“When are Gray and Lily expected?” Simon asked idly. Recently knighted, Sir Gray Masterson and Lady Lily, Rafe’s sister, were stuck in London because of Gray’s work for the Crown.
“Not soon enough,” Rafe grumbled. “Tomorrow or the next day, I think. The Wyndams will join us tomorrow unless Marcus has a horse ready to foal.”
Lord and Lady Wyndam lived in a centuries-old castle a few hours ride from Wintermarsh. Simon had purchased several horses from Wyndam’s stables. The man had grown his reputation for breeding and training the finest horseflesh in England.
Simon took a sip and stared out at the rising full moon. It cast an ephemeral light across the gardens as if a portal between the human and fae worlds had opened for a blink of time. Movement at the edge of his vision drew his gaze back to earth. A woman limned in moonlight sent his heart into a lope. Was fate giving him a nudge? Simon drained his glass and strode toward the door.
“Where are you headed with the devil on your heels?” Rafe asked.
“I forgot I have an assignation to keep.” At Rafe’s speculative, sardonic brow lift, Simon hastened to add, “With Damien. I promised him a drink and hand of cards.”
Rafe half rose. “That sounds like the perfect antidote to a trying evening. I’ll join you.”
“No!”
Rafe’s eyes widened.
Simon modulated his tone and smiled as he backed toward the door. “Damien and I will be heading to the cottage, and I’m sure Minerva would prefer you join her. In bed.”
Simon shuddered at the implication he was forced to make, but it had the intended effect. A definite gleam entered Rafe’s eyes. Simon exited before Rafe could question him further. Even as he bolted out of the double doors leading to the gardens, he berated himself. Hadn’t he decided not to pursue the maid? It probably wasn’t even her. In fact, it was madness to hope it was her. Nevertheless, a mad hope made his chest tighten.
He trotted to where he’d seen movement but found no one. His imagination had played a cruel trick. The soft hum of an unfamiliar tune carried on the slight breeze. He cocked his ear and followed like a rat to the Pied Piper. Luck was with him. Whether the luck would prove to be of the good or bad variety had yet to be determined.
A woman stood at the entrance to a bower. Her face was tilted toward the light as if she were a moonflower, her beauty blooming at night. Although the shadows were deep, a frisson of awareness shot through his body.
It was her. He had never been more sure of anything.
The woman had haunted his dreams far too many nights for him not to recognize her. He shuffled forward, expecting her to vanish like a mirage any second. The scuff of his shoes on the graveled path drew her head around, and she retreated into the shadows of the vines reaching overhead to form an arch.
He held his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m sorry for startling you, miss. I mean you no harm.”
“It seems to me that’s exactly what a man bent on taking advantage of a woman would declare.” Her accent would not have been out of place at a ton ball.
Simon opened his mouth to respond with reassurances and then closed it. She didn’t sound frightened. Quite the opposite, in fact. If he had to put a name to her tone, he would call it teasing.
“I’m harmless, I swear.” He put his hand over his heart in a pledge he wasn’t sure was even true. At least where she was concerned.
“A man let loose in a darkened garden is not a man to be trusted, sir.”
He squinted to see her better but didn’t dare move closer. The last thing he wanted was to scare her off. Why did he feel like a callow youth going courting for the first time? He assumed this was how one felt when calling upon a lady one admired. He’d never had to deal with an infestation of butterflies on this scale.
“My name is Simon.” He was loath to mention his title, not wanting deference to drown the unexpected ease between them.
“I know who you are.” She didn’t sound the least bit intimidated or deferent. “You spied on me.”
Heat rushed through him. Not the desire he’d battled while watching her at the pond, but acute embarrassment. He barely kept himself from squirming. His knee-jerk reaction was to lie and deny any knowledge of what she was referring to, but he was a man grown and had learned the hard way to own his missteps.
“I assure you it wasn’t intentional. I heard a noise and suspected a poacher, but when I drew closer, I could see…” The image of her rising from the water in a wet, diaphanous chemise outlining her body flashed in his mind.
He was considered a skilled orator and enjoyed debating all comers on a variety of issues on the Parliament floor, but in this moment, his dexterity with words abandoned him without a backward glance. “Your clothes. I mean, your lack of clothes. The point being I realized you weren’t a poacher.”
“No, I was merely enjoying the supposed solitude.”
He fought the urge to squirm at her accusatory tone. “Not to put a fine point to it, but you were on Wintermarsh land.”
“Does that give you the right to claim jus primae noctis?”
The use of the old Latin phrase by a lady’s maid surprised him. Her recognition of his power over her was sobering. “Of course not. I merely want to warn you to be careful.”
“I’ve swum in that pond for years without ever seeing anyone. Until you.”
“Technically, you didn’t see me either. My clumsiness gave me away.”
“You followed me.”
“Yes. I was curious.”
“And here you are once more.” She raised her chin in an unspoken question.
“My curiosity has yet to be appeased.” He took a chance and joined her under the arch of vines, dipping his head to clear the low-hanging yellow trumpet flowers beginning to wilt with the arrival of cooler weather.
He cursed the darkness, wanting to study every angle and curve of her. Her cheekbones cast darker shadows, and a stubborn chin highlighted the softness of her full lips. Her almond-shaped eyes bridged a straight nose.
It was too dark to judge the color of her eyes or her complexion. Her dark hair was long and loosely braided, the thick rope hanging over her shoulder and tied with a ragged red ribbon probably cast off from her mistress. The loose dress hid the decadent curves etched in his memory.
She favored her mistress in a vague way he couldn’t put his finger on. Was it her height or coloring or something less tangible? Unfortunately for Miss Tremaine, her maid was the prettier of the two even in her drab servant’s attire.
“You are bound to be disappointed. I’m not interesting.” Her voice held a warning he ignored.
“Let me be the judge of that. Would you like to take a stroll?” He gestured toward the moonlit lawn.
“No. I shouldn’t even be in the gardens.”
“Will Miss Tremaine chastise you? Is she kind or cruel?”
The woman under the bower turned away to strip the leaves from the closest vine. “I suppose she can be both protective and vengeful.”
Simon tried to picture the sallow-faced, meek Miss Tremaine as a Valkyrie meting out justice, but he couldn’t. “Is she kind to you though?”
“She is.”
“How long have you been her maid?”
“Quite a long time now.”
Simon did some quick sums. The woman before him couldn’t be more than twenty, but girls as young as twelve entered service as scullery maids. Lady’s maids in particular often formed a close attachment to their employers. “Are you close with your mistress?”
“You could say we’re almost inseparable.” The woman’s wry smile warmed the darkness like the embers of a fire.
“May I ask your name?”
The smile faded, and she tilted her head, silent for too many of his thumping heartbeats. “Abby Blackwell.”
“Miss Blackwell. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He performed a small bow.
“And yours as well, Your Grace.”
“No. Call me Simon.�
� It was much too familiar, but his need to hear his given name tripping off her tongue was unexplainable.
“Simon.” Her husky whisper sent a shiver through him. Of pleasure, yes, but also of premonition. Or was it foreboding?
“What brought you to Penhaven to be a lady’s maid?”
“My mother died.” Pain hid poorly behind her brief explanation.
“What of your father?”
“A fever took Papa long ago,” she said softly.
“Did sickness claim your mother?”
“She died of a broken heart.” A rawness in her voice spoke to him beyond her words. If he wasn’t already tiptoeing along the line of gentlemanly behavior, he would be tempted to offer a very ungentlemanly comfort.
“Do you have any siblings?”
“A younger brother.” Miss Blackwell tugged her shawl tighter around her. “He is away and safe.”
“Safe from what?”
She worried her bottom lip. “Why do you want to know?”
She didn’t trust him, and why should she, considering the manner of their meeting? “I merely wish to know you better.”
“But why?”
It was his turn to gauge his trust in her. After the foibles of his youth, he had been discreet and careful with his associations. He had many acquaintances and political allies, but few true friends. This woman was a stranger, and yet…
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. The invitation issued to Mr. Goforth and Miss Tremaine was no accident.”
Her intake of breath was audible. “They were invited because of me?”
“Does my admission make me sound daft?” He wasn’t sure what to expect. Laughter? A slap in the face? Neither came. She was silent and watching in a way that had him tripping over his words. “I realize it is untoward of me to pursue you based on nothing more than an indiscreet moment, but something instinctual draws me to you.”
“Is that what gentlemen call their baser needs? Their instincts?”
He reddened and was thankful for the dark he’d cursed not five minutes earlier. “I’ll admit to a physical attraction. I could attempt to have you through seduction or coercion, but I don’t want to hurt you, Miss Blackwell.”
The silence lengthened, but this time he waited it out.
“It’s my guardian.”
“Pardon?”
“My guardian is not a good man.” Her voice was a whisper, as if speaking his name might summon him like a demon.
“Is he why you are in service?” It would explain why her accent and demeanor were as ladylike as any of the debutantes.
There was a slight hesitation before she nodded.
Simon’s hands drew into fists, and he linked them behind his back to hide his aggression from her. Would she think him odd if he asked for her guardian’s direction? “I’m glad you and your brother are safe from his clutches.”
“I’m a survivor. Or so Mrs. Hamish tells me.”
A faint disturbance fluttered in the recesses of his mind, but it remained elusive. “I met Mrs. Hamish when I delivered the invitation to Goforth.”
“She warned me about you.” Warmth curled through her voice like the first flame of a fire. “Told me I should avoid you at all costs because I might not survive you.”
“I’m not as dangerous as all that. I’ve found the best sort of people are survivors.”
“What sort of hardships have you survived? Too many estates? Too many servants to manage? How taxing for you.” Sarcasm dripped from her questions. Far from being offended, he was pleased at her jab. Not many were brave enough to take him to task.
And he supposed he deserved a measure of castigation from where she sat on the social hierarchy, especially if she’d taken a tumble. “It’s true I’ve never had to worry about money, but my life has not always been easy. My parents died when I was young. It was a harsh, lonely existence for many years.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.” She shuffled closer and raised her hand as if to offer comfort. Before she could retreat, he captured her hand in his.
Skin against skin, their hands rasped and grappled until their fingers were linked.
“No need to apologize. I was lucky to have my sister, Minerva. She is older and as protective as you are with your brother.”
“You have your own estates, yet you choose to spend a great deal of time at Wintermarsh. Why?”
For a moment, he wondered at how she knew where he spent his time, but he supposed gossip made the rounds in Lipton much the same way it did in London, which was to say like wildfire.
“Wintermarsh saw me through trying times. I find peace here. It’s true I own other estates, but I call none of them home.” He ran a hand through his hair. “That sounds sickeningly dramatic.”
“No, it makes perfect sense. No matter how long I reside there, Penhaven will never be my home. A house is where you sleep and work, but a home is where your heart resides, no matter where you are.”
Simon swallowed past the lump in his throat. She’d managed to express exactly how he felt about Wintermarsh. “Exactly so, Miss Blackwell,” he managed to whisper.
His physical attraction to Miss Blackwell had been simple and crude. Faced with the woman before him, he was humbled and ashamed. She was a woman of feeling and depth.
“Did you lose your parents together?” Her change of subject was welcome.
“Yes. In a highway robbery. Mother refused to part with her jewelry, and both she and Father were shot. The irony was the jewels were paste. I don’t know if she didn’t want anyone to find out they were paste or was arrogant enough to believe herself above such lawlessness.”
“That’s shocking. I’m so sorry.”
Simon shrugged. “It was long ago. My memories are vague.”
She hadn’t pulled her hand away from his, and he grew bold, caressing the back with his thumb. Between her accent and her use of Latin, it was clear she was gently born, and her current situation was driven by unfortunate circumstances.
“We’re quite similar, you and I,” he said.
Her throaty laugh was the sun peeping from behind dark clouds with the promise of fairer weather. “Yes, so similar. Except you’re a wealthy duke with the world at your feet, and I’m a poor maid toiling away at a country house.”
He smiled with an ease he hadn’t felt in too long. “Our positions are different, but in our hearts, where it counts, we are similar.”
She tugged her hand free and took a step away from him. A weak shaft of moonlight illuminated the right side of her face. He caught his breath. The shadows and light emphasized the sharp cut of her cheekbone and line of her jaw. Only her lips were soft, like the petals of a flower.
“This has been diverting, but I must be getting back.” She took a step away from him.
He barely stopped himself from reaching for her. “I must see you again. Do you have any free time during the day?”
Miss Blackwell wore a troubled frown, but she didn’t immediately deny him.
Simon was ready to beg if necessary. Never had he felt this sort of impatience to spend time with a woman before. “Please, Miss Blackwell.”
“Not during the day, no.” She took a half dozen steps and then turned back to him. “But my mistress retires early, and my nights are free.”
His heart, which had briefly stopped, thumped hard. He proffered a small bow. “I am at your disposal.”
“I fear Mrs. Hamish is in the right. She said the gleam in your eye boded nothing good for me.” Miss Blackwell’s statement landed somewhere between accusing and defiant.
Simon supposed he could promise not to touch her, but he wasn’t sure it was a promise he could keep. “Meet me at the garden’s edge tomorrow evening, and we’ll walk and talk.”
“Only walk and talk?” she asked with narrowed eyes.
“My word as a gentleman, I will not seduce you.” He let a few beats of silence fall before a tease crowded out his seriousness. “However, I will not as
k the same promise of you, Miss Blackwell. If you wish to seduce me, I shall not cry foul.”
As he hoped, a smile, quick and true, flashed over her face. “Only in your dreams, Your Grace.”
“With a certainty, Miss Blackwell.” He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to the back. Her fingers spasmed and gripped his fingers tighter, but he dared not press his luck further. He released her hand and inclined his head. “Until tomorrow evening.”
And with that, she took flight, disappearing around a manicured hedge.
He stood there and felt like pinching himself. She was real. It hadn’t been a dream, had it? No. She had surpassed the limits of his imagination. What would their next night together bring? Anticipation burned through him. First though, he had to navigate another day with ladies he already knew he would never marry.
Chapter 7
The beauty of the gardens barely registered as Jessica made her escape. Her heart still pounded from the kiss he’d laid on her hand, and she examined it curiously, expecting to find it transformed somehow. But no, it was still just her hand.
She was playing a dangerous game. Not only did she not have prior experience, but she didn’t understand the rules. Simon, on the other hand, seemed vastly experienced and accustomed to winning. Could she trust his word?
Likely not. Except deep in his beguiling blue eyes she recognized a kindred soul and felt herself relaxing with him as if he truly did understand her. Even more astonishing was the fact she had flirted with him. Or at least, she thought that’s what their teasing comprised. Thank goodness she had the wits to switch to a purely English accent. He hadn’t seemed to question her identity.
But there was a problem. A big one. Lies did not come easily, and she’d found herself skating too close to the truth.
Her mother had died of a broken heart. Why else would she have put a noose around her neck and killed herself? Goforth had told everyone she had died of a quick illness, and she’d never heard anyone doubt his story. Even the magistrate had agreed. How greased were that gentleman’s palms?
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