Her lady would be pleased when she learned that everyone from miles around knew of the desired liaison with the heartless one… and no doubt Tilly would be given a special something for her part in the spread of the rumor.
What a bonny day it was proving to be, Tilly decided.
*
Lissa sat beside Lord Wylde on the riverbank and watched as he flipped, for perhaps the third time, through her sketchbook. It seemed that he could not get enough of her watercolor creations.
“You are pleased?” she dared to venture.
“Your paintings appear very precise,” he said, not looking at her.
“And my sketchings and journal entries?”
“Just as precise, it would seem.”
Obviously he wasn’t the sort to compliment overly much. No matter. Lissa had a more important matter on her mind. “So you think you might, with the help of my journals, be able to hook that trout, my lord?”
This time he did glance up, one dark brow lifting ever so slightly. “Recreating nature in a sketchbook, my lady, is not the same as doing so at the end of a fishing line.”
“How true,” she murmured, casting a glance at the pathetic fly at the end of his pole.
“Faith,” he muttered, rising to his feet, his irritation evident. “You seem to think you could do a world better than me when it comes to tying flies. To that, I say, prove yourself.”
“I would if I could, my lord, but I haven’t any of the necessary supplies, not at hand, and—”
“I do. Come. Follow me.”
It was a challenge, pure and simple.
“Now?” Lissa asked. Alone? was what she was actually thinking.
“Surely you have not lost your bravado, Lady Lissa. A moment ago you made me believe you know all there is to know about catching trout.”
“I know about insects,” Lissa corrected. “Trout are another thing.”
“A trout eats insects. You know about insects, thus you know more about trout than you think you do. Come,” he said again, clearly impatient. “The day grows longer as we speak. If it is a bargain we’ve made, then let us honor it. I’ll try and hook the trout that ate your locket, but first you must share with me what you know about insects. And you’ll not be sharing that knowledge here.”
“Then where?”
“My river hut.”
With that, Lord Wylde gathered up his belongings and headed for the fallen tree, jumped atop the rotting log, then looked back at her, his eyes giving away nothing.
Lissa debated the idea of following him to some secluded river retreat—but a bargain was a bargain, and she was desperate to catch the trout that had eaten Langford’s locket. Stuffing her journals into her satchel, she hurried to follow.
Lord Wylde extended one hand to her as she reached the log. Lissa took one look at that tanned, strong hand and instantly felt her insides whirl; she remembered only too well the feel of his hands on her, his arms about her, and of how well her body had fit against his.
“I—I can manage on my own, my lord,” she said.
“I believe you tried that once.”
Rude of him to remind her, Lissa thought.
“If you were to tumble into the water,” he continued, “you would scare the trout that lives beneath this log; the very one you hope to hook. Frighten him, and he could swim upriver in search of a new home, and might never be found again.”
If it was a ploy he was using, he’d found the perfect one. Lissa grudgingly took hold of his hand. Gabriel Gordon’s long fingers curled around her hand as he helped guide her atop the log, and just as Lissa had feared, his touch made her insides twirl and her cheeks flush.
He said nothing, though, merely tightened his hold and expertly navigated their way over the downed wood. Lissa had to quell the urge to close her eyes as they reached the midway point. She was beginning to feel the vertigo again, but his lordship did not give her a chance to get nauseated. He pulled her along with a sure grip, and before she knew it, she was standing on solid ground once again. He did not give her a chance to catch her breath or even to mentally congratulate herself for what she’d just endured.
Without so much as a pause, he released her and set a fast pace downriver, pushing brambles out of his way as he did so. Over one shoulder, he said, “You can call forth that maid of yours. You’ll be wanting a chaperone.”
Lissa gaped at the back of him. “You—you know about Tilly?”
“Aye. I heard her shrill voice long before I reached the river.”
Lissa’s eyes narrowed. “And did you hear my voice, my lord?”
He shook his head, just once. “No.”
Lissa felt like smiling in triumph.
“But that doesn’t mean I did not feel your presence,” he added.
Lissa’s smile faded before it began. Drat him. He liked to believe he was some all-knowing angler of the river Dove, did he? Well, she’d show him, she decided.
But as they passed the spot where Lissa had left her blanket and there was no sign of Tilly, she began to panic. She held back a few paces, calling a whispered “pssst!” for her abigail as she bent down to retrieve her blanket.
There came no answer or even any telltale quivering of branches Tilly might be hiding behind. Her abigail had vanished from the area, no doubt scurrying for the safety of Clivedon Manor.
“Well?”
Lissa jerked upright in surprise as Wylde, having quietly retraced his steps, peered into the thicket beside her.
“I—I believe my abigail had matters to attend at the house, sir.”
“Something more pressing than serving her lady?” He took the blanket from her hands and looped the fold of it over one strong arm. “I find that difficult to believe.”
As did she, but Lissa was determined not to act flustered. “You really shouldn’t. A—a chaperone is not necessary, my lord. This is Derbyshire, after all. As you know, life in the country is far more relaxed than it is in Town.”
“No, I did not know.”
“Ah, well, it—it is,” Lissa insisted.
Drat that Tilly. She would need to get the girl in line posthaste. At the moment, though, snaring the trout filled with Langford’s locket outweighed all other matters, and only Wylde and the bargain they had struck could see Lissa to that end.
“Shall we continue on, my lord? As you mentioned, the day grows longer as we speak.”
Lord Wylde’s dark gaze narrowed. “It does indeed. This way.”
Lissa fell into step behind him as they threaded their way along a slight path, heading downriver. Eventually they turned away from the water, then headed deep into the woods, far away from anyone who could help Lissa should she have need to call for aid….
*
Tilly, sitting in the cavernous kitchens of Clivedon Manor, held Cook’s tomcat on her lap and shared with him a morsel of yet another sweetcake. It was the fifth one she’d pilfered, not counting the two she’d quickly downed before propping up her toes and clicking her tongue for the cat to join her.
She licked a bit of icing off her fingers, washing it down with a long draft of goat’s milk. “Ah,” she murmured, smacking her lips and allowing the cat to lick the rim of the tankard she’d poured the milk into.
What a fine morning it had proved to be. She’d overheard Mrs. Rachett speaking with Cook in the pantry, and knew the old woman had been letting the secret of their lady’s supposed liaison spill from her lips. From there, word had spread to other servants who passed by, and even now Tilly had no doubt that word was being carried into town upon Mrs. Rachett’s lined lips as that one had thread to purchase and more linens to buy at market this day.
Tilly scratched the cat’s ears, enjoying the purr she heard rumble in its throat.
“It be a good day, yes?” she said to the cat. “But now I must be joining m’lady. She be having more than enough time with the heartless one.”
Tilly set the cat down, ignoring a meow for more attention. “Go on, shoo,” she said,
her stomach filled and her mind on her own mistress. “I have to get back to the river, I do. Can’t folly all day like you.”
The cat settled down amid a sliver of sunlight slanting through a nearby window and began to clean its fur as Tilly, her stomach filled, made her way back out of the manor and headed for the river and her lady, humming as she went.
*
Lord Wylde’s river lodge was nestled in the deep woods, octagonal in shape, and sported two circular windows that faced toward the water which lay a good distance in front of it. A profusion of long-stemmed flowers flanked the weatherworn door, and in the morning’s early light the place looked mellow and quiet and very inviting.
Once inside, Lissa had to hold back a gasp. It was an angler’s paradise, filled with books that lined one wall, a massive mahogany table in the center spilling over with all manner of feathers and hooks, a cozy fireplace, another wall that held various angling poles made of Jamaican and African greenheart and even British Guyana lancewood, and another wall that housed a tier of shelves littered with wooden reels of various craftsmanship and sizes, nets, baskets, and sheepskin pierced with flies not yet cast.
“You created all of this, my lord?”
“No,” said Lord Wylde as he set his pole against the wall near the door jamb. He motioned Lissa deeper inside, then shut the door. “This retreat was part and parcel of the land I purchased.”
“Oh… yes, of course,” she murmured, looking about her with eager intensity, and remembering the previous owner of the spread. “Lord Markham’s family owned the property prior to your arrival. The man, I once heard my father say, was a remarkable fly angler. He and my father used to fish together years ago, before I was born. He suffered an attack of the heart a year after his wife’s death. He didn’t do much angling, or even socializing, after that, so I had no chance to meet him. Obviously, though, he spent a great deal of time here, with his angling supplies. I did not know that his family kept his stores intact, or even that you would have done so once you purchased this estate.”
“I’ve a great interest in angling,” Wylde explained. “In fact, that interest is what prompted me to settle along the Dove River—that, and my penchant to be alone.”
Lissa glanced at him. “You prefer solitude, my lord?”
His dark gaze flickered. “Something akin to that.”
He nodded toward the workbench that was constructed of mahogany and was a magnificent table to say the least. Two benches ran along either side of its massive bulk, and atop it was spread a veritable treasure of angling supplies.
“Markham’s, I suppose?” she ventured.
“All his. Untouched until the day I came here.”
Lissa moved forward, rounding the huge table. ” ‘Tis quite a collection.”
“Is it?”
She nodded, letting out her breath over the sight of it all. “Indeed. There are feathers here that cannot be found along the Dove. And these hooks?” She reached for a particularly shiny silver one that was small and very fine. “They have been fashioned by a master craftsman.” She took a moment to appreciate the beauty of them all.
“Continue,” Wylde said, rounding the table to stand beside her.
Lissa looked up, taken aback by the sheer nearness of him, and by his deep, husky tone. She had to moisten her lips before she spoke. “You are asking my opinion of all of this, my lord?”
“I am.”
“It is impressive, certainly; a true angler’s beloved collection.”
“And?”
She knew what he was asking. “And you’ve everything here, sir, to become a most accomplished angler,” she assured him.
“Save your knowledge to put it all together and make a success of it.”
Lissa had to touch the tip of her tongue to her lips again. His penetrating gaze, his voice, his closeness, and especially the masculine, clean scent of him were wreaking havoc with her insides. In fact, she didn’t know how long she could manage to stand so near to him and act as though nothing was amiss with her heartbeat. Truth of the matter was, her heart was pounding an uncomforting yet thrilling beat, and her blood felt as though it was roaring through her veins.
He absently ran one hand through the shagged lengths of his hair; gracious, but his hands intrigued her. Lissa remembered again how he’d held his angling pole in that strong grip of his—remembered, too, the feel of his warmth and strength as he’d led her over the downed log. Of a sudden, she wantonly imagined those hands touching other parts of her body, perhaps commanding her as perfectly as he did his angling rod….
The path her thoughts were taking was most unladylike, Lissa knew, but she couldn’t help herself. Nor could she stop. She was very much affected by the Heartless Lord Wylde. Purely physical, these feelings were, and they had no place in her ultimate plan. How ridiculous that she, the daughter of a man who had taught her to be ruled and moved by the nature surrounding her and nothing else, should respond to Wylde in such a way!
But then again, her mind reasoned, the sixth Earl of Wylde was a creation of nature, just as surely as were the insects she loved to sketch, as the air that moved around them was, and as was the Dove River she loved so much. That she should be moved by the man, by his essence, was not so startling thought of in these terms, not really.
Even so, Lissa was glad when he took a step away. She drew in a breath of air, hoping to still her roiling insides.
“I shall be honest with you, Lady Lissa of Clivedon Manor,” he was saying now as he turned away from her. “The last time I ever studied the art of fly angling was at the knee of my father while standing in his study in Grosvenor Square. I was all but ten and two then, and thought if I mastered a cast, I could catch a trout.” He turned back toward her suddenly, adding, “But having lived the past many weeks here in Derbyshire—and having spent all of those mornings alongside the river—I’ve come to realize that casting a line isn’t the whole of the matter by far.”
“Indeed not, my lord,” Lissa agreed, happy enough to glance back down at the hooks and feathers. Anything but look at him, she thought. “A perfect cast will intrigue a trout, but an even more perfect fly will be what hooks the fish.”
“So I’ve discovered.”
Lissa felt his gaze on her. She did not dare look up, did not dare to let him see how fully his presence affected her. She focused on the table and the assortment of things upon it. “You’ve all you need here, my lord. It should not take long before you create the perfect fly.”
“Before we create the perfect fly, you mean.”
Lissa finally looked up at his astoundingly handsome face. Their gazes met and held, and for a single, startling second it felt as though she had known this man since the beginning of time. Lissa knew then she should have heeded her maid’s warning and stayed far away from the sixth Earl of Wylde.
“I—I can teach you what is needed for a certain fly, sir, but tying that fly is another matter entirely. It takes practice… and—and practice takes time.”
“I have time,” he assured her.
“But not I. The locket—”
“Is being eaten away as we speak.”
Lissa frowned. “Twenty-four hours—you are certain that is the amount of time before the inner digestive juices of a trout will begin to eat away at the locket?”
“No, not entirely certain. It could be sooner, or later. It depends.”
“It depends on what, my lord?”
“A number of things. What the locket is fashioned of, for one, and on the trout, I s’pose—what it ate before and after consuming the locket.”
“But you said yourself the trout most likely would not feed after having taken in the locket,” Lissa said, her tone a bit desperate.
“It is doubtful since its belly would feel full, but I could be wrong.”
“And are you ever, my lord?”
“Am I ever what? Wrong?”
Lissa nodded.
“Not usually,” he assured her. After a moment of thou
ght, he added, “Only once, actually—and that matter had nothing to do with a trout.” With that, his mood turned alarmingly dark. He nodded once toward the workbench. “I suggest we get started.”
Though Lissa desired to question him further as to what exactly he’d been wrong about, she knew better than to do so. She immediately sat down and pulled out her journal and sketchbooks. Spreading them out on the table, she flipped through a few pages of each, finally finding the desired entries.
She peered up at him. “Shall we begin with constructing a green-drake?”
“You tell me, Lady Lissa.”
By the tone of his voice Lissa could discern that he had sufficiently recovered himself from whatever bad memories his one lapse in judgment had caused him. He seemed to be ready to begin the lesson.
“A green-drake it is.” Lissa reached for a square-shaped box that held a number of large hooks.
“Why that particular fly?” Wylde asked, straddling the bench, his muscled body facing Lissa’s left side.
She kept her thoughts firmly affixed to what she was about. “A green-drake is taken by trout at all hours during its season,” she explained. “The day can be early, late, windy or rainy. It matters not.”
“Then why use any other fly?”
It was an honest question, posed by one who truly did not know a great deal about insects. Lissa finally found the perfect hook; it was large and sturdy, and extremely well made.
“Just as man cannot live by bread alone, my lord,” she explained, “a fish cannot live by just one fly alone. That same fish also knows that it does not have to do so, not with all the flies that breed and die alongside the water. The green-drake is a good fly, and will taunt any number of trout to surface; but it has a short life span, and even though an angler might catch a trout with one after the fly’s life period, it would not do to fish all the year with such a fly.”
“I see,” Wylde said quietly, and then, as Lissa pulled out the hook she’d chosen, he swung his outer leg over the bench and shimmied beside her, so that their bodies were almost touching.
Lissa drew in a deep breath, expelled it, then directed her thoughts on what was needed to dress the hook. She spied some yellow silk that had been waxed green.
Lady Lissa's Liaison (To Woo an Heiress, Book 1) Page 4