged. “You’d have rung the vet if I hadn’t shown, it was an easy fix. I’m sure it would all have been fine.”

  “Well, still, thank you.”

  She’d come in and just gotten on with it. Who’d have thought she had experience in lamb delivery? She sat down in the hay beside me with a flop and squeezed my arm.

  “You’re welcome. It was good to help and it’s always a rush to see a cute baby animal.”

  The little brown ball of fluff tottered on its towering legs, and Harriet bleated encouragement.

  “The little thing is adorable,” I acknowledged.

  “So what made you decide on rare breed sheep?”

  “Oh, well, I wanted something a bit different but within the bounds of something we already had here on the estate. I made a list of loads of things then went through each one for its merits and down points, and rare breeds came out with the best differential.”

  “You went with your gut then.” She chuckled.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “I’m not very good at that. Let’s just say stuff from my youth showed me the downside of being impulsive. Everything I do these days is calculated.”

  “Yeah, I understand.” India sighed. “But my impulses still seem to get me into trouble.”

  “I owe you an apology, too. I’ve been standoffish since you got here. I’d calculated having you visit into my plans but I wasn’t expecting you this week. Gerald took that decision into his own hands. It’s thrown me off a bit but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

  “No worries.” India’s smile really was a sight to behold. Her green eyes sparkled and her whole face lit up with joy. “I don’t think many people would welcome me dropping by at such short notice, and I didn’t mean to be rude earlier, you just startled me, well, we startled each other, I suppose.”

  “No, I didn’t mean to be rude either.” I looked down at my toes, noticing just how scuffed and muddy my black shoes were. “Maybe we should start from scratch, yeah?”

  “Good idea.” India pushed her hand out in front of her. “Hello, I’m India Grace, reporter for Good Manors magazine.”

  I grasped her hand in mine. Her fingers were slightly chilly. I noticed for the first time that she wasn’t wearing a coat.

  “Hello, I’m Xander Patrick, the man in charge here. Nice to meet you, India, and welcome to Mallard Hall.”

  “Thank you.”

  We parted hands, and India shivered.

  “Are you okay? Would you like my jacket?”

  “No, no, I’ll be fine. I should probably be getting back. I was only meant to be taking a brief walk. I’ve got to be up and in the shop in the morning.”

  “Let me walk you back to the hall, then. Harriet and the lamb are fine, aren’t they?”

  India nodded. “Looks it to me. Oh, has she passed the placenta yet?” She scoured the floor visually then stood up. “Yep, she has, we need to get rid of this. She’d probably eat it but you don’t want it left around to encourage vermin.”

  Between us we cleaned up the afterbirth, checked the mum and child had all the supplies they needed, flicked off the light then walked away from the barn. I took a deep, satisfied breath. For the first time in weeks I didn’t feel a tightness in my shoulders, a heaviness of heart. Maybe Harriet’s successful lambing was the start of an upturn in my luck. I really hoped so.

  India shuddered, and I took off my leather jacket. Old and battered, it was what I always wore when a suit wasn’t dictated.

  “Here”—I slipped it over her shoulders—“you’ll freeze otherwise.”

  “Thanks.” She pulled the edges together. “It has gone really cold tonight.”

  “They’re predicting a frost, even though it’s late in the season.” I didn’t know why I needed to pass on that nugget of information.

  “I bet. Are you okay? You’re not cold, are you?”

  “No, my old sweater’s keeping me warm enough, thank you.” It seemed strange that she was worried about me. Women I’d been with in the past would have expected this kind of behavior—they had expected me to be a gentleman. But then, they’d all expected me to be rich too. When they’d found out I wasn’t, they’d left.

  “I’ll come out with a jacket for my constitutional tomorrow night.”

  “Now that’s an old-fashioned word.” Her use of it struck me as my mum had enjoyed a constitutional every evening while she’d been able. It had only been the last few months of her life when we hadn’t managed to get out for an evening stroll.

  “I like it. My mum used to use it. Only when we were on holiday, though. I’m not sure anyone takes a constitutional around a housing estate.” India smiled.

  “My mum liked the word too.” My voice faltered.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yes.” I sighed. “Just she passed away six months ago and it’s still raw at times.”

  “Yeah, I understand. My mum died three years ago but there’s still times when I miss her so much it physically hurts.”

  We walked on in silence. I was lost in remembrances of Mum and I wondered what she’d have made of India. She had had a dislike of journalists, but I was sure she couldn’t have held that against such a sweet, thoughtful woman. Although, maybe she would have. She had always been very stubborn. She had also been very vocal about me never
settling for anything less than perfect for me. Though her vision of perfect and mine often hadn’t been the same.

  “So you’re in the shop tomorrow.” I had to stop thinking and interact some more. I spent far too much of my time alone with my own thoughts.

  “Yes, that’s right. Mary’s showing me the ropes.”

  “Good luck with that.” I chuckled. “Mary’s quite a character.”

  “Yeah, I’d noticed. She seems lovely, though.”

  “Oh yes, she is. She just never ever shuts up. I swear she gets her way more often than not simply because she talks at me so much I give in to make her stop.”

  “Oh, I know your Kryptonite now,” she purred throatily.

  “Damn, I shouldn’t have let that out so easily.” I shook my head dramatically.

  “It’s okay, I won’t use it against you immediately. I’ll get you warmed up a bit first.”

  “Said the vicar to the nun,” I responded without thinking.

  “Ha, more like the vet to the… Never mind, let’s not go there.”

  The laughter we shared was genuine, and when we came to the hall I was a little saddened that our interaction was over.

  “Thanks, Xander.” She handed me my coat back.

  “And thank you, India,” I replied. “I’m glad you were here tonight.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  For a moment I was sure she was going to push up and kiss me. I tipped my head down toward her, preparing to accept her lips on mine, but then she coughed and I coughed and we awkwardly shuffled apart.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow then?” she called.

  “I’m sure you will. Bye.”

  And she disappeared upstairs. I walked up a little way behind her. My room was at the opposite end of the corridor, still part of the old servants’ quarters but away from everyone else.

  “You’re just like the rest of them, Xander,” Mum would say. “Never ever be afraid to pitch in and get your hands dirty to help out. You must always keep a little distance, though. You are their boss after all. Where you sleep, where you eat, how you address them. It earns respect and respect makes this place run all the smoother.”

  She had been right, of course, she usually was even if she really wasn’t. Every time I made a decision I’d wonder whether she’d have approved. I wasn’t sure I’d ever break that habit. Maybe one day, when the grief wasn’t so very tangible. When father had died, I’d been upset, but it hadn’t lasted that long, sadly. What I’d mourned was the loss of the opportunity to have a father, not him. He had never been very good at it.

  The anger I had felt after his passing was in relation to not having a dad, rather than losing him. And that was a mind fuck in itself. Grieving for Mum had made me realize the difference. I missed her at the weirdest moments, the burning ball of sadness crept up on me at the most stupid and inconvenient times. I wasn’t sure how to cope with it. Luckily I’d always been able to hold in the emotion then distract myself with something else. I couldn’t let my weakness show.

  I shook off my shoes and trousers and put them on the wooden chair at the end of my bed. Scrunching up my sweater, I threw it into the laundry basket sitting in the doorway to the bathroom. A quick stride over to the window to draw the curtains, then I hopped into bed. I could traverse the whole room in a few steps. It was basic, no frills, and it did me just fine. I only ever used it for sleeping anyway.

  Most nights I’d fall into bed and straight to sleep but that night I found myself tossing and turning, haunted by India’s startling green eyes and the remembrance of her body on top of mine. She was soft and warm, her curves fascinated me. My upbringing as a gentleman meant I kept my hands to myself but I imagined, there in my bed, what would have happened if I’d grabbed her and held her closer to me.

  I could hear her gasp, see her pupils dilate and taste her lips as they mashed with mine. The conjured up images aroused me. I had to rip down my boxers and grab my cock. Fuck propriety, fuck expectations, I just wanted to fuck her, and what was the harm in indulging a little fantasy?

  Dream hands burrowed up and under her shirt, molding her tits, rubbing circles with my thumbs, tracing the erect nubs, plucking them to feel her intake of breath on my lips. Pinching then and feeling her moan, my cock jumping in reaction to her response. In my fantasy I could have it any way I liked and I wanted to be on top.

  Bodies rolled, I was between her thighs. No need to fumble with zippers, skirts and underwear—the fantasy allowed me to strip us in seconds, to hold her hands up above her head and watch her eyes widen when she realized what I was going to do.

  Frenzied wanking in reality translated into rough hard fucking in my mind. Groans and grunts and tightening muscles squeezed me to my climax. It was her eyes, the lust, the expression in her face that pushed me over. My orgasm continued and her gaze fixed on me in my imagination. I was spent.

  Suddenly tiredness took over me. I didn’t have time to think about the return of my libido, which had been missing for months, if not years, or the implication of feeling such lust for a visiting journo, for a woman who would be in my life one minute then gone the next. Those were problems for another day.

  Chapter Seven

  India Grace

  “Sleep well?” Mary asked when I dragged myself through the door to the shop. It looked like she’d been there a while. I wondered if she ever slept, if she ever looked anything less than perfectly prim.

  “Yeah.” I yawned. “Just not long enough.”

  “So, I was thinking you could start off doing some shelf stacking. We don’t get many people through early on. I’ll get you on a till later. Is that okay? That is the kind of thing you expect to do, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine. These days I don’t expect to do anything. When you’ve ended up waist-deep in a stinky fish pond fishing out gunk you start to expect anything, really.”

  “Oh, I remember that one. You didn’t have a great time there, did you?”

  “No, not really. I was used like unpaid labor for the whole three days I was there. I don’t remember sleeping at all.”

  “Well, we’ll be in for a higher score than Bertram’s then. We’ve fed you and everything.”

  “Yes.” I laughed. “Yes, you have.”

  “Okay, follow me. I want you to replenish the rapeseed oil shelf. It’s one of our best sellers.”

  Moving bottles from trolley to shelf was actually quite a pleasant job. The gunk in the fish pond might have been the most disgusting job I’d ever been given to do but I’d had some thoroughly horrible experiences at other halls. I had been taken out on a pheasant shoot at one place. I understood the need to keep the bird numbers down but seeing the poor things shot down in their prime had made me sick to my stomach. I had been asked to join in, but I hadn’t been able to. It just seemed like such a bleak thing to do, to purposefully set out to end an animal’s life.

  I’d watched livestock being slaughtered too. That wasn’t at all pleasant, but being a steak and bacon lover it had given me an appreciation for where my meat came from. The slaughter process was clean and involved minimal pain. Before my dinner went through that for me I wanted it to have spent some time frolicking in fields and being properly alive.

  “Well, this is weird,” Mary muttered as I walked toward her, the till drawer open before her. “It’s not adding up.”

  “Finished that, Mary,” I shouted as I drew closer. She looked up at me.

  “Okay, let me show you the till and how it works. I’ll need a hand when it gets busy later. Harry and Jenny are both out working on the fencing today and the occasional lad we use is on holiday. And Phil only does the butchery. He can’t operate the tills.”

  Phil—a rounded, smiling man in a red-striped pinny—waved at me with his cleaver from behind the harshly lit fridge displays then returned to creating lamb chops from a rich red carcass of meat.

  The till wasn’t difficult to get the hang of. I’d worked a bit of time in a supermarket, back when I’d
dropped journalism. When Lord Mallard had died I hadn’t been able to take it. I hadn’t wanted anything else to do with the trade at all so I’d gone through a raft of odd jobs to make ends meet. Though they’d met in the way an old jacket does—briefly, just at the very ends.

  “How long have you been here, Mary?” I asked when there was a lull in the demand for the tills. The shop was busy. Several people had told me they came in for a certain special item. Phil’s lamb chops were extremely popular, as were the eggs. The business was clearly thriving.

  “Oh, years.” She shook her head. Her gray curls should have bounced but they seemed to stay perfectly rigid. She’d either had a very aggressive perm or an unhealthy addiction to hairspray. “I saw little Xander grow up and he’s, what? Twenty-eight or something now? I must have been here for at least thirty-five years, what do you reckon, Phil?”

  Mary waffled on a bit, but I didn’t hear what was being said. What did she mean about seeing Xander grow up?

  “I reckon Phil might be right, you know, might well be forty years.” She nodded.

  “Wow, that’s some dedication,” I declared. I had to get my head back in the game, concentrate on the article I was going to have to write.

  “Oh, you know. I love this place, love the family, and what with all the troubles they’ve had, I’ve not had the heart to leave.” She sighed.

  “So the house is still in the hands of the Mallards? I thought Xander owned it.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Mary sighed. “I told Lady Mallard she needed to keep the name but she insisted on changing back to Patrick. Her husband died, I’m sure you know the story—you are old enough to know the story, aren’t you?”

  I nodded, slowly.

  “Well, between you and me and the doorpost”—she nodded conspiratorially at Phil—“it was the best thing that happened to Mallard’s. I know that sounds awful cruel and I’d never wish ill on anyone.” She crossed herself fervently—a nun would have been impressed with her skill. “But he was a bad ’un. Ran this place down into awful debt. Got himself mixed up in all kinds of things he shouldn’t. When Lady Mallard took over, things got so much better and, well, Xander’s helped out since he was a kid too. I knew he’d make a great Lord Mallard. Shame he won’t take the name back. I really think he should be proud of his family heritage.”