A Wild Pursuit by Eloisa James Read Free Book Online

Regent himself. Mrs. Cable considered propriety next to godliness, and if she ever discovered the truth, Esme’s reputation would be blackened the length and breadth of England.
    Normally, Esme wouldn’t be caught within ten yards of such a woman. But these days, she didn’t have that luxury. Mrs. Cable led the Sewing Circle, an inner sanctum of ladies dedicated to the virtuous and charitable life. When the Sewing Circle was not hemming acres of coarse sheets for the deserving poor, it monitored the reputations of everyone within five counties. Manuevering her way into the circle had taken the diplomacy of a reformed rake aspiring to a bishopric in the Church of England, and Esme found the idea of forfeiting her newly acquired virtue galling.
    Yet what was she to do? The gardener refused to leave her employ. Presumably, he was roaming around her garden at this very moment, although it was noon. He had likely retreated to the hut at the bottom of the apple orchard and was sitting there without a care in the world, reading Homer and not even considering the deleterious effect his presence might have on her reputation.
    Of course she wouldn’t visit him. This was her new life, a principled life, a life in which she would conduct herself in a respectable fashion. She had promised her husband, Miles, as much. Before he died, they agreed that he was going to give up his mistress, Lady Childe, and she was going to become the sort of woman who wore little lace caps and sewed sheets for the poor. And never, ever, thought about gardeners.
    She bundled herself into a pelisse two minutes later, explaining to her maid that she wished fresh air. It wasn’t as if her child was born yet, she told herself as she headed down the slope into the apple orchard. Once the child was born she would never see the gardener again. In fact, she would have her butler terminate his employment. Esme’s pace quickened.
    The hut was a small, roughly built structure at the bottom of the garden. It had one of everything: one chair, one bench, one table, one fireplace. One bed. And one gardener.
    He was standing by the fireplace with his back to her when she pushed open the door. He didn’t turn until she closed the heavy wood door with a thump. Then he whirled around so suddenly that the pot over the fire tipped and its contents cascaded across the wood floor. What appeared to be lumps of carrot and beef dripped into the cracks between the boards. Esme’s stomach growled. Pregnancy had the unfortunate effect of making her always hungry.
    He looked at her without greeting, so she tried a jaunty smile. “Never tell me that you’re learning to cook?”
    He still didn’t say anything, just took a step toward her. Her gardener was big, with a rider’s body, tousled blonde curls, and eyes the blue of a patch of sky in summer. His features were as regular as if they were chiseled from marble. No man had a right to be so beautiful. He was a danger to all womankind, perhaps even to Mrs. Cable. “Did you cook that stew yourself?” she insisted, waving at the pot.
    â€œRosalie, in the village, brought it to me.”
    Esme narrowed her eyes. “Rosalie? Who is she?”
    â€œThe baker’s daughter,” he said, shrugging. He took another long step toward her. “Is this a social call, my lady?” Something had sparked in his eyes, something that made her heart skip and her knees feel weak.
    She opened her mouth to inform him that he was shortly to be discharged from his position, and found herself saying something entirely different. “How old is this Rosalie?”
    â€œRosalie is a mere lass,” he said negligently.
    â€œAh,” Esme said, realizing that there was nothing she could say to that. She herself was no lass. No, she was all of twenty-seven years old, and huge with child in the bargain.
    He was just in front of her now, all golden and beautiful in his rough workman’s