by Eloisa James
“She’s lovely,” Willa said. And then she leaned forward into his hands because what else could she do?
A moment later her feet were on the ground, except he was standing entirely too close for propriety, crowding her against Buttercup’s broad, warm side.
Willa wasn’t used to feeling lightheaded and happy. Giddy, almost.
“You don’t have Sweetpea stowed in a pocket, do you?” he asked. His hands slid down her back.
“Certainly not,” Willa managed. “What if I dropped her? Or if I fell from the horse?”
“Are you likely to fall?”
Willa had the sudden conviction that if she said yes, he would forbid her to ride home. She could see it in his eyes. “No,” she admitted. And then she smiled, because it was just so … heady to see that ferociously protective look in Alaric Wilde’s eyes. She hadn’t fallen off a horse since …
Actually, she’d never fallen off a horse.
“Willa!” Lavinia called.
Alaric stepped back, and she took a deep breath. He smelled of mint, and leather, and horsehair.
“Are you going to put your coat back on?” she inquired.
He reached out and grabbed it from the pommel just before a groom led his mount away. “If you wish me to.”
“It’s proper.”
“You are not a proper young lady, Evie,” he said in a low voice. “We both know that.”
Had she thought his eyes protective? Now they were greedy. Willa wanted to take a gulp of air, but that would be too revealing. She tried to ignore her trembling knees.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
His answer was tense, low. “Yes.”
Willa made a face. “Stop that!”
“I can’t.” He stepped forward and brought his mouth to her ear. “I rode behind you all the way here. Your waist is enough to make me cry. But when Buttercup trotted and you bent forward, bottom in the air?”
He pulled back and met her eyes. His had turned smoky and dark. For a second, she had a sense of vertigo. Was this Lord Wilde—the man whom most of the female half of England adored—looking at her? Like that?
“You drive me mad,” he said, his voice rasping.
Willa turned and marched toward the inn; it was either that, or yield, as she had last night, and kiss him.
“I stayed behind you on the road first, so that I could enjoy the view, and second, so that no other man could,” Alaric said at her back, keeping pace with her. They were ushered around the side of the building. “The meal isn’t ready,” he observed. Sure enough, serving people were still dashing in and out of the inn. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded. She’d risen so late that she hadn’t had time for breakfast. “Wait for me,” he said, striding forward.
Willa never obeyed men who gave orders; it set a bad precedent. But she stood as if her feet were rooted to the ground, watching as Alaric snatched up a loaf of bread and block of cheese. A bottle of wine and a couple of glasses.
Whatever he had in mind, it would not be proper. Willa was certain of it.
A voice inside was shrieking about her reputation. If Lady Gray even dreamed that Willa had allowed a man into her bedchamber last night, Lavinia’s mother—her guardian—would quickly declare her ruined. Ruined.
Which translated to soon to be married.
Willa—docile perfect Willa—had been shoved to the side, and the girl who stood under the eaves of the inn, waiting for the absolutely wrong man to return to her …
Evie was waiting, not Willa.
Lavinia appeared at her side. “Do you know what that man just said to me?” she demanded.
“I said nothing importune,” Parth Sterling snarled from behind her. His eyes were furious.
Lavinia wheeled around and pointed a finger, which was so impolite Willa could scarcely believe she was seeing it. “You said I was an ill-tempered harpy.”
He folded his arms over his chest. Quite a broad chest, Willa couldn’t help noticing. “If you don’t want to be insulted, you shouldn’t work so hard at making a nuisance of yourself.”
Alaric was coming toward them, with Prudence—whose gown had a snowy-white collar that seemed to Willa ostentatiously Puritan—in hot pursuit. “Good morning, Lord Alaric,” Prudence cried, reaching them and dropping a curtsy so deep that her knee nearly brushed the ground.
“Good morning, Miss Larkin,” Alaric said. “You will remember my fiancée?”
Prudence’s mouth tightened, and to Willa’s surprise, an ugly look flashed through her eyes.
“Miss Larkin,” Willa said, keeping it short. From what she’d seen during their ride, the announcement of her betrothal had had a dampening effect on his admirers, but of course Prudence had an ingrained tendency to ignore inconvenient facts.
“If you’ll excuse us, Miss Larkin, we have made plans for a stroll,” Alaric said.
Prudence stepped backward, waving her hand gracefully. “I would never deny you any pleasure, my lord.”
Willa wanted to bare her teeth, but instead she took Alaric’s arm. “Where shall we go?” she murmured.
“Out of sight,” he replied grimly.
Lavinia bestowed a beatific smile on Mr. Sterling, just the kind they all knew he loathed. “Yes, I would love to go for a stroll with you,” she trilled, tucking her hand through his arm. “Thank you for asking. I believe I’ll address you as Parth, and you must call me Lavinia.”
“That is more honor than I deserve,” Mr. Sterling retorted.
“Nonsense! Alaric and I are on a first-name basis, obviously, since he is marrying my best friend. Just think how often we will find ourselves together in the coming years!”
She flashed a smile at Willa. “You must call him Parth as well, Willa,” she said, blithely ignoring the fact that her escort’s eyes were emitting sparks.
“I would be honored,” Mr. Sterling—no, Parth—said to Willa, managing to sound genuinely pleased.
“I’d be happy if you addressed me as Willa.”
Alaric tossed the bottle to Parth, who snatched it from the air. His hand now free, Alaric took Willa’s arm and drew it close to his side.
The four of them followed the river until it wound away from the road between two fields. Cushions of violet-blue wildflowers and sweet-smelling lavender lined the water, which had turned from dark turquoise to pale and shimmering.
“Let’s stop here,” Lavinia said, walking over to sit beneath a willow, so tall and lush that it looked like a pale green fountain.
“Did anyone ever tell you just how much a man appreciates a riding habit such as the one you are wearing?” Alaric asked Willa, as she followed Lavinia.
“One assumes,” she said.
“I don’t often have the impulse to revere a piece of clothing,” he said. “But your rear in those skirts, Evie …”
“Hush,” she ordered, looking over her shoulder. She faltered at the look in his eyes and turned about. “Why are you flirting with me? You are an explorer. You’ll board a ship and sail off … somewhere. I, on the other hand, have a domestic frame of mind.”
That slashing eyebrow of his went up. “Domestic, are you? I’m glad to have the proper adjective. I had been trying some out in my mind.”
She wouldn’t ask, she wouldn’t ask.
“ ‘Domestic’ wasn’t one of them,” he said, his eyes dancing.
If he imagined she would board a ship and explore the pirate latitudes with him, he was sadly mistaken. That was her father. No, her mother. She clearly remembered her mother’s laughter, the morning her parents had taken off on that madcap race. They’d scarcely kissed her farewell.
“Willa!” Lavinia called. Sunbeams were breaking through the branches and creating a halo around her hair. She looked positively angelic. “Come join me.”
“We’ll have to share glasses,” Alaric said when they reached the willow. He pulled a knife from his boot, flipped it open, and made quick work of the wine cork.
Lavinia took a sip
of the wine he gave her, and passed the glass to Parth, fluttering her eyelashes as she did so.
He gave her a look of round dislike and took a deep draught.
“You’re such a gentleman,” she cooed, snatching the glass from him and drinking the rest. “Parth, would you mind terribly lending me your coat so I can lie down on this bank?”
Without a word, he wrenched off his coat and handed it to her.
“Thank you!” Lavinia cried, dropping it on the grass. Then she lay back, wiggling a bit until she was comfortable—and perhaps until the coat had acquired a grass stain or two. “Willa, do join me. Parth’s girth is such that I’m sure we can both fit.”
Willa unpinned her wide straw hat. Alaric’s mouth brushed by her ear as he murmured, “You could have balanced a fruit platter on top of that thing.”
She smiled. “I’ll have you know, sir, that this is an exceedingly fashionable hat.”
Lavinia lay against the emerald grass, buttery curls spread about her shoulders, eyes closed in an expression of pure contentment. Parth was staring out at the water, brow furrowed.
Alaric shook out his coat and spread it on the grass next to Parth’s. Willa lay back, shoulder bumping Lavinia’s, and squinted up at the sky through the willow spears. “You’re going to get freckles on your nose, and your mother will be overset.”
“Mmmm,” Lavinia said sleepily. “I love it when the sun is warm on my face.”
Alaric watched the two of them with amusement. Willa’s closest friend was a diabolical woman, which said something about his future wife’s personality.
“Think you can still skip a rock five times?” he asked Parth.
Parth instantly headed for the placid river. “You’ve kept your arm,” he said, when they’d both hurled enough rocks to work up a heat.
Alaric took careful aim and skipped a rock seven times.
Behind them came a drowsy murmur of women’s voices. He could pick out Willa’s voice beneath Lavinia’s lighter one. Lavinia always seemed to be on the verge of laughing, whereas Willa was an observer.
And a doer, he reminded himself.
He had the impression that Willa quietly managed the lives of a great many people around her. Lavinia’s, for one. Lady Gray’s, for another.
He drew back his arm thoughtfully. Life was an odd thing. He’d spent years floating around the world, only to come home and discover that he had an anchor waiting.
“I cannot bear that woman,” Parth said quietly. “May I return to the inn now? Please?”
“You sound like an eight-year-old trying to shirk Latin class.”
“I’d do a Latin tutorial to get away.”
Alaric glanced back. The two prettiest girls in the world were lying side by side. Lavinia had an arm behind her head, a position that had a truly magnificent effect on her bosom.
Rather to his surprise, he wasn’t interested. He wasn’t interested. There was a distinct possibility that the man who wasn’t interested in Lavinia Gray’s breasts was dead.
Or something.
“If I leave, she’ll think she’s won.”
Alaric shrugged, but before he came up with an answer, Parth muttered a curse, hauled off his boots, and headed into the water.
“What are you doing?” Alaric shouted. Behind him, Willa sat up. He couldn’t see her, but he knew she sat up because …
Because he knew.
“There’s something trapped in that tree,” Parth shouted back. He was in up to his hips, plowing at a steady pace toward a tangle of tree limbs caught on a large rock in the middle of the water.
By the time Lavinia and Willa had come to their feet and joined Alaric at the water’s edge, only Parth’s head and shoulders remained above the surface.
“Excuse me, ladies,” Alaric said, tossing his top-boots well up onto the grass. “I believe I’ll see whether Parth could use some help.”
The water was warm, likely because the river was so shallow. When Alaric reached Parth, he had one arm buried to the shoulder in the tangle.
“Damn it,” he bit out. “It scratched me.”
“What is it?”
“Cat,” he grunted. A furious howl came from inside the branches as he brought his arm back out, the drenched animal clutched in his hand.
Alaric burst out laughing. Parth had hold of the ugliest, scraggiest, and downright most hideous cat he’d ever seen. It was hissing and spitting like a teakettle on the boil, ears flat to its sodden head.
No, its single remaining ear was back.
“I don’t believe he likes me,” Parth said, straight-faced. The cat was twisting wildly in the air, scratching at him.
Alaric bellowed his laughter and headed back to shore. When the water was waist-high, he realized that his shirt clung to every ridge of the muscles that encircled his body.
He couldn’t stop himself from grinning as he strode toward Willa. She was looking at him, a little dazed, her mouth slightly open. For her part, Lavinia was watching with pleasure as Parth wrestled the yowling tomcat.
The water was at Alaric’s knees by the time Willa’s eyes jerked above his waistband, her mouth snapping shut. “I’m afraid to say that I cannot ride on to King Arthur’s grave,” he said, splashing onto the bank. He spread his arms and sure enough, Willa’s eyes drifted down his body again.
Parth strode by him, clutching the cat by the front and back legs, so it was rendered more or less immobile. “That’s an ugly cat,” Alaric said, impressed. It had lost fur on one haunch and there was an old scar across its nose.
Willa laughed. “He’s almost as scarred as you are.”
Alaric caught her hand, pulling her against his body. She gave a little shriek. “You’re wet!”
His drenched shirt meant that he felt every bit of her bosom.
“You may not kiss me,” she commanded in a low voice. But her eyes were shining.
“I want you,” he said, low-voiced. “Damn it, Willa, these breeches are as protective as wet paper. My front is likely a crime in some part of the country.”
“You must return to the castle,” she said, stepping backward. Obviously she knew what he was talking about. She had felt it.
“That cat resembles you, Parth,” Lavinia announced behind them.
Alaric wove his fingers through Willa’s and turned. “Scrappy, lame, angry …”
The cat had stopped twisting and was hanging from Parth’s hands, making a good show of looking submissive.
Unless you caught the maddened look in its eye. It was merely biding its time.
Lavinia sauntered over. “I’ll fetch your coat, Alaric,” she cooed. “We wouldn’t want you to take a chill.”
Parth snatched up his coat and bundled the cat so only its furious head was visible. “You were so touched when Alaric bought that baby skunk for Willa,” he said to Lavinia, a smile just touching the edges of his hard mouth. “Sweetpea’s soft fur, dark eyes, and affectionate ways are a perfect match for her new owner.”
Lavinia’s smile cooled.
“I’ll bring this creature back to the castle for you,” Parth said cheerfully. “My present.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Lavinia was rarely spitting angry, but she was now. “That man is arrogant, impossible, and just plain rude,” she said, striding up and down Willa’s bedchamber, too cross to sit.
Willa was curled in an armchair, snuggling Sweetpea. Parth Sterling had made good on his promise—or threat?—to make a present of the rescued cat; the beast had hurled himself through the door opening onto Willa’s balcony, and had flattened against the stone balustrade outside. Occasionally he let out a low curse in cat language, meant to discourage anyone from encroaching on his territory.
“Are you laughing?” Lavinia demanded, swinging about.
“No!” Willa said. “That screeching noise is your cat.”
“My cat! My cat! I don’t want a bloody cat,” Lavinia wailed. “I don’t even like animals. You’re the one who wants a cat. I’m givin
g him to you.”
“I have Sweetpea,” Willa said, alarmed. “I don’t need a cat.”
“Sterling is the most gratuitously rude man I have ever met. Ever.” Out on the balcony, the tomcat continued to hiss, throwing in a little yowl now and then for variety. Lavinia continued to do the same, in English.
“Parth will be gone by the time you return from Manchester,” Willa said consolingly, during a pause. “He’s not a man of leisure.”
Lavinia’s face brightened. “Oh! I’d forgotten Mother and I leave for Manchester tomorrow! Are you certain you don’t wish to join us, Willa?”
“I can’t leave Sweetpea,” Willa said, “and your mother would not enjoy her as a traveling companion. It’s only a few days, and Lady Knowe will be an excellent chaperone.”
“I shall miss you, but perhaps it’s just as well; you should keep an eye on Prudence,” Lavinia said. “I wouldn’t put it past her to contrive a situation in which Alaric supposedly compromises her.”
“Prism has already thought of that. The location of Alaric’s bedchamber is a closely guarded secret.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m of the opinion that a frank conversation with her might solve the problem, but Alaric doesn’t agree.”
Alaric didn’t believe that he needed anyone to champion him, but Willa disagreed. He never showed his feelings when women besieged him, but he hated it. Prudence represented the worst kind of devotee.
Lavinia shook her head. “She’s not like one of his typical admirers. I’m afraid of her.”
“That’s absurd,” Willa said, laughing. “She’s merely another woman in love with Lord Wilde, albeit more zealous than most.”
Willa had the distinct impression that Alaric was keeping Prudence in the castle because it allowed him to continue to claim her as his fiancée. It was a heady thought—a duke’s son wanted her that much.
“Are you sure you won’t come to Manchester?”
“I really can’t.”
“Perhaps I can convince Diana to join us. We have more than enough room in the carriage.”
“If she were to agree, it would be to escape the company of Lord Roland,” Willa said wryly.
“For now, I’m going to take a nap.” Lavinia stretched her arms toward the ceiling. “Why, why do I allow that ill-tempered fellow to vex me so?” She poked her head onto the balcony, which provoked an ear-piercing yowl, and withdrew it quickly. “I was merely jesting about giving you the mongrel cat. I’ll ask to have a groom take it to the stables.”