A Perfect Deception

by Alyssa Drake

  “We are on the wrong side!” She quickly climbed to her feet, the wet muslin brushing against her legs, causing an involuntary shudder to travel from her shoulders to her toes. A flash of yellow caught her attention—her bonnet floated down the stream, disappearing around a bend.

  “You are on the wrong side,” clarified Mr. Reid, still clearly annoyed by his current wet condition. “After we determine the best way to return you to the correct embankment, I will escort you back to the main house.”

  “That kindness is not necessary,” Daphne replied with a curtsey. She had no intention of retiring to the chateau this early in the day, even as beads of water dripped from her chin. The morning sun warming her shoulders, she was certain her dress would dry within the next few hours. However, she needed to retrieve her bonnet. She leaned over, grasping the hem of her skirt and squeezing the excess water from the material, creating a tiny puddle around her feet.

  “Miss Clemens, I feel partially responsible for your current predicament,” protested Mr. Reid. His saturated shirt clung to his muscular frame, the transparent material revealing his skin underneath.

  Daphne stared, her skirt still hiked around her knees. She shook her head and flushed, glancing away quickly. When she spoke, she addressed the tree to his left. “Mr. Reid, as we are both soaked, I believe it best to allow you to return to your home for some fresh clothing.”

  “I cannot leave you in this state.”

  “I appreciate your concern. However, I assure you, I am perfectly capable of finding my way back.” Daphne blushed as her gaze slid back to Mr. Reid. During the course of their conversation, he had removed his shirt, twisting the material between his strong hands, sunlight glinting off the water droplets clinging to his skin. Daphne’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Was every Reid man handsome?

  Glancing up, Mr. Reid caught Daphne as she gawked at his chest. She spun around with a squeak, her blushed deepening. He chuckled. “Is this the first time?”

  “That I have fallen in a river?” asked Daphne in confusion, her back to Mr. Reid.

  “No,” he replied, his voice kind. “The first time you have seen a man undressed.”

  Daphne swallowed and nodded. “How did you know?”

  “My wife had the same expression on her face the night of our wedding.” He fell silent. A rustling noise followed. “You may turn around, I am clothed.”

  Married. Of course, he was married. She shook her head clear of silly fantasies and spun around, her face aflame. “It is also the first time I have been shoved into a river.”

  “Is that so?” asked Mr. Reid, arching an eyebrow. “I thought you fell.”

  “The description is irrelevant,” Daphne replied quickly. “Either way, you and I are both still wet.”

  “I hope I did not offend you.” Mr. Reid half-smiled, the sentiment lighting his face. “I haven’t had the pleasure of a woman’s company for some time. My manners may be a bit gruff.”

  “What about your wife?” The words escaped from Daphne’s lips before she could stop their thoughtlessness, and she rouged again.

  He turned toward the stream, his hollow voice speaking to the flowing water. “She passed away several years ago.”

  Stepping closer, Daphne faltered between reaching out to comfort him and proper decorum. She gave in, placing a compassionate hand on his arm. He glanced up the contact, anxiousness clouding his blue eyes.

  “Miss Clemens, as you are not in need of any assistance, I will accept your offer and return to my home. I hope you do the same. It was a pleasure meeting you.” He shook himself free of Daphne’s feathery touch and barreled through the greenery, stumbling from her sight.

  Daphne sighed heavily. Perhaps it was best to avoid the entire mess which came with the promise of love. Misters Thomas and Asher Reid seemed worse for its involvement in their lives. However, Miss and Mrs. Hastings glowed under love’s influence. Her own heart gave a painful squeeze—unrequited love. She was a victim, as well. Was it worth the heartache?

  Twisting a loose section of hair between her fingers, Daphne pondered the question as she meandered along the riverbank in search of her wayward bonnet. Her feet squished in her boots, the squelching noise a welcome distraction from the melancholy course of her thoughts.

  She spied the bonnet several meters away, caught in a section of reeds. She scampered down the bank, retrieving her bonnet. Clapping it to her head, she tied the yellow ribbons in a tight knot, her gaze sliding along the river. She needed to cross the stream by returning to the fallen log. Hopefully, Mr. Reid wouldn’t witness her traverse the stream again. She didn’t believe he would find her second attempt as amusing.

  Chapter Three

  A bead of sweat formed at the base of Thomas’ neck, gathering slowly and sliding sap-like down his spine, collecting in the waistband of his pants. The shovel scraped satisfyingly along the barn floor as another glistening drop traveled down his bare back. He grunted once, hefting the shovelful of muck, flinging it out of the stall. Losing Miss Clemens irked him. He had followed her to a split in the path, one leading through the brambles and brush toward his fishing spot, the other toward the house. Then he lost her trail. He must have underestimated Miss Clemens’ desire for solitude and perhaps her adventurous nature as well. What fire lurked behind her meek façade?

  Leaning against the shovel, Thomas inhaled deeply—the intoxicating aroma of hay and horse filled his nostrils. Taking a second breath, a tinge of oil mixed with the scent. Each time, the smell brought an image of Uncle Benedict, shuffling jovially through the stables. Thomas’ mouth twitched—the only person who loved horses more than Thomas was Benedict.

  As children, Benjamin quite often referred to Thomas as an apprentice stableboy during family functions. Most of the adults laughed, finding the image of slight Thomas working alongside the burly stablemen amusing. However, Uncle Benedict did not. He nurtured Thomas’ equine interest, training Thomas alongside his own son, Asher, who at two years older, loved Thomas with brotherly affection. Thomas spent most of his youth traveling between his uncle’s and his father’s properties. As they abutted each other, Thomas was encouraged to visit as often as he pleased.

  Benedict, the younger brother of Samuel Westwood, had been an admirable man and Thomas’ secondary father. The loss of Benedict three years ago was difficult for both Thomas and Asher, who lost his young wife less than a year later. Left to care for two small children, Asher retreated from society, refusing to return to his property in Wiltshire… until last week.

  He should call upon Asher this afternoon. With the family’s attention on Morris’ vindictive revenge plot and the recovery of Miss Hastings from Morris’ clutches, Asher’s return was only just communicated to him that very morning by his mother when he popped his head into the dining room, searching for Miss Clemens.

  The shovel scraped across the floor again. A curious sloshing sound captured his attention. He cocked his head, listening intently. The sound came from the rear of the stables or more specifically, from outside the rear of the stables.

  Wiping his hands on a clean groom’s towel, Thomas hung the shovel on a wooden column next to the stable in which he worked. He lightly leapt over the gate and traversed the hay-strewn walkway between the stalls. Poking his head out the stable door, Thomas burst into laughter.

  Slogging around the corner came Miss Clemens, her linen dress—sopping and indecently sheer—clinging tightly to her body. A shapeless yellow bonnet drooped over her face, covering her eyes, the brim resting on her nose. Thomas wondered how she could see where she was going.

  “Sudden rainstorm?” asked Thomas, leaning against the door with a grin. Miss Clemens trudged past him with as much dignity as she could muster, refusing to acknowledge his comment. Thomas crossed his arms over his bare chest, watching her progress in amusement, his mouth twitching. “It is impolite to ignore someone who is speaking to you, Miss Clemens.”

  Miss Clemens paused in her trek across the courtyar
d, glanced upward and sighed, speaking to the sky. “I fell in the river.”

  “May I ask how you managed that incredible task so early in the day?”

  “You may,” replied Miss Clemens. She took a deep breath and turned. Gasping, Miss Clemens’ hands flew to her mouth, immediately spinning around again. “Mr. Reid!”

  Thomas looked down in confusion and realized his error. He ducked into the barn, snagging his shirt, which had been hung carefully this morning to prevent spoiling, from a nearby stable gate. Whipping it over his head, Thomas quickly returned to the stable door.

  “I am now properly attired. You may resume your story.”

  Rotating in a sluggish half-circle, Miss Clemens hesitantly peeked through her fingers at a grinning Thomas. She flushed, but held his gaze, swallowing nervously. Her light voice barely reached his ears. “It’s quite simple. I merely lost my balance and fell into the river.”

  Thomas tilted his head. “That is all that occurred?”

  “It has been alleged I am quite clumsy.” Miss Clemens offered him a tight smile.

  Thomas studied her silently a moment. His eyes unconsciously traveled over the transparent dress, drinking in the feminine shapes highlighted underneath, each breath causing the material to tighten over her chest. “Are you?” he murmured, surprised by the direction of his thoughts.

  “Apparently, I am.” Daphne gestured to her saturated dress.

  “Miss Clemens!” Wilhelmina bellowed from the veranda. She marched the length of the floor, muttering to herself. “Where is that girl? Samantha has been a terrible influence over her. They probably disappeared together this morning.”

  Miss Clemens’ brown eyes rounded, pleading with Thomas. “Please,” she mouthed.

  The mist in Thomas’ brain cleared. He shook his head free of the wicked images racing through his mind. His arm snaked out, grabbing her elbow, quickly yanking her into the barn. She followed easily, her momentum carrying her forward and causing her to crash into Thomas’s chest. He wrapped his arms tightly around her as they toppled backward over a hay bale.

  “Miss Clemens!” A hint of irritation accompanied Wilhelmina’s call as she stomped across the veranda, marching down the steps, and heading toward the stables.

  Placing his finger over Miss Clemens’ lips, they froze, a statue of entwined limbs, listening for Wilhelmina’s shoes to scrape across the courtyard. An audible sigh indicated Wilhelmina’s surrender. She retreated, entering the house, the door slamming with her discontentment.

  Miss Clemens exhaled, her sweet breath tickling Thomas’ lips, a surprising tingle running the length of his spine.

  “Oh!” She pushed up and crawled off Thomas’ body. “I have ruined your clothing, as well.”

  Sitting up, Thomas inspected his clothing and shrugged. “Don’t worry, I shall simply remove my shirt and hang it up to dry.”

  “What about your pants?” asked Miss Clemens innocently.

  “Miss Clemens, are you requesting I remove all my clothing?” asked Thomas, unable to resist teasing her.

  Miss Clemens’ jaw dropped, all color draining from her face. “N-n-no, Mr. Reid.”

  “I’m teasing.” Rising, he helped her to her feet and led her to the rear of the stables, stopping at a tiny room. He opened the door, reached into the room, and extracted two heavy blankets. Shaking the first one open, he laid it over Miss Clemens’ shoulders. She shivered, staring into his eyes. Pulling the ends together, he wrapped the blanket tightly across her dress. “That will keep you warm… and decent.”

  Miss Clemens blushed, glancing down at her dress. “How indecent am I?”

  Thomas grinned. “Quite.”

  Her blush deepening, she turned away as Thomas shook open the second blanket. A soft snort drew her attention. Floating over to the nearest stall, she tentatively stretched her hand toward the horse’s muzzle. It pulled back with a whinny, jerking its head. Miss Clemens froze, her arm trembling.

  “He knows you’re afraid,” Thomas whispered, sliding beside her, his blanket brushed against her shoulder.

  “How?” asked Miss Clemens, her eyes locked on the horse.

  “He can feel it.” Reaching forward, he gently placed his hand on the stallion’s muzzle. When Miss Clemens mirrored his actions, the horse sniffed her hand, then bumped its nose in her palm.

  “He’s soft,” she said, scooting closer to the gate, her second hand joining the first.

  Tilting his head, Thomas studied Miss Clemens’ illuminated face. “Have you ever ridden a horse?”

  “No.” She raised her eyes to him. “My mother forbade me to have lessons. She said the activity was too improper for a lady of my upbringing.”

  Thomas snorted. “I am certain Aunt Abigail will approve of the activity; she was an excellent rider in her youth. However, your request may not be scandalous enough for her liking.”

  Glowing, Miss Clemens’ mouth curved into a wide smile. “That would be delightful.”

  Thomas’ head lifted, and he inhaled deeply. “I smell something delicious coming from the kitchen. Would you care to accompany me to breakfast?”

  “Do you think I am dry enough not to draw any attention?” She opened the blanket.

  Thomas’ mouth dried. Her dress, partially see-through, clung to her body, revealing luscious curves. His body clenched, flooding with unexpected desire. Under his hungry gaze, Miss Clemens blushed, glancing down at her clothing.

  “I think you should wear the blanket.” Thomas forced the words through his mouth.

  “I am never going to sneak into the house without notice.” Miss Clemens sighed, dropping her arms.

  “I can help you.” He tapped the side of his head.

  “If you could help me avoid Mrs. Hastings’ critical eye, I would owe you one extremely large debt.”

  “I know exactly how you can repay that debt.” He stepped forward, brushing a stray hair from her face.

  “How?” Innocence leaked from her eyes.

  He could think of a half dozen things, and all of them involved Miss Clemens without her clothing or that wretched blanket. He shook his head, forcing the seductive thoughts from his mind. She was different, naïve, soaking wet… and his aunt’s charge.

  “I want your friendship.” He grasped the edges of her blanket, snapping them together, covering temptation.

  Miss Clemens offered him a wistful smile. “If my friendship is all you crave, I would be delighted to give it to you.”

  Dear Lord, it was not all he craved. His body protested as he stepped away from Miss Clemens. Bowing low, he comically brushed his hand across the barn floor.

  She giggled, her melodious voice filling the barn. “Mr. Reid, my friendship is conditional; you have as yet to fulfill your side of the agreement. How am I to get into the manor unnoticed?”

  “Do you not trust me, Miss Clemens?” Thomas’ hand flew to his chest in mock devastation. “I suppose I shall have to prove my worth,” he sighed dramatically. He leaned in, whispering. “You will have to trust me a little.”

  “Why?”

  Shrugging, Thomas pulled the blanket from his shoulders and laid it over a stall gate. “It’s going to be a bit dark.”

  “How dark?” Hysteria crawled through Miss Clemens’ question.

  “I will be with you every step, I swear.”

  Miss Clemens glanced at him, then back at the house. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled slowly. “I will trust you. However, if you turn out to be Mr. Morris’ accomplice, I will haunt you for the rest of your days.”

  “I accept your terms.” He grinned, snaking his arm around her waist and guiding her to the rear of the stables.

  “Should we not head toward the house?” asked Miss Clemens, twisting to stare at the stable entrance.

  “We are.” Winking, Thomas lifted the latch on an empty stall. The word Phantom flashed in the light.

  “I am attempting to humor you. However, I fail to see…” She gasped as Thomas kicked aside some loose hay, rev
ealing a trapdoor. He stuck his finger through a small hole, yanking the door upward. “Does that lead to the house?”

  “It does.” Thomas held out his hand, gesturing for Miss Clemens to enter the stall.

  Rolling her shoulders back, she stepped into the stall, closing the gate behind her. “Mr. Reid, your ingenuity surprises me.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment.” He descended the ladder carefully, disappearing into the dark hole,

  Miss Clemens peeped her head over the opening. “What about the horse?”

  “What horse?” Thomas’ head popped up, hovering just above the floorboards.

  “Phantom.”

  Thomas grinned, climbing higher until the upper half of his body appeared. “He doesn’t mind.”

  “I wish I was as comfortable around horses as you.”

  “You shall be.” Nodding, he leaned back against the edge of the hole. “Miss Clemens you will need to climb down this ladder to reach the passageway. I will be waiting at the bottom.”

  “Alright.” Miss Clemens licked her lips, muttering to herself, “I can do this. I traversed a log, fell in a river, and touched a horse, all in one morning.”

  “What were you doing on a log?”

  “Trying to act as Miss Hastings would.”

  Thomas tilted his head. “Why?”

  A light blush colored her cheeks. “Miss Hastings has such an interesting life.”

  “She’s almost been murdered twice. Is that really the model you wish to follow?”

  Miss Clemens shrugged. “My other option was Miss Shirely.”

  Thomas choked. “I’d rather you act as Miss Hastings.”

  “That seems to be the general suggestion.” She smiled, removing the blanket and hanging it over the stall gate. “And Miss Hastings would definitely climb into that hole.”

  “Well, then, I shall not keep you from your adventure.” He ducked under the floor again, waiting. Would she follow? Bits of hay and dirt rained down on him as Miss Clemens placed her foot on the top rung. Halfway down the ladder, her fingers slipped, and she fell back with a shriek. Thomas caught her before she crashed to the ground. Spinning her in his arms, he set her carefully on her feet, his arms curiously despondent when he released her. Climbing back up the ladder, he yanked the trapdoor closed, plunging them into darkness.