“I thought you were …” He paused, cleared his throat, and said, “Why are you disguised as a man?”
“It is a long story,” she said. “Which begins in the conservatory where I—”
“Skip forward, if you please, and explain why you were sneaking in here in the middle of the night?”
“I came to get my horse,” she answered indignantly, with a gesture toward Mephistopheles. “What are you doing here?”
He rubbed his sore jaw and chuckled. “Nursemaiding a mother cat and her five kittens.”
“Nursemaiding a cat,” she repeated as seriously as she could. The whole idea was preposterous. A bubble of laughter escaped.
His lips curled in a friendly smile that revealed twin dimples in his cheeks.
Really, she thought. A man with dimples. They were … He was charming.
She could not take her eyes off him, perhaps because she liked so much what she saw. She might have felt more like a peagoose if he had not been staring right back at her.
Something shifted deep inside her. She felt a little dizzy and put a hand to her temple, thinking maybe she had hit the ground too hard.
“Are you all right?” he asked, reaching out a hand to grasp her shoulder.
“I’m fine,” she said, fighting the shiver of awareness that streaked down her spine and shrugging to free herself from his touch. “How are the kittens?”
He seemed momentarily nonplussed but answered, “They’re fine, too.”
“Frances has five kittens in all,” one of the twins said.
“Would you like to see them?” the other asked, tugging on her jacket—or rather, Julian’s jacket.
Eliza lowered her gaze to the identical girls standing side by side before her. “Certainly, if you would like to show them to me. I would rather meet you both first.”
“I am Lady—” The twin who had spoken glanced at her uncle, then turned back, chin upthrust, and said, “You may call me Reggie. This is Becky, and this is Uncle Marcus. Who are you?”
“Eliza Sheringham, lately of Ravenwood.” She started to curtsy, stopped herself, and executed an elegant bow.
The captain’s eyes narrowed assessingly. For a moment she was afraid he might know Cousin Nigel. Or what if he had encountered Julian in one of those taverns soldiers were forever frequenting? Or maybe he knew about the scandal. Or had heard one of the tales about her objectionable behavior being bandied about the neighborhood—all of which were true, only a few of which she regretted, and for none of which she would ever apologize.
She was surprised when he merely nodded and said, “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Sheringham. It is Miss?”
“Yes, Captain. Miss Sheringham,” she said, unaccountably blushing again. How did one control such revealing behavior? she wondered. Especially when one had no reason to be blushing. She was in love with Julian. No mere handsome face was going to sway her loyalty to her cousin.
Besides, the perfect male standing before her could not possibly find anything attractive about her figure in Julian’s clothes. And her odd facial features had matured into something equally out of the common way.
Eliza soon found herself on her knees in the straw beside a motley mother cat and her five kittens, all of which, she discovered, already had names. “They are so perfect when they’re born, are they not?” she said, reaching out to stroke the soft fur of the solid black kitten under Frances’s and the twins’ watchful eyes. “And so very helpless.”
“Would you like to have Blackie?” Becky asked. “When he is grown up enough, of course,” she added.
“I will probably be far away when Blackie has grown up enough to leave his mother,” she said, unable to keep the wistfulness from her voice. She thought about how much Aunt Lavinia would have enjoyed having a cat to purr in her lap.
“Where are you bound?” the captain asked.
Eliza was not sure she should tell him, but since they were perfect strangers, and he could have no interest in her, she decided there could be no real harm. “I am riding to London, where I plan to meet my cousin, Major Julian Sheringham.”
“Where is your baggage? And your maid?”
“My traveling bag is there by the door. I haven’t any maid,” she answered airily.
She did not like the look on his face when he asked, “Why not?”
She rose, and he rose along with her. “I do not believe that can be of any concern to you.”
“Surely you must have some escort,” he insisted, following her as she headed for the tack room to collect Mephistopheles’s saddle and bridle.
“I really do not need one,” she replied.
“The twins and I will be glad to accompany you,” he said.
She eyed him with distrust. “Are you attempting to importune me, sir? I assure you—”
Before she could launch a verbal attack, he said, “I assure you, Miss Sheringham, I have nothing but your best interests in mind. I merely thought you might enjoy some company on your journey.”
“How can we go with Miss Sheringham, Uncle Marcus?” one of the twins asked, appearing suddenly at his side. “I thought we had to be at—”
“There is no commitment we have that is more important than escorting Miss Sheringham safely to her destination,” the captain interrupted, bestowing a silencing look on the child.
Eliza identified the girl as Reggie—she had noticed Reggie had a tear in the knee of her stocking.
“Can we go see the Tower?” Becky asked, quickly joining her sister.
“And watch the performing horses?”
“And go up in a balloon?”
“We may not have time—” Their uncle stopped himself and smiled down at their upturned faces. “Why not?”
He turned to Eliza and said, “Well, Miss Sheringham? It is up to you. Would you deny two little girls their first look at London?”
She could see difficulties ahead, not the least of which was how to detach herself from the trio when the time came. But she would not deny the little girls the sort of adventure she had yearned for as a child. And she did not really wish to be riding around in the dark tonight by herself.
“I would be delighted, Captain, if you and your nieces will join me on my journey.”
“Then it is settled. We will travel together in the morning.”
“Early,” Eliza said, concerned about getting as far away from Ravenwood as quickly possible, preferably before Cousin Nigel realized she was gone.
“How early?” the captain asked.
“Dawn?”
She thought he groaned, but the sound was muffled when Mephistopheles stomped and swished his tail to rid himself of flies.
“I would rather sleep a little longer.”
“I would not dream of imposing on you, Captain. Please, do sleep in. I will travel by myself.”
He pressed his lips flat and said, “Very well, Miss Sheringham. We will leave at dawn.”
Eliza gave him a blinding smile. “Whatever you say, Captain.”
Chapter 3
It was difficult for marcus to get the twins settled back down in the stall with Frances and her kittens, because they were so excited by the change in traveling plans.
Marcus had kissed them both good night for the fourth time when Becky asked, “Where will Miss Sheringham sleep, Uncle Marcus?”
“I thought I would stay here with you,” she replied before he could answer.
Marcus realized with a start that Miss Sheringham had already gathered a bunch of straw into a bed-sized pile in the far corner of the stall.
“There seems to be plenty of room for all of us,” Miss Sheringham said, already down on one knee.
Marcus had a brief image of himself and Miss Sheringham naked and sweaty in the straw and shook his head to clear it.
“No. Absolutely not,” he said, reaching out to take her arm at the elbow. He pulled her to her feet and then out of the stall completely.
“Why can’t I stay here?” she asked.
&
nbsp; A woman of the world would have known without asking. She was obviously far from that. In his most forebearing and patient voice he explained, “Because I will be here with the children. It would not be proper for you and I to sleep under the same roof without a chaperon.”
“Who will know?”
“I will.”
“So will I,” she said. “But if we are satisfied with the sleeping arrangements, why should it matter to anyone else?”
Frankly, he agreed with her. But he knew better.
“It will not do, Miss Sheringham. Think of the consequences if we should be caught sleeping here together.”
“Oh.” Recognition dawned. “You mean the world will think we are two gentlemen who—”
“No, no.” He fought back a laugh as he realized what she was implying. “I mean that if it becomes common knowledge that Miss Elizabeth Sheringham and the Beau spent the night together, we will be forced to the altar.”
Her hazel eyes—more like a tawny gold, he thought—probed his face as though he were a rare insect under a magnifying glass. “You are the Beau?”
He nodded. “Is there something about what I said you do not understand, Miss Sheringham?”
“Oh, I understand perfectly. You are right, of course. It is just that I have never met a notorious rake before,” she admitted candidly. “The exploits of the Beau are known even in the countryside, Captain.” Her lips curled in a devilish smile. “You are not what I expected. I mean, you have been so very nice. The Beau is an infamous rakehell, a wanton gambler, a knave who preys upon women, a—”
“Perhaps we should finish this discussion elsewhere,” he interrupted before the wide-eyed twins could absorb any more of her picturesque description. “And allow the children their rest.”
She glanced down at the avid listeners and nodded her assent.
“Griggs, please keep watch until I return,” he said.
“Sure enough, Captain,” the sergeant replied.
Marcus blew out the lantern, leaving the stable in darkness, and followed Miss Sheringham outside into the moonlight. A soft breeze ruffled his hair, and he took a deep breath of fresh air, suddenly aware of how stifling the barn had been.
Miss Sheringham did not stop outside the stable, but kept walking down the rutted country lane that led away from the White Ball Inn. A swirl of wind rustled the lilac bushes that edged the meandering road, while the moonlight made long shadows of their figures as Marcus increased his pace to catch up to her.
She had tucked her hair back up inside her hat before she left the barn, and as he watched her walk, he realized her strides were long enough, and determined enough, to fool an unobservant eye into believing she was a man.
He was all too aware she was not.
She reached a stone-edged well and began drawing a bucketful of water. Without speaking, he crossed to her side and helped. By the time he set the bucket of water on the edge of the well, she had a handkerchief in her hand, and he realized what she meant to do.
“Let me,” he said.
Her eyes searched his face, and he tried to look trustworthy, not an easy feat for an avowed rake.
“Very well,” she said at last.
He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward him. He reached for the precisely tied neck cloth, but paused when she stiffened.
“May I?” he asked.
She relaxed, then nodded.
His eyes held her gaze as he slowly untied the neck cloth that held the stiffly starched collar points upright. Then he unbuttoned the first two buttons and peeled aside the fine lawn cloth to expose her slender throat. He felt her quiver as his fingertips brushed her flesh.
“Steady,” he said, as much for his own benefit as for hers.
He put his fingertips under her chin to turn her head to one side, so he could see the wound he had made with his knife. In the moonlight, he could see where blood had seeped from the small cut and was soaked up by her shirt.
“The wound is not deep,” he said. “But it should be cleaned.”
With a shaky hand, she offered him the handkerchief. “Would you mind?”
He felt her moist breath on his hands, the soft brush of her fingertips as he accepted the cloth from her.
“Please be gentle,” she whispered.
Something about her voice, the low, gravelly sound of it, made his body tighten. His pulse quickened. His breathing harshened.
Marcus struggled to leash his growing desire. He knew his excitement rose partly from the fact these circumstances were unlike anything in his former experience with a woman. The only wounds he had tended were on soldiers during the heat of battle. And though he had disrobed more females than he cared to count, none of them had been standing in the moonlight wearing gentleman’s garb.
He wondered if Miss Sheringham felt the same sensual hunger he did. He wondered if she would let him kiss her.
He realized she was staring right back at him. There was no timidity, no coyness or shyness or any of the things he might have expected from a well-bred English lady. Her lambent eyes revealed her sharpened awareness of him. But there was no invitation in those shining golden orbs to carry the situation further.
He realized he liked her better for her honesty, for letting him see exactly what she was feeling, even if she had no intention of acting upon those feelings.
He dipped the handkerchief in the pail of water, then wrung it out. The extra liquid spattered on the stones at the base of the well and ricocheted onto the Hessians she was wearing.
“I will have to do some polishing before I return these boots to Julian,” she said, glancing down.
He lifted her chin again, welcoming the excuse to touch her. “Look up.”
He started near the hollow of her throat and slowly worked his way upward toward the wound, cleaning away the blood, careful not to cause her any more pain than necessary.
She hissed in a breath.
“Just a little more. There. That should do it.” He threw the ruined handkerchief across the edge of the wooden pail.
“Have you another handkerchief?” she asked.
“What for?”
“Have you?”
He handed her a lace-edged, elaborately monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and watched as she traced the stitching.
“B for Beau?” she asked, when she identified the letter.
He smiled. “B for Blackthorne,” he corrected. “I borrowed it from my brother.”
She dipped the kerchief in the water and wrung it out. “I hope he will not mind if you ruin it.”
“He has plenty more where that one came from,” Marcus assured her with a grin.
The grin became a grimace as she pressed the cool, wet cloth against his lacerated cheek where she had struck him.
“I do not think the wound is deep,” she said with a smile, reiterating his words. “But it should be cleaned.”
“Ouch,” he said. And then, “Ow, that hurts!”
“I did not make half so much noise,” she said with a teasing laugh. She dabbed once more. “There. I am done.”
The second kerchief joined the first.
When she smiled up at him so innocently, so sweetly, his common sense abandoned him. He tugged off her hat and watched as a yard of soft, silky hair slid across her shoulders. He let the hat fall to the ground, then caught her chin and raised her face to his.
He gave her no chance to deny him, simply captured her mouth with his and teased her supple lips with his tongue. She did nothing to return the kiss or reject it, but held herself perfectly still.
Marcus ended the kiss, but did not step back. He searched her face, wondering whether he should dare another kiss. Her golden eyes glowed with excitement … and apprehension.
A breath shuddered out of her.
The silence grew between them.
Marcus took whatever a woman offered and did his best to encourage more. But Miss Sheringham was his best friend’s cousin. He had realized it the moment
she said her name. Over the past two years, Julian had often mentioned his “funny little cousin Eliza” with fondness.
Julian spoke of her freckles, her odd-colored hazel eyes, her too-big nose, and her thin-as-a-bed-slat body. “The minx manages to cause more trouble than a dozen other girls her age combined,” he had said. But Julian had sounded more charmed than annoyed by her outlandish behavior. There was also some scandal connected to her name, but Julian had dismissed it as nothing.
The woman standing before him did not quite fit the image Marcus had formed of her. Except for the part about causing trouble.
Her freckles were enchanting, her eyes mysterious, her high, sharp cheekbones and strong chin balanced the straight nose, and he had seldom seen a woman as well-favored with shapely feminine assets. Marcus had never bedded such a Long Meg, and he wondered what it would be like to make love to a woman who was nearly as tall as he was.
In short, he was completely intrigued by her. He wanted to spend more time looking at her, holding her, kissing her. He was more than a little curious to see the female body beneath the concealing male clothes. Not just to see it, but to put himself inside it.
But she was Julian’s cousin.
A kiss he could take. More than that, she would have to offer him. He waited for her to decide.
“I have never been kissed by a rake,” she said at last, her eyes still dazed from the experience.
“Was it everything you expected?” he asked, his eyes glinting with humor.
“I am not in a position to judge,” she admitted. “I have nothing with which to compare it.”
Marcus stood stunned for a second, then threw back his head and roared with laughter. Julian was right. She was delightful. Enormously entertaining.
Then he realized what he had done. He had not meant to kiss her. Or rather, he had wanted desperately to kiss her but had not meant to mislead her. Since he had no intention of becoming a husband, he owed it to the chit not to attach her affections. An innocent like Miss Sheringham—not to mention Julian, if he ever found out—was likely to misconstrue his behavior as something more than it was.
What induced you to kiss her in the first place? an inner voice scolded.
Curiosity. Novelty. The lure of something fresh and new.
After the Kiss Page 4