by Cara Elliott
“How did you do that?” she asked admiringly.
“It’s all in the wrist,” he explained, demonstrating a quick flicking motion. “One learns it through casting a fishing line and throwing a cricket ball. As well as hammering a broken shutter.”
“You are a man of many talents,” she murmured.
Should he feel insulted that throwing a hat and fixing a cottage window seemed to be at the top of her list? Oddly enough, it made him smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment, even if it wasn’t meant to be.”
She looked a little embarrassed. “Your list,” she said, abruptly changing the subject. “Shall we begin?”
Paper cracked as he unfolded the note and read off the areas he wished to visit.
“An interesting selection.” Eliza thought for a moment. “Your friend understands landscape design.”
And so do you, thought Gryff. Only someone well versed in the nuances of the art would see the connection.
“Follow me,” she said. “We’ll start at the south ha-ha and work our way around to the lake.”
He fell in step beside her.
They walked in companionable silence, the crunch of the gravel a pleasant counterpoint to the rustling leaves and chirping songbirds. Somewhere close by, an owl hooted, the sound sending a rabbit skittering for cover within a tangle of blackberry canes. The stones ended, and as Gryff walked over the soft grass, he could feel the warmth of the earth seeping up through his boots.
The crowded, dung-spattered cobbles of London suddenly seemed to hold little allure. Breathing in the clean-scented air, he was reminded of the choking soot, the noxious smells of the city.
Country. Earth and wind. Sun and foliage.
Perhaps it was time to go home. Home to a place where countless Dwights had trod the land before him. Home to a place where living things took root and grew. Home to a place he could take pride in improving and then pass on to a future generation.
“As you see, sir, the use of a ha-ha wall allows a clear vista down to the river.”
Eliza’s words pulled Gryff out of his reveries.
“Capability Brown left this line of bushes to define the left opening,” she pointed out. “Clever, is it not?”
“Indeed.” He took out his notebook and pencil. “It’s also interesting how he used…”
For the next few hours the two of them traversed the fields and climbed up and down the slopes, studying the contours of the land, and how the celebrated designer had used shape, texture, and color to guide the eye through the natural setting. It was a sublime experience, made even more enjoyable by the company of his companion. Gryff found himself admiring not just her lovely body, but also her clever mind.
Eliza was intelligent, knowledgeable, articulate. But most of all, she was passionate. He liked watching the fire light in her eyes when she described an element that appealed to her imagination. Their color turned to flame-kissed sapphire, a molten shade of blue so vibrant, yet so ethereal, that it defied a solid name.
Her features were equally expressive, once she relaxed enough to let down her guard. She had a certain way of quirking the corners of her mouth when she disagreed with him. And rarely had he seen the arch of a brow convey such scathing skepticism. A crinkling, a flutter—it was all very subtle. One might easily miss her signals.
But then, he guessed she had learned to disguise her feelings. Hide her passions.
Intrigued, he provoked her into arguments over details, taking pleasure in the fact that she wasn’t afraid to challenge his opinions. In London, so many of his acquaintances were either sycophants or seductresses. It was refreshing to be with someone who was simply herself.
Finally finished with their survey of the south section of landscaping, they skirted a copse of beech trees and made their way down to the classical Greek folly set on the edge of the lake.
“Mmmph.” Eliza passed through the row of fluted columns and plopped down on one of the stone benches with an audible sigh.
“Tired?” he asked, feeling a little guilty that he had forced her to cover so much ground.
“Hungry,” she replied, eyeing the hamper. “I hope you brought plenty of food.”
“Enough to feed an army.”
“Ha!” she grinned. “An army of hummingbirds, perhaps. I’ve seen how the fine London ladies dine.” Sucking in her cheeks, she gave a frightfully accurate imitation of how the reigning belles of Society took dainty little bites of a morsel no bigger than a pea. “Sorry, but after all that exercise, I could eat a—”
“Please don’t say horse,” interrupted Gryff, exaggerating a grimace. “I am quite fond of Demon.” He set the hamper down. “And I don’t think he would taste very good.”
“Too tough,” she agreed. “I hope you have something better tucked under that cloth. Else I might have to nibble on your…”
Gryff felt his body give an involuntary clench.
“…boot,” she finished.
“You might have to settle for an elbow. Hoby’s footwear costs an arm and leg,” he responded, greatly enjoying the verbal give and take.
“I thought you were rich.”
“I am. But no amount of money could compensate for losing Prescott and his secret champagne polish for my footwear. Have you any idea how hard it is to find a good valet these days?”
Eliza rolled her eyes. “What a Macaroni you are.”
He couldn’t remember ever having enjoyed conversing—really conversing—with a lady this much before. Probably because his exchanges with the opposite sex were mostly sultry, sexual word games aimed at winning an invitation to tumble between the bedsheets.
“Good God, does your valet control your life?” she remarked, once her facial gymnastics were done.
“He controls my clothing, which is much the same,” answered Gryff. “I can’t very well walk around Town stark naked.”
She fell silent at that, her gaze dropping to watch a grasshopper’s progress across the mossy stones.
Damnation. He gave himself a good, swift mental kick. Her downturned face and loosened ringlets could not quite hide the telltale flush of her embarrassment.
“Would you like a breast or a leg?” he quipped, quickly unpacking the roasted chicken in hope that humor might restore the mood of relaxed camaraderie.
Her shoulder blades stiffened.
Oh, bloody hell…It took a moment for him to realize she was trying not to laugh.
As a stifled chuckle slipped from out from the folds of her shawl, the knot in his chest loosened, allowing his breath to release in a rush.
“I imagine that you would choose the breast,” said Eliza, her lips still quivering with mirth.
“I like both.” He grinned, feeling ridiculously happy at seeing her smile. “Why don’t I carve up a little of each for us?”
Eliza nodded in assent. “What else is in there?” After a peek under the cloth, she took out a loaf of crusty bread, a wedge of crumbly cheese, chutney, and a jug of cider in quick succession. A last foray produced the tart, which she set down ever so carefully beside her.
“Am I forgiven for all my past transgressions?” he asked, passing her a plate.
“I’ll tell you after I’ve tasted the tart.”
What with the fresh air and exercise, Gryff found that he, too, had worked up a good appetite. Shrugging out of his coat, he fixed a generous helping of the food for himself and dug in.
“This is delicious,” murmured Eliza, breaking off another wedge of the buttery cheddar and topping it with a dollop of pickled fruit.
He liked how she ate with gusto. There was an earthy sensuality to her uninhibited enjoyment of the taste and textures of the food. The sight of her mouth savoring the—
Gryff made himself swallow his lecherous thoughts.
Taking another swig of the potent cider, he leaned back on his elbows and watched the gentle undulations of the leaves overhead. The breeze had softened, and with the stones radiating the heat soaked up from earlier in the
day, he felt his mood turning even more mellow.
“You were right,” he heard Eliza announce. “Well, half right. There are enough pickings left for at least a regiment.” A fork clinked, followed by a soulful sigh. “Sorry, though. I’m not sharing the tart with anyone but you.”
“Is it good?” he asked drowsily, not opening his eyes.
“Absolutely divine.” Her skirts brushed up against his thighs. “Here, you have to try a bite.”
He lifted a lid. Her almond-shaped eyes were rich with merriment, and he was suddenly, hungrily aware that of late he had come to have a craving for nuts. “If you insist.”
“You won’t regret it. “
She leaned in closer, and all he could see was the cupid’s bow curve of her mouth and the sinuous stretch of her smile, made a touch lopsided by the dab of creamy custard clinging to the corner of her lips.
“Open wide,” she said, teasing a forkful of tart in front of his nose.
Gryff obeyed the order. But before she could feed him the morsel, he straightened slightly and flicked out his tongue to lick away the excess pastry. “Sorry, you had a spot.” He smacked his lips. “Mmmm, you’re right. It’s delicious.”
Her throat convulsed. “I—I have lots of spots.”
“So I see,” said Gryff softly. He touched his lips ever so gently to the bridge of her nose. “Hmmm. They seem to be stuck there. Perhaps I should try harder.”
Eliza caught a dancing lock of hair and smoothed it behind her ear. “Ladies are told to use lemon juice to erase them,” she murmured.
“I can think of a far sweeter method to try.”
Sunlight played over the curl of her downswept lashes, winking like bits of burnished gold. Despite the brightness, her eyes remained hidden in shadow. “I thought you promised that your intentions were honorable.”
“So I did.” Reluctantly he leaned back. “And a gentleman always keeps his promises.”
Her expression pinched as she let out a sardonic laugh.
Gryff wouldn’t have thought that a fleeting whisper could express such a multitude of emotions. Anger. Exasperation. Doubt. Hurt.
“Do they?” she replied after the sound had died away. “How odd to hear you say so.” Eyes narrowing, she stared out over the lake. “In my experience, a gentleman always does exactly as he pleases, regardless of what flowery words he’s spoken.”
“Perhaps you’ve been consorting with the wrong sort of gentleman, Lady Brentford.”
She carefully set the plate and fork down on the stone and dusted the crumbs from her fingertips. “Yes, well, I don’t seem to know any who aren’t rakes, roués, and reprobates.”
How could he argue when honor demanded that a gentleman not lie to a lady?
Wind ruffled her hair, loosening another pin. Curls floated free, like drizzles of honey against the blue sky.
“You deserve better,” he said, breaking the sliver of silence.
“Life is rarely fair.” Her mouth tipped into a crooked smile. “I may deserve better…” She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “But I’ll settle for you.”
Chapter Eleven
Maybe it was the fizzy cider, or the surfeit of butter and sugar that had addled her brain. Whatever the reason, Eliza felt reason slipping away. For so much of her life, dreams and desires had been far out of reach. She had learned to keep them bundled up and stashed away in a dark place, where they wouldn’t bother anyone. Only sometimes late at night would she sneak a peek beneath the coverings and let herself think about what if.
What if. What if she had spent a Season laughing with suitors and dancing til dawn? What if her marriage had not been a cold, loveless match?
What if, for once, she dared to grab at something before it became just another what if ?
Boldly, before reason reasserted its grip, Eliza placed her hands on the slope of his shoulders. Sleek muscles met her touch, their sculpted contours smooth as marble through the soft-textured linen.
“Lady Brentford,” he began.
At that instant she wasn’t Lady Brentford, she was…some nameless longing dancing in the slanting sunlight.
Dipping her head, she kissed him full on the mouth.
He tasted of apples, that forbidden fruit of temptation. Oh, no wonder females had been seduced into sin. The tart-sweet spice held hints of an earthier, distinctly masculine flavor.
Under her hungry assault, his lips parted, and then their tongues were touching. Twining, twirling, teasing in sensuous play. Eliza hitched closer, reveling in the lush heat flooding her senses. Her body was once again transformed. She was no longer a drab widow, but a sensual sylph, capable of driving men mad with desire.
She could have gone on forever, lost in this haze of fantasy, but he shifted beneath her, just enough to jar her back to reality.
“Sorry.” She broke away, blinking against the glare of the sunlight as she sucked in a shivering breath. “So, so sorry.”
“For what?” asked Gryff, his voice sounding just as dazed as hers.
“For acting like a wanton strumpet. A shameless hussy.” Did he think her disgusting? Depraved? “I know it’s very wrong to succumb to sinful urges. I—I apologize for subjecting you to such unwanted advances.”
His beautiful eyes reflected the shimming swirls of green and gold around them. “Unwanted?” he repeated in a husky whisper. He caught her hand as she tried to scoot away. “Unwanted?”
Gently unfisting her fingers, Gryff pressed her palm to the fall of his breeches. “Trust me, Lady Brentford, I’ve been wanting to kiss you witless all day, but was trying to restrain my beastly lust.”
“Oh.” Eliza sighed as she felt the contour of his rigid cock hard against her yielding flesh. “Oh, I like your beastly lust.”
Gryff chuckled, and then captured her mouth in a ravening embrace. “Mmmm, I like your sinful urges,” he murmured some moments later.
Turning her head, she lay her cheek against his, feeling the faint stubbling of his whiskers. “I don’t know how to explain them. You stir such wicked thoughts in me.”
“Like what?”
Dare she say them aloud?
“Like what,” he prompted.
“Like the mad desire to fill your navel with custard and slowly lick out every last drop.”
His cock twitched hard against her hand.
“Like the wild urge to trace my lips along the curling, ink-dark lines of your dragon tattoo.”
He groaned, and the thrumming echo seemed to linger in the air.
“Is that so terrible?” Her cheeks were hot as hellfire.
“No,” he rasped. “You know what fantasies I am having?”
Eliza held her breath.
“First I would unravel the ribbon from your hair…” His fingers pulled the silky strand free. “Then I would tug each and every hairpin free and toss them into the lake…” A tinkling of tiny splashes followed. “Next I would take off my shirt…” His muscles rippled as he tugged the fabric over his head. “And then I would lie back on this warm stone and beg you to do with me as you will.”
Eliza watched in fascination as the light played off his bronzed skin and the dark, curling hair peppering his chest.
Gryff propped himself on his elbows, his eyes following her finger as she scooped up a dollop of the tart’s creamy filling and filled the dimple in his belly.
“Sweet Lord,” he said, his voice a little unsteady.
Oh, she liked that. With a few playful strokes, she shaped the custard, then leaned down, letting her breath tease against his skin.
Did she dare?
“It is unfair to taunt and torture me,” he rasped.
At the look on his face, Eliza suddenly felt a surge of power. “You mean you want me to do this?” A light flick of her tongue circled the sweet, barely grazing.
He let out a quivering hiss.
“Or this?”
“God give me strength.”
Emboldened, she traced her lips round and round, s
uckling, nibbling. There was a hint of salt on his skin, which heightened the sweetness of the custard. And the wisps of silky-soft hair added an intriguing texture. The dark frizz led down, following the curl of the dragon’s sinuous neck…
Her hands moved tentatively to the fall of his breeches and, one by one, worked the fastenings free. He squirmed ever so slightly as she pulled the buckskin several inches lower on his hips. “I want a closer look at your dragon—may I?”
A groan—or was it a growl?
She flattened her palm on the plane of his belly, feeling the liquid pounding of his heart beneath the skin. Or was it her own? It didn’t seem to matter. The thrum drew her down, and then her tongue was tracing the dark swirls of ink.
Gryff slumped against the back of the bench, his eyes closed, his breath coming in hoarse little rasps.
Wicked—this went beyond wicked.
Growing more confident, Eliza grasped the soft leather and inched his breeches and his drawers down from his thighs.
Released from restraint, his cock sprang up. “You,” Gryff gasped, his eyes opening, “are a vision of ethereal beauty with your goldspun curls dancing against the clouds.” One large hand reached up to tangle in her hair, while the other guided her grip around his manhood.
Haddan called her beautiful? Deep down inside, Eliza knew it was likely just a pretty phrase that he said without thinking. But it didn’t matter. No man had ever called her beautiful.
Sighing, she let his heat suffuse her palm. He was so soft, yet so hard.
“You feel like velvet over steel,” murmured Eliza. Enchanted by contrast, she feathered her fingers along his length, up and back, up and back. Circling him again, she squeezed.
His whole body clenched.
“Am I doing this right?” she asked, watching the play of sunlight over the planes of his face. Tightening her hold, she quickened her stroke just a little, reveling in the heat thrumming through him.
“Exquisitely right.” His voice was a ragged whisper. He swiveled his hips and thrust up against her with a groan.