Next to the garret, the pond was the only other refuge she had ever found at the Heath, a place of delicious solitude. Her grandfather and his friends preferred the comfort and order of the gardens by the kitchen to the wilderness which had been created for him at great expense. The pond was situated well past the manicured lawns and the intriguing gravel walkways considered de rigueur for any gentleman's estate these days.
Sawyer Weylin's landscaper, Bullock, had leveled all the towering oaks and diverted the course of the brook that had once flowed naturally over the Heath's lands. In their stead, he had erected a woodland cluster of flowering trees and shrubbery, an artist's conceit, attempting to improve upon nature.
Phaedra pressed through the thicket of carefully arranged bushes toward the pond. The symmetrical shape of the clear silvery water would have fooled no one into thinking this bucolic scene had been crafted by the hand of God. The red deer imported to lend it credence had fled long ago, seeming to vanish into thin air. Although Phaedra had never informed her grandfather, she thought she had once detected the aroma of roast venison wafting from one of the crofter's huts down the lane.
As she swept off her sash, she regarded Bullock's creation with affectionate contempt. She supposed it was no more tasteless than the fake Greek temple or hermitages that adorned other estates. At least her grandfather had never gone so far as to hire a hermit to stalk about his lands. And the pond did serve a most useful function-at least for her.
Phaedra struggled to undo the lacings of her gown and stripped it off over her head. Her petticoats and stockings followed. Here she felt none of the shyness that had made her so awkward in Armande's bedchamber. This was her element, reminding her of her childhood in Ireland, when she and Gilly had paraded in the buff, learning to swim in a God-created pond with all its familiar discomforts of reeds and rocks. In those days she had basked in complete innocence of the nudity of her own body, an attitude most of the Irish shared. It had taken years as an Englishwoman to teach her to be a prude.
Phaedra paced to the edge of the pond. Despite the warmth of the sunlight, she regarded the glassy surface of the pond with momentary trepidation. The waters were never anything but chilly. But she had been taught long ago there was only one way to approach it. Drawing in a deep breath, she plunged into the pond feet first, allowing the water to close over her head.
The shock of the cold water enveloping her was at first terrible, then delightful, as though every pore in her body had been jarred awake. Striking the surface of the water, she swam about with vigorous strokes until her blood felt warmed by the exercise.
Pausing to catch her breath, she tread water, before stretching out, trailing her arms in a floating posture. She basked in the feeling of her own numbing exhaustion, the soothing way the cool waters buoyed her up and lapped against her.
But it was not long before the sheer quiet of the place began to oppress her. Even the larks and the chattering squirrels seemed to shun the little copse, as though they detected the artificiality of it. Yet she continued floating, determined to keep her mind from straying back to thoughts of Armande.
She had no use in her life for any man. Had she not just escaped her bondage to Ewan? What was Armande de LeCroix but a distraction? He diverted her from her real goal-to earn enough money to become independent of her grandfather and all his schemes. She set her mind to the task of finding a way to deliver her material to Jessym. She could not afford to wait for Gilly's return, even if this meant she had to run the risk of going to the printer herself. Londoners were notoriously fickle. Robin Goodfellow could easily become last week's sensation, if she did not stir up some new controversy with her pen.
A breeze scudded across the surface of the pond, rippling the waters, and raising gooseflesh upon her bare skin. Phaedra shivered, then kicked her feet beneath her and dog-paddled for the bank.
Hauling herself out, Phaedra flopped into the cool grass, waiting for the moisture on her skin to dry before dressing again. She plucked a blade of grass and stroked it across her cheek, peering at her reflection in the water. With her hair sprayed across her bare shoulders in fiery rivelets, her wide green eyes haunting her pale face, she looked like some lonely sprite trapped beneath the surface of the water.
She stirred the blade through the reflection, dispelling her image into a myriad of shimmering ripples.
Very well, then. Maybe she would admit it. She was lonely. Why else would she have responded so eagerly to Armande's caresses, gone so willingly to his bed? At times she felt starved for affection-and there was so much about Armande that was perfect.
Too perfect, she thought uneasily. Beyond his skill as a lover, and the enticement of his lean, dangerous profile, he knew how to be kind and gentle. Her longing for that was as keen as her longing to be loved. Armande seemed to understand so much of what she felt. Add to that the fact that he didn't want her to be a simpering fool, that he respected the power of her mind and admired her for it-as long as she didn't ask too many questions. Phaedra was glad she remembered that. It might save her from regret.
She rolled over on her side, peering upward to where the sun peeked through the leaves. It must be past noon, she thought dully. By now he must be gone. She suddenly hated the whispery shadows of the leaves, stealing away the sunshine.
Sitting up, she hugged her bare knees. She wondered if it were really so important to her what Armande called himself. Did it truly matter what his real name or what secrets he kept? She was struck by an unexpected memory of Eliza Wilkins, the woman's willingness to risk her life, her security, all to follow her husband Tom wherever he went. "Because I love him," Eliza had said in her quiet way. Phaedra had not understood then, but maybe now, she did, just a little.
If she ever did see Armande again-
Phaedra was startled by the snap of a twig. She tensed, glancing about her, but the copse was silent, the only movement the rustle of a leaf. All the same, she had the uncomfortable sensation of being spied upon.
Without making obvious her nervousness, Phaedra reached for her clothes. She scrambled into her petticoats and was lacing the corset across her bosom when she heard another snap, followed by the crunch of boots. Someone was there.
Phaedra whirled around, clasping her gown in front of her breasts, preparing to scream for help if necessary. She tensed at the sight of the tall man stalking past the bushes. Her lips rounded into a weak oh.
She gaped at Armande, attired for riding in a plain brown frock coat and tan breeches protected by spatterdashes. His silky dark hair was back in a neat queue. Her heart set up such a hammering, she could do little more than stare at him. "I-I thought you'd gone."
He dug the toe of one boot into the ground, avoiding her eyes. Never had he looked less the picture of a polished marquis. Fingering the brim of his cocked hat, he said "How could I-after we parted so abruptly? We never truly said farewell."
She thought they had said nigh everything there was to say. He swore he didn't want to hurt her, yet he seemed determined to prolong this parting and make it as painful as possible.
He moved to the edge of the pond, staring moodily down at his own image, the reflection as mysterious and elusive as Armande himself. Phaedra turned her back on him. With unsteady jerks, she strove to finish lacing the front of her bodice.
"How long have you been watching me?" she blurted out.
"Too long for my peace of mind," came his strained reply.
"Damnation!" She had tangled one of the lacings, snarling it into a hopeless knot. She yanked on the ribbon, tearing the delicate silk. Whipping around, she said, “Why did you have to come looking for me? Why didn't you just go!"
He glanced up at her, his eyes rife with misery. "I can't," he said hoarsely. "I think I am falling in love with you."
He spoke with such quiet simplicity she could not doubt he meant it. The words seemed wrung from the depths of his heart. Something he had said the first night they had met echoed through her mind. She replied a shaky
laugh, "How amusing. I was thinking the exact same about you. "
Phaedra never knew how her trembling legs carried her across the clearing, but suddenly she was flinging herself into Armande's arms with a force that nearly tumbled them both into the pond.
"Phaedra," he groaned, burying his face against her neck. "What a selfish bastard I am. I tried to tear myself away. I swear, somehow I will manage to make sure you never have cause to hate me."
"Hush, love." Her fingers tangled in his hair. "Everything will be all right."
It was a rash pledge to make when she had no idea what everything was. But nothing mattered to her except that he would not vanish from her life. At this moment, she could imagine no greater pain than that.
His mouth burned against hers as they sank down and tumbled into the grass. There was no hint of the accomplished lover in the way Armande fumbled with her clothes. He nearly tore her petticoats in his haste to disrobe her, she nearly doing the same to his cravat and coat. Their bodies bared, they came together, flesh to flesh, in a kind of fierce desperation. It was as though they were both aware of how close they would always be to losing each other, forever hovering on the brink of some dark calamity. They had to seize what precious moments the begrudging fates would allow.
Their passion rose and swelled in a heated rush, leaving them spent with exhaustion. Even then, Phaedra held Armande inside her for as long as she could, as if drawing back would allow all the shadows of secrecy to creep between them.
"Phaedra," he murmured. "How have I ever managed to live without you? I feel like a man who has been lost in an endless winter. And you are the blazing sun."
He rolled onto his side, still holding her against him. She gazed up at him "I have never been anyone's blazing sun before." She laughed. "Although Grandfather complains most fiercely about the color of my hair."
"He's a fool!" She was startled by the harshness of his voice when speaking of Sawyer. But he smiled, softening his tone as he slipped back into his French accent, "Your hair is glorious, ma belle. You would have driven Titian mad with the longing to paint-"
She laid her fingers across the curve of his lips, stopping him. The love they dared speak of was yet new. But Phaedra knew with dread certainty, two things which would put the tenuous bond between them at risk.
"I want to exchange a promise with you," she said solemnly.
Despite the tender light in Armande's eyes, one brow shot up in an expression that was as wary as it was questioning. Nonetheless, she continued, "I promise to ask no more questions that you cannot answer if you will pledge-"
She felt Armande tense.
"You pledge that there will be no more ma belle or ma chere, no more playing the French marquis. Not when we are alone together-like this."
For one moment, she feared he would refuse her even that much honesty. Then, he relaxed. "Very well. My beautiful Phaedra."
He laughed and pulled her close for another long and satisfying kiss that set the seal to their promises ... promises that could never be kept.
Phaedra slipped back to the house much later in a far different mood than when she had fled from it earlier. She sought out the backstairs, humming snatches of outrageous Irish ditties she had learned from Gilly-songs no lady ever ought to know. But then, she had never looked less like a lady than she did now. Anyone who saw her would guess what she had been doing in the sweet smelling grass by the pond.
Armande's passion might well have been stamped upon her face for all to see. She could feel her skin glowing, how tender her mouth was from the force of his kisses, her hair tumbled about her like some wild-eyed gypsy's. It was as well she encountered none of the servants, for she could not have concealed the tumult of her emotions.
Armande said he loved her. His unexpected declaration filled her with wonder. She had never thought to hear those words from any man, certainly not the icy Marquis de Varnais. Ah, but he was not the marquis, and whoever he might be, it was enough to know him as the man who loved her, whom she loved in return. She would make it enough.
Even living on the edge of this precipice was preferable to the lonely existence she had known before Armande came. Now she reveled in the riotous thrum of her pulses, the excitement tingling through her veins. The crash might come, bringing in its wake a despair darker than she ever had known. But it wasn't coming today.
Armande loved her, her, Phaedra. Not ‘Lord Ewan's relict.’ Not her grandfather’s heiress. Herself. She skipped toward her room so blithely that for a moment she might well still have been that barefoot little girl from Donegal. She barely noted that the door to her bedchamber stood ajar until she bounded across the threshold. She nearly collided with the grim figure of Hester Searle.
A gasp, half of fright, half of annoyance, escaped Phaedra. She drew back in a gesture as reflexive as shrinking from a repulsive toad. "What are you doing in here?"
Even though she towered over the housekeeper by a full head, it was she who felt at a disadvantage as Hester's beadlike eyes took in Phaedra's mud-stained skirts, studying her flushed face. A soured expression twisted Hester's pinched visage.
"I've been checking on the housemaids to make sure as yer rooms be cleaned proper. It scarce happens by magic, ye know."
“Or by witchcraft. Phaedra offered her a too-sweet-smile. “I am quite satisfied with condition of my room, so you may go.” Not even Madame Pester should be allowed to spoil her happiness this day. She stalked past the woman to her wardrobe.
“If I have intruded, I am sorry.” Hester sneered. “I had no idea yer ladyship would be wishful of changing clothes at this hour of the day.”
Phaedra yanked open the wardrobe door, searching through the silks for a fresh gown. "One usually does after slipping on the wet grass and taking a tumble." She immediately despised herself for offering any explanation of her disheveled state. She was not obliged to render an accounting to the likes of Hester Searle.
Hester stooped to pick up some blades of grass that had dropped from Phaedra's petticoats. Crushing them between her crooked fingers, she said, "I've just put the maids up to doing the bed in the marquess's room. Do ye reckon he will be needing to change his garb, as well?"
There was no mistaking the insinuation in Hester's voice. Phaedra flushed.
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" she snapped. She snatched a sacque back gown of peach-colored silk from the wardrobe and stormed into the powdering room to change, slamming the door behind her.
That Searle creature was going to push someone too far one of these days. She only hoped she was there to see it. The woman could not have made the connection between herself and Armande unless her prying eyes had been at work again. Perhaps the woman had been listening at the keyhole last night when she and Armande had made love. Phaedra suppressed the thought, the mere suspicion of such a thing enough to make her feel quite ill.
She tugged off the soiled gown without summoning Lucy to aid her. Searle's suspicions had been bad enough without her maid wondering why her mistress returned from a morning's walk with her corset strings all tangled in knots.
As Phaedra struggled into the peach silk, she thought of Hester's spiteful expression with increasing dissatisfaction. It occurred to her that the woman's penchant for spying could present a real danger to Armande. Hester might search through Phaedra's bedchamber as much as she liked. All of Phaedra's secrets were carefully locked away in the garret. But could Armande say the same for his? She thought of the wooden casket he kept in plain view upon his dressing table. One of Hester's hairpins might be enough to pry it open. She ought to warn him.
Phaedra's lips curled into a wry smile. After trying so hard to expose him herself, it was rather ironic she should now seek to protect him. Being enamored of a man made a great many changes in one's perception. If love was not precisely blind, it did render one far more willing to look at things a different way.
Still smiling, thinking of Armande, Phaedra rustled back into the bedchamber. To her displeasure, Sear
le was still there. The woman stood smoothing the lengths of Phaedra's ivory counterpane, although the bed had already been made up by one of the maids. Hester's rough fingertips snagged on the satin brocade, a brooding expression darkening her features.
How out of place, in her stiff, black bombazine, the wizened creature looked amid the lace and frills of Phaedra's bedchamber. Phaedra frowned, the image of Hester caressing her bedclothes somehow disconcerting, like the shadow of death passing through a bride's bower.
"I told you, you can go, Mrs. Searle," she said in her frostiest accents. Not waiting to see the command obeyed, Phaedra swept over to her dressing table. Settling herself into the gilt carved chair, she pulled up the mirror and began brushing the tangles from hair.
Phaedra had never been given cause to feel vain before, but as she regarded her reflection in the mirror, she could nearly believe Armande's words of endearment when he had called her beautiful. What fairy spell had he worked upon her in the pond's hidden glade? Never had her eyes shone so bright and luminous, her skin tinted with such a soft pink glow. Her lips quivered as though harboring the sweetest of secrets only a woman could know. How she-
Phaedra dropped her hairbrush, a frightened cry escaping her. Another face flashed beside hers, like some hobgoblin appearing within the depths of the mirror, the features contorted into an ugly mask. It took Phaedra a moment to realize it was only Hester hovering behind her. She placed her hand across her bosom in an effort to steady her jumping heart.
She retrieved the fallen hairbrush, unwilling to let Hester see how much she had startled her. She glared at the woman.
“Was there something else you wanted Mrs. Searle?” The woman’s eyes met hers in the mirror and in their depths, Phaedra read a degree of hatred and jealousy that unnerved her.
Phaedra shivered. She had never been afraid of Hester before, but in that instant, she felt terrified. The woman's blue-veined lids slowly lowered, her eyes assuming their customary sly expression. Once more she was nothing but the prying housekeeper, a source more of irritation than terror. Phaedra let out her breath.
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