by Henke, Shirl
As if trying to make up for his foolish neglect yesterday, Geoffrey insisted Varinia join him in a turn about the water while Jon supervised setting up the croquet game. When they began to play, Brand begged off and wandered over to the blanket beneath a large oak where Miranda was observing the activities.
“Why aren't you playing?” she asked.
“I never cared for lawn balls. I always lose,” he replied, folding his long body gracefully to sit beside her.
“I cannot imagine you losing at anything you put your mind to.” Those were loaded words, and the moment they escaped her lips, she knew it.
His smile was slow and insinuating, as if they shared a secret. “Don't be so certain. I lost the war. And it wasn't for want of trying, I assure you.”
‘That was hardly within the control of one man, Major, even one as formidable as you. You acquitted yourself very well on the battlefield.”
“I keep forgetting how thorough your investigation of me was,” he murmured, leaning back on his elbows to observe the progress of the croquet game. He was not in the least interested in it and wondered if she could tell. Or if she cared. He seemed to make her nervous. Perhaps that was a good sign. Or not. Blasted contrary female!
“I didn't investigate you out of prurient curiosity,” she said defensively, and then realized how that sounded.
He looked up at her, grinning again. “Is that a blush, Mrs. Auburn?”
Somehow when he used her proper name in that tone of voice, it sounded even more intimate than when he called her Miranda. “Nonsense,” she replied primly. “It's merely quite warm outdoors today.”
In truth, it was pleasantly cool but he did not feel it would be politic to remark on that fact. Nor did he want to discuss the reason for her investigation—his intended marriage to Lorilee. Instead, he changed the subject. “The newlyweds look rather blissful from afar.”
Miranda looked at Geoffrey and Varinia out on the lake. “He has a great deal to make up for to that poor thing. He's treated her abominably.”
“A character defect, marrying for money,” Brand said lightly, wondering why he'd brought it up...unless it was to see which way the wind might blow if he turned his attention from Lorilee to her.
“It's a time-honored tradition in English society. What matters is how a couple deals together after the marriage,” she replied in a quiet tone of voice, as if recalling distant memories, memories that mixed the bitter with the sweet.
Before he could draw her out further about her mysterious relationship with Will Auburn, a loud squeal of delight from Abbie drew their attention to the croquet match, which Lorilee’s friend was obviously winning—or being allowed to win.
As if reading his mind, Miranda said, “I wonder if Jon, too, is doing a bit of penance for his undue attention to the widow yesterday.”
They shared a companionable laugh as the game progressed. Abbie did win and Jon beamed at all the ladies with patronizing good humor. By that time Geoffrey and Varinia returned from their lake excursion. Miranda was about to suggest the servants open the baskets for the feast, but Lori surprised her with another plan.
She hurried to her mother, trailed by the vicar's son and his wife. “Melvin and Alberta know of a perfect woodland glade near his father's church. It's across the other side of the lake and the deer come to browse there. I'd love to see it, and it's a wonderful day for a ride. Would you mind awfully, Mother, if we left you? It won't be for all that long,” she cajoled.
Brand caught her eye and chivalrously offered, “I'd be more than happy to keep Mrs. Auburn company. I'm in the saddle altogether too much as it is.”
“How kind of you, my lord,” Lori gushed, barely giving her mother a chance to say anything before she headed toward the spot where the footmen were tending the horses. “Let's ride, then!”
Within moments the party was off, leaving Brand and Miranda alone with a pair of footmen. Food had been prepared for the servants, and he instructed them to take their basket and find a place to enjoy it in privacy. ‘‘When the young people return famished, you'll require all your strength, so refuel yourselves now. I'm certain you'll hear them without my summoning you,” he added.
In a blink he was alone with her. Now what? ”I don't know about you, but the aromas wafting from those baskets are quite distracting,” he murmured, pulling back a white linen cloth and peering inside. “I see no reason why we should wait for the others to return.”
“What of simple manners?” Miranda supplied.
He chuckled. “Just a small snack to tide us over. No harm in that.”
“So said the serpent in the garden, if I recall my Bible.”
“And I'm certain you do.” His expression was wry as he looked at her sitting so very properly, her legs tucked to one side, skirts carefully covering all but the tips of her high-heeled boots. Her moss-green cotton dress accented the gentle curves of her body, and her hair was coiled in a soft chignon at her nape with wispy curls framing her face. If she didn't look exactly angelic, she certainly did look tempting.
To keep himself from reaching out to take the pins from her heavy hair and bury his hands in it, he inhaled deeply of the aroma wafting from the basket. “Ah, heavenly. ‘Fresh bread and a jug of wine ...’ ” He waited for her to pick up the poem.
“ ‘And thou beside me in the wilderness,’ ” Miranda supplied whimsically. “But it's not ‘fresh bread,’ it's ‘a loaf of bread.’ ”
He shook his head in bemusement. “For a lady of business, you certainly know literature. When do you find time to read?”
She shrugged as he began to unload the bounty. “Actually, I don't have very much time anymore. When I was young—”
“And we all know how ancient you are now,” he said with amusement as he expertly opened one of the chilled white wines.
“I'm considerably older than you.”
“What? Five years?” He scoffed, then quickly went on without giving her a chance to respond. “I'll match you in terms of life experience and come out the winner. Want to make a wager?”
“I don't gamble, Major.” Her tone was cool. Where was he going with this? She knew it was dangerous, but when he offered her a glass of wine, she foolishly accepted it and sipped. Ambrosial. Best to change the topic. “A lady never discusses her age...or her life experiences.”
He took a long drink of his wine, and she watched the strong brown column of his throat swallow where he'd loosened his cravat. Somehow she intuited he was most comfortable working without a hat or coat, in shirtsleeves with his collar opened to the intense heat of his homeland, the sun beating down on his already bronzed face, streaking his shaggy hair paler gold. It was an arresting image and disturbed her greatly. She took another swallow of wine herself, then another.
“What's in that bowl?” she asked as he removed the lid.
“Looks like pheasant, and here are meat pies and fresh vegetables, even some fruit.”
He had removed his gloves after they climbed down from the wagon. Somehow he always found a way to do that in spite of the impropriety. Her own sheer lace mitts seemed impractical indeed when he began tearing the tender meat into pieces. Then he uncovered the flaky pastries filled with spicy venison and placed one on a plate, along with a small pile of peas still in their crispy pods. To this he added a quarter of one of the pheasants and a chunk of bread, which he broke from the loaf.
“I shall require a knife and fork to cut the food,” she said primly, trying not to look at his hands, those strong, scarred hands, elegant and powerful.
Brand heard the slight breathlessness in her voice. “I don't see any utensils,” he said after making a very cursory search of the baskets. “Must've left them in the wagon.”
He did not seem inclined to go in search of them. “I'll stain my gloves with grease.” The protest seemed faint indeed, even to her own ears. She took another drink of wine.
“Then allow me to feed you.” He took a sliver of tender juicy meat from the plate an
d held it in his fingers, offering it to her with a dare gleaming in his eyes.
Miranda had never felt so uncertain of herself, not even at her first ball as a sixteen-year-old girl back in Liverpool. Without allowing her bemused senses time to react with the natural caution she normally exhibited, she tilted her face toward his hand and opened her mouth.
Lordy, the lushness of those lips, so soft and sweet. Struggling not to tremble, he slipped the morsel into her mouth, being careful not to touch her. She closed her eyes and chewed, then washed the delicacy down with another sip of wine. When she opened them, he was offering her a pea pod. She took the crisp vegetable and felt the tang of sherry on her tongue.
”Mmm, delicious,” she murmured.
“Yes, it is,” he said, but his eyes were fastened on her, not the food. Twisting off a leg from the bird, he held it out. “Take a bite.”
This is insane, a faint voice inside her head warned, but she leaned forward and bit into the rich succulent meat, so tender it fell from the bone. He caught the pieces easily in his hand and shoved them into his mouth with neat economy, then held out the bone for her once again.
“I...I need to hold it but I'll soil my gloves,” she blurted out as her fingertips brushed against his hand.
“Then take them off. I won't tell.”
Satan in the garden couldn't have been more beguiling. She took another sip of wine and placed the glass carefully on the ground, then yanked off her mitts and tossed them aside with a reckless flourish. When he offered her the bone again, she took one end in her fingers, touching his hand as she did so, and jerking back ever so slightly. Then she recovered, daring to reach out once more and seize hold of the prize.
Brand watched her take another bite. His mouth, filled with saliva from the juicy food a moment ago, went suddenly dry. He refilled their glasses, then offered her a crust from the bread. ‘This is my favorite part,” he whispered, letting her pull at the slightly tough piece torn from the end. As it broke free, crumbs showered down over her green dress and he dreamed of licking them, one by one, off the sweet curves of breasts and lower...
“May I have the wine?” she asked, daring to speak, afraid her voice would come out a raspy croak.
He handed her the glass he'd refilled and then clinked his own to hers in a toast. “Here's to a beautiful day...and many more to come.” They both drank the golden liquid, as soft and sweet as the summer sunlight beaming down through their leafy bower.
Then he uncovered another bowl and removed a fat, ripe red raspberry. Dipping it in the heavy cream, he popped it into his mouth. “Umm.”
“A gentleman would offer one to a lady first,” Miranda reproved.
“So he would. But being a baron doesn't make me a gentleman, no matter what the House of Lords says,” he replied with a grin. He anointed another berry and held it out to her.
There was no way she could take it from his hand without touching him. And she knew it. Knew he knew it. She opened her mouth anyway and let him slide it inside. It must be the wine. Somehow, of their own volition her lips closed around his fingers before he withdrew them. She sat back, aghast at her hunger, one she knew had nothing to do with food.
Brand watched as her eyes grew wide and her fingers flew up to her mouth. Her lips were stained bright red from berry juice, and they were just as plump and ripe...and oh, so kissable. Without thinking, he leaned over and took her hand away, replacing it with his mouth, brushing it softly against hers, back and forth, drinking the tart-sweet delight of raspberry and woman. Then their tongues touched, just the faintest hint of contact, but she drew away as if she'd never felt a man kiss her that way before.
And instantly he knew it must be true. Their formidable Queen had placed her Puritanical stamp on what was considered proper, even for married women. No lady was supposed to do more than her “duty” for her husband. For all he knew, Will Auburn had never truly kissed her at all—something Brandon Caruthers planned to correct immediately. His hands framed her face and his lips claimed hers more deeply.
They still sat discreetly apart on the blanket, leaning toward each other as he reached behind her head and buried his fingers in her hair, pulling the heavy mass at her nape free so that it tumbled down her back. Deep ruby fire danced in the dappled light filtering through the leaves. Her touch was unsure, exploratory as she let the tip of her tongue dart against his for an instant, then withdraw. She dug her fingers into his arms, feeling the hard flexing of his muscles.
He slanted his mouth at a different angle and guided her head, cradling it in one palm as he seized a fistful of lavender-scented hair and wrapped it around his wrist. She tasted of the fruit and more...oh, so much more. When he heard her moan softly against his mouth, he was lost. His tongue thrust deep and his mouth worked over hers hungrily, demanding response even as he tutored her in how to give it
“I knew you'd be sweet...and tart...” he murmured against her lips as his hand glided down the long, silky column of her throat, over the indentation of her collarbone to the lush curve of her breast.
The fabric was sheer cotton and her undergarments were made of lace, her one feminine indulgence even in drab business attire. The abrasive texture of the lace teased her aching nipple as he massaged it. His words had not registered, but when he pulled her against him and they tumbled backwards onto the soft grass behind the blanket, Miranda came to her senses. With a muffled cry, she pushed free of him and sat bolt upright.
She saw with horror that one of the wineglasses had overturned in the midst of their passion, staining her skirt and his pant leg. What on earth had she been thinking? There were servants only a short distance away, and the young people could return at any moment. Her daughter could ride up and see her own mother lying with the man she intended to marry. Miranda moaned with disgust and placed her hands on either side of her head, trying desperately to gather her jumbled wits.
If only she had not consumed all that accursed wine! Feeling her hair loose about her shoulders, she began frantically searching for the pins to put it up. “I'm no better than that drunken tart,” she sobbed, fumbling with the long, burnished mass.
Brand sat back, aching to take her in his arms but knowing to do so would drive her away forever. He also knew of whom she spoke. “You're nothing like Reba. Don't ever say such a thing.” There was an undertone of anger that she should even consider such a comparison. “You're just human...a woman—”
“A woman who has nearly coupled with her own daughter's suitor!” She rounded on him like a wounded animal, cornered and desperate, letting anger purge away the guilt and shame...for the moment. She knew it would return later. Then she would have to deal with it, but not now. Dear God, not now. All she could think of was escape.
Trembling, she got to her feet somehow, refusing his assistance when he stood with effortless ease and offered his hand, the graceful lout. Jamming pins into her tangled hair as she twisted it into a knot at the back of her head, she said in the iciest voice she could muster, “I cannot be seen in this condition. One of the footmen will drive me back to your home. You will tell Lori and the others that I felt a sudden upset stomach—say the meat pies were tainted, the clotted cream was sour—say whatever you wish, only make them believe that was all that happened here!”
“This was my fault. I am deeply sorry I offended you, but you must know this has been a long time coming between us. We—”
“No!” she practically shrieked, holding her hands over her ears as if that would make him and his words—those terrifying, truthful words—vanish. “There is no we! Not now, nor ever will there be anything between us, my lord. Nor will you continue courting my daughter. If you possess one shred of decency—and I'm inclined to doubt it— you will allow her to—”
“Miss Auburn and I have already agreed we do not suit.” Now it was he who interrupted as his temper boiled over. “Of course, she will be the one to break off our courtship,” he replied tightly.
His words about Lori di
d not register with Miranda as she turned and fled to the wagon, climbing aboard the high seat with dogged determination, out of breath from far more than simply running.
All she called back to him was a frosty request that he summon one of the footmen to take her home. Cursing his stupidity, the wine, the woman and life in general, he trudged toward the pathway the servants had taken with their lunch to do as she asked.
* * * *
Lori sat by herself in the isolated glade, watching a doe with her fawns frolicking across the open meadow. Behind her was a small stream that fed the lake on the baron's property. She smiled to herself. Things would be going swimmingly for them, alone at the picnic place. All Brand need do was dismiss the footmen on some pretext and get on with his courtship of her mother. It was such a romantic spot!
She had left the other couples laughing and flirting, feeling like an outsider since she was the only unattached one in the group. It would be nice to have a real suitor, but she had learned her lesson the hard way. Brandon Caruthers was in love with another woman, and Geoffrey Winters was in love with himself. Someday there would be a man right for her. She only had to school herself in patience until he came along. In the meanwhile, she was rather enjoying the role of matchmaker.
Surprisingly, Lori found that she actually enjoyed solitude, something she never would have imagined only a few short months ago. “Perhaps I'm finally growing up,” she murmured to herself. Then she could not help wondering what sort of youth her mother had had. Or had not been allowed to have. At Lori's own age she was already a mother, wed to a man old enough to be her grandfather. Her reverie was suddenly interrupted by the sound of clumsy crashing through the elderberry thicket behind her.
“A ha'penny for your thoughts,” Geoffrey Winters said with a charming smile as he strolled into view, sending the deer into flight.
“Where is Varinia?” Lori asked immediately. Suspiciously. She did not like the gleam in his eye one bit.