by Amy Jarecki
Chapter Three
John’s town coach had been in the family for at least twenty years, and he’d had the undercarriage of the creaking pile of rusty bolts restored twice. The red velvet upholstery had faded to pink, but it was functional and well cared for by his coachman. The carriage had always served his needs, but then he’d never endeavored to court the daughter of a duke.
Initially, he’d thought inviting Evelyn and her sister to the park was a splendid idea. It would give him a chance to observe the lady’s interactions with his sons as well as help to move along the negotiations with her father. But John may have acted a bit hastily. At the moment, the air inside the carriage was nothing short of stifling and tense. Oliver had welcomed the guests to their outing in stride, but Thomas sat with his arms folded and his face scrunched like an angry prune while he tried his best not to come in contact with Lady Phoebe, who perched between the two lads.
On the other side of the lass, Oliver had been told twice not to make flatulating noises by snapping his armpit closed against his hand. Poor Lady Phoebe, who had initially chattered happily, after being snubbed by Thomas and repulsed by Oliver, sat like a statue between the two lads, her hands primly folded, her lips pursed as if she didn’t know what to make of the pair of kilted, barbarian Scottish boys.
To John’s left, Lady Evelyn seemed to be captivated by the passing scenery beyond the window and hadn’t said a word since they’d set out. For a young lady being primed for marriage, she seemed rather reserved, even for an Englishwoman. But then, John wasn’t looking for a hellion. A quiet lady who enjoyed spending her time in the garden ought to suit his needs.
“Mother always loved the park,” said Thomas, none too cordially.
John’s heart twisted. It had been three months since Margaret’s death. After two, he’d lifted the requirement for mourning dress for himself and the lads, though nothing but time would serve to heal their loss. And no matter how much John wanted to sit in his library with a bottle of whisky, draperies drawn, he had no alternative but to set the example for his sons and conceal his grief.
“Aye,” he agreed, but changed the subject before Tom added something even more melancholy. “Lady Phoebe, how long have you been in London?”
“Merely a fortnight, my lord.”
“And have you found it invigorating?”
“I suppose.”
“Och, you do not sound convincing.”
The young lass gave her sister an evil eye. “Honestly, there’s been so much ado about Lady Evelyn’s fittings and appearances, I haven’t done much else but read.”
Lady Evelyn’s gaze finally shifted from the window as she regarded her sister. “Oh please, Phoebe, you’ve had fittings as well.”
“But nothing like yours.”
It seemed they all needed respite. John pulled open the curtain on his side and glanced out, relieved to see the park’s towering oak trees as the coach rolled to a stop. “I’m certain when you come of age, you will be equally as busy, Lady Phoebe.” Not waiting for the footman to open the door, he pulled on the latch. “Are you ready for some good sport?”
“Aye!” Oliver said while Thomas clambered down the steps.
John followed his eldest and gripped the boy’s shoulder. “I ken you’re eager, but I expect you to assist Lady Phoebe.”
“Must I?” the lad asked under his breath.
Evidently, Thomas was in sore need of an adjustment to his priorities. Bending down until his lips were even with his son’s ear, John whispered, “Do it now and erase the scowl from your face, else I shall toss you back inside and order the coachman to take you home.”
He then took in a deep breath as he straightened and smiled, offering his hand to Lady Evelyn. “I hope you do not mind playing referee, m’lady.”
“Not at all.”
Thomas avoided a miserable trip home when he helped Phoebe alight. “We only have three boats.”
“I’m the privateer!” hollered Oliver, hopping to the ground and running around to the rear of the coach, where the footman had opened the trunk.
“It is the gentlemanly thing to do to allow Lady Phoebe first choice.” John gestured inside the chest. “We have the Francis Drake, a privateer; the Tortuga, a pirate ship; and the HMS Thistle, which patrols the high seas.” During the long days of mourning, he and the boys had made the schooners all with the same two-masted design.
As the lass looked over the options, Oliver came up beside her. “You ought to take Her Majesty’s Thistle because it’s for lassies.”
“Do you prefer the Francis Drake?” Lady Phoebe asked.
“Aye, ’tis my favorite.”
“And I’m in a mood to be a pirate,” said Thomas, picking up the Tortuga.
Evelyn looked over Phoebe’s shoulder. “The Thistle is lovely. I’m sure my sister will be happy with any of them.”
“’Tis settled, then.” John led the crew to the Serpentine, the park’s loch—or lake, as the English preferred.
“What are the rules?” asked Lady Phoebe.
Thomas ran ahead with his brother on his heels. “You move your boat along with a stick and try to beat the others.”
“Stay well away from the water,” John added. “No pushing or shoving of the enemy’s captain—”
“We are the captains,” Oliver explained, gesturing to himself with his thumb.
“You’ll need to stop your boats before you reach the grove.” John peered down the length of the loch. “What landmark can we use for the finish line?”
Lady Evelyn pointed. “Is that white post down the way a mooring cleat?”
“Indeed it is.” John gave her an appreciative nod, relieved that the dreary overtones in the coach seemed to disappear with a bit of fresh air. “Sail your boats to the cleat. And be careful not to push them too far from the bank or else they’ll be lost at sea.”
“Not mine,” said Oliver as if he’d mastered the art of toy boat sailing.
“I’ll go down and watch the finish line.” Her Ladyship retreated practically at a run.
After a hasty look to ensure the children were being assisted by the footmen, John started after Evelyn. “I’ll accompany you.”
By the sudden rigid bent of her shoulders, he sensed she wasn’t enamored with his idea.
Why would she be averse? Was it their difference in age? That shouldn’t matter. It wasn’t uncommon for a maid to marry a man sixteen years her senior. However, after the lads’ behavior, she might be worried about becoming a stepmother…or marrying a recent widower. Was she fearful? Or did she already have her sights on another?
But she has only been in London for a fortnight.
Before John took things further, he needed to find out.
When he fell in beside her, she glanced up. The sun caught the turquoise of her eyes, making them shimmer as brightly as a peacock. “I believe Lord Thomas would have preferred an afternoon alone with you and Lord Oliver.”
With the brim of her bonnet upturned, John took the opportunity to study her face more closely. Though she looked nothing like Margaret, the lass had a sultry, perceptive countenance—defined eyebrows, high cheekbones, and sensual lips made striking by the sunlight. Her dark lashes framed her astonishing eyes, making them more vivid. Odd, Margaret’s eyes had never appeared as bright.
“Lord Tom mightn’t be aware, but in truth, the three of us have had far too much time alone together,” John replied.
“I know how difficult it is to lose one’s mother. I’m sure you are aware I lost mine to childbed fever. I was the same age as Lord Thomas at the time.”
Hmm. “I knew she’d passed. I didn’t realize when.”
“Phoebe’s birth proved too much for Mama. After, I resented my sister until she was two years of age.”
John knew too well about resentment, except he resented his bloody self. “What happened to change your mind?”
“Lung sickness. When I realized my infant sister might die, it suddenly became the mo
st important thing in the world to save her. I felt as if I’d brought on her ailment because of my deep-seated animosity. No one could convince me to leave Lady Phoebe’s bedside until she made a full recovery.”
“I commend your tenacity.”
“Grief is a complicated emotion. Perhaps Lord Thomas needs more time.”
A tic twitched in John’s jaw. He didn’t like that Lady Evelyn provided her opinion about his son as if she had any clue what was best. But then again, that was exactly why John needed a wife—to be a stepmother. Rather than argue, he turned the conversation toward Her Ladyship. “Tell me, m’lady, are you apprehensive about the prospect of being courted?”
Arriving at the post, she stopped and faced him. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You’ve expressed to me the depth of your attachment to your sister. When you marry, you will no longer be living under the same roof. Eventually Lady Phoebe will find her match as well. To think of such changes must be unnerving for you.”
“Unnerving?” she asked slowly, as though the idea had crossed her mind for the first time. “Why, yes. I would hate to marry someone who would take me away from my family—all the way to Scotland, perchance.”
“I see. I would think a Scottish husband would be sensitive to his wife’s need to see her family. And now that the queen has combined English and Scottish parliaments, from November to May all peers must generally reside in London, where you would be sure to see your father and sisters whenever you’d like.”
“I suppose you’re right. But Scotland is so remote—such a wild place.” As her gaze drifted to his kilt, her lips parted slightly.
John nearly berated himself for welcoming the lady’s attention. Nearly. Though he would blame himself for Margaret’s death and mourn her loss until he took his last breath, it still made him feel like a man to receive a woman’s notice. “I think you’d be surprised. Edinburgh, in particular, is modern, cultured, and quite diverting.”
“Do you have lands near Edinburgh?”
“Not far from. There is easy access from my main residence in Alloa if we sail a galley down the River Forth and into the Firth. We moor at Leith and take a coach or sedan chairs up to the Royal Mile. There’s never a loss for amusements—theater, shopping, whatever you fancy.”
Her Ladyship chuckled, the sound as sultry as her lips. “Surprising. I would think the city might be brimming with the destitute and infirm. My understanding is Scottish commoners have suffered more from unfair taxation than their English counterparts.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” John’s gut clenched. Did the lass have a clue as to the depth of her assertion?
“Of course not,” Evelyn said, looking beyond him. “You are one of the queen’s most trusted ministers.”
Exactly what did she mean? She had no idea the risks he’d taken to temper some of the most egregious legislation to which he’d ever had the misfortune of being a part. Besides, no gentlewoman bothered to embroil herself in the machinations of politics.
John knit his brows. “Do you mean to ridicule me?”
“In no way would I insult a peer. I was simply stating the facts.”
The more they spoke, the more John suspected Her Ladyship must have another courtier in the wings. Well, that wouldn’t do. He must speak to her father straightaway or lose his chance.
He followed her gaze to the footpath, where three gentlemen were deep in conversation—two of them allies, though every one a staunch Jacobite—not that any right-minded nobleman heralded his true politics when in London. Truth be told, for obvious reasons, John shared his personal loyalties with no one. But he held the Earl of Seaforth and the Marquis of Tullibardine in high esteem.
Yet Claude Dubois was an enigma. A high-ranking French dignitary, the man had presented letters from Louis XIV avowing that he’d been sent to Britain as an advisor to Queen Anne. His task was to represent France during the ongoing peace negotiations in the Netherlands. But in John’s observation, whenever the Frenchman was at court, Dubois appeared to engage in more meddling than advising. Moreover, he was the very man with whom Lady Evelyn had been speaking last eve by the refreshment table.
“Is your father an associate of Mr. Dubois?” John asked. Now that peace with France was practically a foregone conclusion, Kingston-upon-Hull might be moving in early to arrange the transport of imports from France.
“Um…” She snapped her gaze away. “Oh, look! Well done, Phoebe!”
Three years older and a good head taller than John’s eldest, Lady Phoebe had taken the lead.
But by Thomas’s determined effort, he hadn’t given up. “Aye, me hearties, we’ll overtake the queen’s ship and plunder her gold!”
“No!” Lady Phoebe shrieked, smacking her boat and glancing behind. Thomas was gaining, but poor Oliver had been capsized by a lily pad.
“Now’s our chance, me hearties!” Tom gave his boat a thwack as Lady Phoebe caught her toe on a rock. Stumbling, the lass threw out her hands and careened to the ground.
In a blink, John dashed toward her, but she tumbled in the grass, her stick falling into the water, smacking her boat with a forceful prod.
“Phoebe!” Evelyn shouted, close on John’s heels.
Just as he reached her, the wee lassie looked up and thrust her finger toward the loch. “Look at the HMS Thistle! She’s heading out to the depths and will soon be swallowed by the Serpentine’s sea monster. Quickly, Evie, you must fetch her.”
John kneeled beside the child, who lay on her stomach beside the bank. “Do not concern yourself with the wee boat—are you all right, lass?”
She looked at each of her palms—dirty but not bloodied. “Um…I think so.”
He offered his hand. “Let me help you to your feet.”
Once upright, Lady Phoebe winced. “I might have scraped my knee.”
John glanced back to beckon Lady Evelyn, but she’d picked up a branch and was already fifty paces away, hastening after the HMS Thistle.
“Does it hurt to take a step?” he asked, wishing she were a lad and wearing a kilt so the scrape would be in plain sight.
Her Ladyship walked a few paces. “I’m sure it will be fine if I sit down for a bit.”
John waved to Oliver, who had retrieved his boat. “Take Lady Phoebe to the bench and stay there.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
“I won!” Thomas shouted well beyond the mooring cleat.
“No one is the victor,” John growled at the ruffian. “Especially you—now off to the bench with the others.”
“Why?”
John was about to tell the whelp he should have stopped to assist Lady Phoebe, but he hadn’t time. He broke into a run, watching Lady Evelyn, the daughter of a duke, hold on to a tree limb while she inclined her entire body toward the loch, reaching for the bloody HMS Thistle. God’s bones, he should have known better than to name the queen’s boat after a prickly Scottish symbol.
The bell of her hoopskirt dipped in the water as she reached lower.
Her Ladyship’s fingers stretched mere inches from the mast.
If he shouted, would she fall? Bless it, if he didn’t shout, she’d fall for certain. “Stop! I’ll fetch—”
“Aaack!”
Ker-splash!
John’s breath caught in his chest as he bounded into the cold, murky water, shoving lily pads out of his path. He had seconds to wrap his hands around the woman before those heavy skirts pulled her under.
Splashing wildly, Her Ladyship shrieked as her head dipped below the surface.
With one enormous lunge, John broke past a web of water weeds and grabbed a wrist. As he planted his feet into the thick silt, he swept his arms beneath her knees and around her back. Gnashing his teeth, he strained against the weight of woolen skirts, and at least five petticoats weighing upwards of twenty stone.
“I have you,” he growled through clenched teeth while he trudged toward the shore.
“Pfth,” she sputtered, clutching the damned schooner
against her chest. But as the water drained from her clothing, the woman grew considerably lighter. In fact, he rather enjoyed the curve of her hip pressing into his abdomen, the feminine waist cradled against his arm. Truly, Her Ladyship mustn’t be as robust beneath all those skirts as he’d envisioned her to be.
By the time he stepped on dry land, she’d grown feather light.
A few steps farther on, Lady Evelyn peered at him over the HMS Thistle’s sails. “You may set me down now.”
“Are you hurt at all, m’lady?”
Her teeth chattered. “Aside from my pride being badly bruised, I think I am unharmed.”
“Perhaps I ought to carry you to the coach. We’ll find a dry cloak for you there.”
“No, please. I cannot possibly impose on you further.”
He did as she asked and took the boat from her grasp. Before he stopped himself, John gawked like an ungentlemanly, adolescent lad. The neckline of Lady Evelyn’s gown had shifted, revealing the tips of two very rosy, very erect nipples.
Within a heartbeat, every one of John’s male instincts took over. Knees turned boneless while another piece of his anatomy hardened. Lord, the woman had the shapeliest breasts he’d ever seen. Skin like cream. Ample bosoms with enough cleavage in which a man might lose himself.
“Oh, my. You’re soaked clean through as well,” she said, still completely oblivious to her state of undress.
“Am I?” John cleared his throat, exaggerating the motion of glancing down to her neckline, praying she’d notice, lest he be forced to mention it. “Och…I am.”
But she looked at him as if he were mad. “Shall we?”
“Nay.” Again he cleared his throat, this time forcing himself to look at her face. “Not until you’ve adjusted your gown, m’lady.” There were the lads, and then the footmen, and then who knew how many randy men would see Her Ladyship before she was safely behind the door of her bedchamber.
A round O formed on her lips as she glanced down. “Oh, heavens!” She whipped around and faced the loch, tugging up the wet cloth. “Curses to this miserable gown. The fabric has stretched.”
John extended his hand but snapped it back. What could he do? He was an expert at removing women’s clothing, not at assembling. And his coat was too wet to be of use to her. “Remain here. I’ll fetch one of the footmen’s doublets and we’ll have you covered in no time.”