by Julia Ross
"I’m a lady's maid, ma'am, for your personal needs, your clothing, your own room, whatever you wish."
Juliet suppressed her astonishment. "You have been hired recently, or you come here from Mr. Granville's own home?"
Kate curtsied again. "Ι can't rightly say, ma'am, but you will find me as well trained as any."
Α lady's maid! Stolen from his wife, sister, mistress?
With a few brief instructions, Juliet had sent the women upstairs to settle in. He might have guessed she wou1dn't embarrass them by a close interrogation, but did he think she would send such help away? Even a lady's maid! It felt almost reckless, to be forced back into a role she had never thought to fulfill again.
She could spend the rest of the week without lifting a finger. Yet she liked feeding her poultry herself. There was something fearless about hens - they didn't have the brains to be apprehensive. Contentment could turn into squawking panic in an instant, but chickens didn't worry about the future or have regrets for the past. Juliet smiled as she pulled on her old blue smock. Everything in life had its compensations.
Carrying the basket, she walked out through the yard, only to see Alden Granville leaning against the woven fence of her chicken coop.
The breath caught in her throat.
In the dappled half-shadow of the trees he stood absolutely still, the lines of his body graceful and lithe. With one buckled shoe propped on the bottom support rail, he stared down at the hens as they dusted in the shade.
Gold-and-red embroidery swirled over his tan satin waistcoat, echoing the trail of ribbon tying back his hair. Hooked on one forefinger, his jacket was flung over his shoulder. The other hand at his hip pushed aside the skirt of his waistcoat to reveal elegant breeches and white stockings. The impression of soft elegance was belied only by the smallsword hanging at his side and the virile tension in his stance that said he knew how to use it.
My lord, the laborer had almost said. The still center of a wave of disturbance that had raced through her zealously guarded sanctuary.
Juliet moved forward, clutching the basket to her hip. So the sight of him agitated her pulse! He was beautiful. He was undoubtedly a rake, who sought some casual amusement at her expense. His identity was entirely irrelevant. He - and his maids - would be gone in a week.
Like the sweet kernel hidden in the walnut, perhaps she could find some amusement of her own in his presumption and let the costs all be his.
He looked up. For a moment his eyes seemed bleak, then a smi1e broke over his face, the entranced smile of a man who greets his lover's return from a long journey. It seemed as if he might open his arms to welcome her straight into his embrace.
Her heart faltered.
"You have a broody hen," he said. "She's very fierce. As soon as Ι appeared, she called to her babies with the most imperious cries Ι have ever heard outside of the Countess of Roxham's withdrawing room."
Juliet stopped dead, disconcerted he could still catch her so off guard, almost as if she were waking after a long sleep to find herself surrounded by playmates who had grown old and become strangers, a fearful discontinuity that left her floundering for a moment. But Ι remember Lady Roxham - she was indeed feathered with shrillness and ribbons!
It reminded her only too clearly of what she had lost, that she was indeed a lady, yet it was far too intimate a greeting, as if they had been close friends for years.
He glanced back at the broody hen, releasing Juliet from the ephemeral madness caused by his smile. "Now she has all those helpless little chicks hidden under her wings while she glares and bridles at me. Will she suffocate them?"
"If hens were so inept, poultry wouldn't survive." Her tone was deliberately acerbic. His hand still rested comfortably on his hip, his fingers whiter than hers, perfectly manicured, yet with a deadly strength. "As society would fall apart, no doubt, were gentlemen always to forgo the formal courtesies."
"Ah," he said. "Ι didn't bow."
"And thus omitted the true purpose of a gentleman's scraping his greeting: to negate his inherent male threat." Expectant chickens came running as she walked up to him. "The obeisance shows his weaponless hands. The dropped head reveals his intention to be peaceful-"
"- In spite of the blade at his side? Or perhaps the presence of sheer loveliness - the simple sunlit ivory and blue of it - leaves a man bereft."
Her blue smock flamed against her legs, her wrists ivory in the sun. "Yet even my hen recognizes danger when she sees it. You think her attitude unreasonable?"
"It's producing. a great many ruffled feathers without due cause," he replied. "Ι don't intend her any harm."
"Thus says the fox."
His eyes filled with innocent merriment as he met her gaze, as if he recognized her own hidden impulse to mirth. "You think Ι am Reynard, come to prey on innocent chicks? Ι would never aspire to be a fox in a hen coop. Ι like the hunt to be more evenly matched than that."
"I’m not sure Tilly thought so."
"Tilly?" His astonishment seemed genuine. "Your maid? Lud! She's not more than what - fourteen?"
"She is fifteen."
"It's a valiant concern, but an absurd one. She is quite safe from me. Ι never create havoc among baby chicks."
"The proximity of the fox creates havoc, whether he means it or not. When is any servant girl safe from the attentions of a rake?"
Sunlight glimmered over his hair. "Rarely, Ι admit. It's commonly understood that a parlor maid will sacrifice her virtue for two ribbons, whereas the lady's maid will demand three. Yet Ι have always lived by a code that leaves the maids to their sweethearts." He slung his jacket over a nearby oak branch. "Does that surprise you?"
"It only surprises me that you expect me to believe you never flirt with the maids."
"Flirt?" Folding his arms, he propped his shoulders against the dappled trunk. ''Ι have been known to flirt with grandmothers - an innocent pastime, amusing to both parties. Ι thought we were talking about a lady's more intimate favors, which Ι never purchase, especially with something as tawdry as ribbons."
Juliet threw the contents of her basket over the fence. The chickens scrambled to snatch the choicest pieces. "You expect such favors to be granted freely?"
"Of course, since Ι grant mine freely in return."
"But there is no equality, is there, between men and women in such matters? Women give of themselves, men only take."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?"
He bowed his head. "Ι speak, Ι am sure, ma'am, from far more experience than you."
"Yet you have never seduced a servant?"
"Never." His voice held pure wickedness, rich with masculine conceit. "Why would Ι, when the lady of the house is always willing?"
"Always?" She laughed. She wanted to snap her fingers in his face. "Then you admit without a qualm that you are indeed a rake? "
His smile warmed, like the sun, as he gazed directly into her eyes. "Do you wish me to admit it?"
"It's nothing to me."
"Yet let any gentleman enter a ballroom and the flutter begins behind the fans: Is this α man Ι might marry or is this one of those dangerous, predatory creatures my mother warned me against? Α pet dog or a fox: a delicious quandary for any lady of spirit. She knows the dog is too tame. Must she believe the fox to be too perilous?"
"You are saying she is wrong to be wary?"
"No, but only the fox thrills the blood as he races by after dark."
"Then how much more exciting to run with the foxes!" Tension made her voice high, too bright. Did he notice? His expression didn't change, yet layers of intelligent awareness lay in that casual gaze. "No doubt the hens would agree?"
"Reynard doesn't waste time on tame chickens, safe in their wattle enclosure," he said. "He has far more sophisticated tastes."
She felt giddy, as if she were being whirled around and around in too fast a dance.
"Either way he deals death!" She regretted her vehemence immediatel
y and paced away.
His voice pursued her, gentle but relentless. "The lady might think she is dying, but if she is one of the wise - like you – who knows what she wants, Ι assure you she survives to die again the next night. It's why intelligent ladies prefer rakes: either a man knows how to bring his lady a pleasure worth dying for, or he doesn't. "
Agitation inundated her veins, a rush of feeling, heady and foolish. Grass crushed under her shoes as she strode back toward him, her simple hoops swaying, her heart beating too fast.
"How can you claim to know what Ι want?"
"Your breathing tells me, as the disorder in mine should tell you." His eyes spoke of mischief, a jester in a fox mask reveling in a forest.
"Because you vibrate as if you were the center of an invisible whirlwind? Because your lace trembles with such a fine tumult? Ι thought perhaps you were afraid."
"Is that what your rapid tumble of breathing should tell me? Or your eyes when you look at me, or your supple spine when you turn away? What about the glorious wisp of chestnut that dances, escaped from its pins, over your nape? The quick color flooding your skin?"
The laces of her corset constricted like a vise. "What should they tell you? That Ι am discomposed, embarrassed, irritated-"
"Nonsense." Laughter lit his voice, warm and seductive. "The fox knows desire when he sees it. You can't blame him if he stands and quakes, captivated by the loveliness of it."
Hot color burned her cheeks. Strands of hair caressed the back of her neck. Her legs wished to fold, to carry her down, quivering, onto the crushed grass.
"Ι don't claim to be immune," she said. "But Ι am no baby chick. Ι have my own ways to ward off spells."
"Spells?"
"Charm," she said. "In the old, original meaning of the word: casting a spell. There is nothing personal about the charm of a rake, it's as natural to him as his heartbeat. Thus, there's no honesty in such compliments."
"Yes, there is, Juliet. True compliments are driven by an exact and passionate observation. The dishonesty is the lady's for denying the truth."
"The truth is that the intelligent lady does not prefer a fox, because she resents being used only for his pleasure."
"Unless she wishes to use him for hers."
"She does not."
He shrugged - the elegant, commanding shrug of the fencer loosening muscles for a duel. "Then how can she be harmed?" His gaze held hers, blue on blue. "No lady gives herself to a lover, if there's nothing in it for her. Why do you so mistrust men, ma’am?"
"Ι do not mistrust men, sir," she snapped. "Ι mistrust you."
"About Tilly?" His voice mocked openly, yet the undertones were still melodious, seductive, like the voice of the incubus, whispering in a dream. "Her infantile thoughts revolve around her plans for matrimony - eagerly, even lustily anticipated. She's in love with the woodcutter's son and means to marry him. She told me so. It's not for such a downy chick that Reynard gambols and frolics to try to lure her out into the mysterious night. I'm not interested in Tilly, ma'am. Ι am interested in you."
She retrieved the basket, clutching it against her blue skirts. "So the compliment becomes a declaration? How very bold, sir, when all we're committed to is a chess match! You expect me to be flattered?"
"I expect you to be amused. You are not likely to succumb. Though a lovely enough rose, you are well surrounded by thorns."
Stray feathers clung to the fence. Α small clutch of eggs brown, white, speckled - filled a nest of dead leaves under a bramble that had crept into a corner of the pen. Juliet stared at them. She hated the image of herself as a prickly, hostile plant - like a thistle or a stinging nettle.
She bent to reach through the fence to gather the eggs. "Oh, Ι am amused; but don't try to tell me you aren't dangerous, sir. The fox isn't all fun and games. You well know how to use that smallsword, don't you?"
"Would you rather Ι told you Ι wear it only for show?"
She glanced up. He had moved silently across the grass to stand beside her, heightening her awareness of him, of his nearness, of the very scent of him, male and hot, tempered only by traces of fine soap. He held out one hand to help her up. The beautiful, open hand of a lover.
Without hesitation, she set a brown egg on his palm. "No doubt you have reveled determinedly enough on a dueling ground?"
"Men duel because it's the ultimate wager. Certainly, it's the only one where winning is guaranteed."
"Now you speak in riddles." She straightened up, keeping her back against the fence. "Victory is never certain."
"Just to survive is to win." His fingers closed gently around the egg. "The dead, poor fellows, no longer have any opinion to express, but every man that survives a duel has experienced the most intense gamble of his life." He took the remaining eggs from her hands and set them in the basket. Sunlight gleamed on his hair and warmed his satin waistcoat to bronze. "The nearer he came to death, the greater the victory when he emerges unscathed. That's seductive enough to make men crave it, over and over again. It's like an addiction to wine, an ecstasy."
"Because there's exhilaration in risk?" She almost laughed, triumphant. "Ι think it an appalling philosophy!"
His innocent gaze met hers. "Yet you cannot deny the pleasure in this, can you, ma'am? The purity of debate, the fun of leaping after an idea, the game of it. Men aren't the only creatures who enjoy a challenge." The waistcoat flexed over his spine as he gestured toward her broody hen. "This female is as ferocious as any male."
Juliet opened the wicker gate and went into the coop. The broody hen ruffled its feathers and fixed its eyes on her face, but did not move. She knelt and slipped a hand underneath one wing. Her fingers closed over a soft ball of down, then another.
"This is what the hen defends," she said, stepping back out of the pen with the tiny chicks cradled in her hands. "It's the purpose of her whole existence, not just an exercise in vainglory and arrogance, however amusing that may be."
"Amazing!"
She glanced up at his face, puzzled. His tone was suddenly serious, even reverent.
A little breeze stirred through the spinney. Leaves rustled. A soft strand of gold danced against the carved line of male cheek. He was staring down at the chicks as if fascinated.
Without moving his gaze, he held out one hand, palm cupped. "May Ι?"
She stared at the corner of his mouth - the texture of smooth lip against the subtle roughness of a man's jaw. He had beautiful teeth and such a mobile, expressive mouth! Above the lean line of his cheekbone, his eyelashes were as long as her own, the lowered 1ids hiding that disturbing blue gaze.
"Ι should give the chicks directly to the fox?" She reached for sarcasm, but it came out as a whisper, too husky. The babies huddled in her hands, as if they could hear the strong beat of her heart.
He glanced up and smiled again - that thoughtful smile this time, like a carved saint.
"You trusted me with the eggs."
Juliet felt the impact in her bones, far deeper, more perilous than the simple flush of arousal. It was as if she had been racing like a girl in short skirts and was abruptly arrested by a flood of mysterious adult awareness.
"You know Ι am in truth harmless to chicks, ma'am," he added gently. "And Ι would like it, very much."
As if bewitched, she placed the baby birds into his hands. He cradled them both in one careful palm and stroked their heads with a fingertip. The chicks huddled down, secure under his caress.
"Lud!" he said. "They're incredibly soft - except for some remarkably scratchy little feet." He laughed. "Too bad they're doomed to turn into chickens!"
Her back was pinned against the fence. Unable to move away, Juliet stared at the babies, so she would not have to look at the devastating tenderness in his eyes. One chick peeped suddenly, its beak a cavity of red in the tiny mottled-brown head. The broody hen launched herself at the fence, scattering the rest of her brood.
"Now we have maternal panic." Juliet held out both palms as t
he hen flapped her wings and squawked, distracting her. "Let me have them."
He placed one chick in her hands. The other began cheeping piteously.
Soft fluff touched her face. Startled, Juliet lifted her chin. He was holding the remaining bird cushioned against her earlobe. His knuckles slid, carrying the baby. Its soft down tickled a path across her cheek. His thumb followed, over the small hollow by her nostril, the tormentingly sensitive corner of her mouth, past her jaw.
Her senses caught fire. Her mouth ached. Her skin bloomed.
She bit her lip, so the sensations couldn't take form in a resonant breath.
He let the chick nestle in the hollow of her neck.
Instantly the baby became quiet. Silky soft. Soft against the tender skin of her throat and her too rapid pulse. The little scratch of feet tickled as the chick settled into the curve between her neck and her collar. She could imagine it there, eyes closed, securely hunched down against her living heat.
He stepped back. If she moved, the chick would fall.
"But what about you, Mistress Seton?" he asked gently. "While you nurture all this fecundity, has your own life crystallized into a static wasteland? Do you truly wish to live here forever like a fly in amber, while the world buzzes and clicks by without you?"
The trees of Mill Spinney were lit like lamps by the sinking sun. Maddeningly, tears blurred her vision, scattering the bright leaves into multiple images, as if they all shook in an invisible, silent breeze.
She gave a broken half-laugh. "Ι am a chicken or maybe a vixen; a rose or maybe a thorn; and now I'm a fossilized insect?" Emotion roughened her voice. "Such a splendid mix of images! What are you, Mr. Granville, but an importunate, profligate stranger, imposing on my time for your idle amusement?"
Α quick brush of his fingertips. The soft warmth left her neck. He took the other chick from her hands and crouched down to let them both run back into the pen. Clucking, the mother hen gathered her brood and led them all away, balls of down tumbling and running on pink spiked feet over the rough dirt.
"Then you have the right of it," he said. "Ι am no threat to you. Unless you ask me, Ι won't touch you again."