by Julia Ross
"Ι will never ask!"
"Faith! Then you have no cause for concern."
Her hands closed involuntarily on the rough wattles at her back, as if she must hold herself upright. "Ha! You are all appearance, without substance - no more than a butterfly flitting through a garden, lighting up each flower for a moment before moving on. Why should that glittering track leave any permanent impression on the petals?"
Alden glanced up at her, at the bright chestnut hair, at the curve of her neck, at the long lashes, damp and spiky, spilling shadows over her cheeks. She'd seemed so very alone and valiant, in her blue smock with the fluffy chicks in her rough hands. He'd felt a dangerous surge of tenderness.
He felt it now.
He wanted to feel the rich silk of her hair. He wanted to kiss her pale nape where a thin gold chain showed above the neckline of her smock. He wanted to offer comfort and protection: to hold her, soft and yielding, cradled like a chick in his hands.
Far too costly! The gold chain no doubt held the locket for which he had wagered his future. Α few days only remained until Friday. How fortunate that desire also stirred! Sex fit far more comfortably than this odd stirring of emotion into his scheme of things.
Would she allow him to kiss away the tears?
Soon.
Ask him to carry her away to the short grass under the oak tree and lay her down with her blue smock billowing beneath her long, naked legs?
Soon. Soon.
Her mouth invited his, her skin invited his hands, as the sweet peas invited the bees.
Hot desire became insistent, urging simple male need. Α few more days, he told himself. Α few more days! Now it was time to reassure her, win her confidence, so that he could press his advantage when she finally surrendered her guard.
Yet something else still disturbed him. Nothing he could give name to, but it felt vaguely uncomfortable. Ignoring the odd feeling, he stood and walked back to the tree to retrieve his coat.
"All the tender life that you protect here is quite safe," he said. "We are only chance acquaintances, whiling away a little time - a holiday, if you like, which Ι am able by chance to provide. Ι certainly hope to amuse you. It has never been my intention to distress you."
"You don't have the power to distress me, sir." She had turned her head. He couldn't see her face. "You are as out of place here as a silk fan in the hands of a cowhand. Far too hideously exquisite for such humble surroundings as these!"
In spite of the still-warm air, he shrugged into the coat, carefully arranging the cuffs, and deliberately made his voice light, teasing. "Then Ι may provide you the merriment of contrasting my evil town decadence unfavorably with your honest country values. The silk fan is unquestionably designed only to amuse, for Ι fear it's an absurdity otherwise."
"Oh, I’ll never believe that!" Her feet moved like a dancer's beneath her worn blue smock. Her face was set in a bright smile the smile of a courtier, a lady, determined on triumph. "I’ faith, Ι am tired of chickens, sir. Let us play chess. There you may indeed entertain me, for this time Ι intend to win."
HE PLAYED Α TEASING GAME, LETTING HER CAST HER NETS WIDE and breaking them gently. She was concentrating intently, but he was still winning - she just didn't know it yet. In spite of her suspicions and her reticence, she was generous: a fine, magnanimous nature, for some reason buried here in this backwater. Her pleasure every time she almost pinned down his king was obvious. She seemed able to escape into the moment with the purity of a child. Had she forgiven him for confronting her with what already lay between them? Forgotten that he had deliberately brought tears to her eyes?
Obviously she knew she was being played, yet she was falling directly into his trap. The fox danced and gamboled in the moonlight. The prey was rapt, until finally thrilled to yield into Reynard's smiling jaws. Did it matter that the fox just followed his animal nature? On Friday he would use her for his own ends, then abandon her. He must at least make it a rapturous, willing surrender.
Alden glanced at her beneath his lashes. It was hot in the arbor, the air heavy and still. Dying sunlight played harmonies in her hair, rich reds and browns, like the gleaming pebbles of a stream bed. She had taken off her smock to reveal a plain workaday dress underneath.
Meshach and Shadrach had settled at his feet. He dropped a hand occasionally to caress a tabby or orange head. Abednego lay a little behind him, out of reach, curled up where a twist of grape leaves bent down from a broken place in the arbor to make a comfortable nest.
With an unconsciously elegant gesture, Juliet ran one hand around the fichu filling the neckline of her dress, loosening the fabric from her moist skin. His attention concentrated on the soft whiteness of her throat, the swell of her breasts. Desire surged, overwhelming, almost as if he were still a callow youth, at the mercy of his own racing pulse. He forced himself back to the cool, logical analysis of the chess match and the game of seduction he had equally coolly begun.
"If you win," he asked as he sacrificed a bishop, "what would you ask of me?"
"When Ι win!"
He replied automatically, disturbed by the intrusion of such sensual images when they hadn't been invited. "Very well. When you win."
"I believe Ι shan't ask for anything, sir. After all, you are empty, nothing! You've never known anything but pleasure. Will you tell me that isn't true?"
"I am serious when rare occasion warrants, but Ι am a professional at pleasure."
She laid one hand flat on the table. His attention riveted there, unable to stop the image of her fingers on his naked skin. ''And you think Ι should take advantage of that expertise?"
"Of course, ma'am. It's entirely at your disposal."
"Then Ι admit it's a pleasure to play chess with you, sir, even though you're going to win this game, too."
Alden leaned back, surprised by the humor in her voice. "I am?"
She laughed. "Of course! Ι already cannot recover, can Ι?"
He moved his queen's rook. "Check. No, you can't."
She touched her king with a fingertip and let the piece topple. "Then Ι concede the match. However, you might do well to remember that though you may win each battle, you will never win the war."
He gave her a deliberate smile. "I’m not fighting a war, ma'am. I'm pursuing a seduction. Whether Ι succeed or fail, whatever the outcome, you will be the winner of that."
In a flash of white fur, Abednego hurtled onto the board, scattering the pieces. Juliet jumped up. The other cats leaped to chase the pawns, rooks and bishops rolling about on the flagstones under the table. For a moment it was pure feline chaos.
Juliet burst out laughing, letting him kneel to retrieve the lost men among the havoc of hunting cats. He glanced at her ankles - no reason not to enjoy the resulting surge of male hunger. Yet his desire seemed to have mutated into something mysterious, multilayered. An odd feeling caught his heart suddenly, an un-nameable feeling: mirth, lust and that strange surge of tenderness, unexpected and subtler than he could immediately fathom.
Alden sat back on his heels and gazed up at her. "We may have been wrong to indulge in such wanton talk of foxes, ma' am. Your cats have a far better gift for disorder."
"No," she said, stifling her merriment. "Our talk of foxes was very valuable to me. Meanwhile, you have won the chess match. You may claim your forfeit."
He stood and placed the chessmen on the table. The cats disappeared.
She raised her brows. "Ι am waiting. Ι expect something extravagant."
He dropped the pieces one by one into their box. ''Extravagant, ma’am?"
"In trade for your Herculean task with my hay-"
"Extravagant," he repeated, gathering his scattered wits. "Yes, if you like. Though what Ι have in mind is quite simple. We'll play chess tomorrow as if we're in Italy."
She looked puzzled. What had she expected? That he would ask for something she could simply and in honor refuse? Or that he would ask for her favors directly and let himself be so easi
ly spurned?
"Now Ι am surprised," she said.
He gave her a small bow. "What Ι really wish for, Ι shall never ask. Ι am content to wait until you offer it."
"Which will never happen."
Alden looked away toward the carefully tended garden. It was all practicality, yet the indulgence of flowers spoke of a longing for beauty, even for frivolity - or did they all have some use, like the cowslip wine?
He had no idea.
The whole place spoke of unceasing toil. Why did she do it? Most widows, especially ones with her looks, would hasten to remarry. Instead she buried herself here and labored alone. It spoke of a great reserve of courage, but Alden couldn't understand it and he wanted to, very much. Yet how could he, if he was to carry this through? Lud, he was behaving like a mooncalf! She was only a woman. What harm would it do to bring her a few hours of pleasure?
He turned back to her and bowed again, the exact, gracious obeisance of the court. "In which case, let us amuse ourselves with more innocent pastimes: Your face lit like a lamp when Ι mentioned Italy. Ι cannot take you there, so let me bring a little of her flavor here. Just follow the instructions Ι send you and meet me here tomorrow as the sun is going down."
She looked suspicious, but something else flamed in her eyes - a longing, an intense curiosity. It moved him.
"Very well," she said. It was almost breathless.
"And my chore? What task do you have for me?"
"What chores can Ι possibly have left, now Ι have three maids? Was that your idea when you sent them?" Her voice mocked. "You think you avoid your debt so easily?"
"Not at all. You may ask for anything."
"Then my task is this: Ι need a pineapple."
At the splendid incongruity of it, he laughed. "I am overwhelmed," he said. "Why?"
"To eat. It is my fancy."
"Where would Ι find such a thing?"
"In London? When Ι have it, you may claim your forfeit. Then we shall share our evening in Italy."
"The hunt for this fruit will certainly take me away from Manston Mingate."
"That's the idea," she said.
He turned and gave her his most elaborate bow, with flourishes and an expertly used handkerchief. It had once caused a lady to faint away on the spot.
"I fear, ma'am, you will cost me another night's sleep."
"What would you do with sleep, sir?" She spun away, as if she wore wide skirts and panniers instead of her plain working dress, and would dismiss him with a wave of an imaginary fan. "Dream in vain about me?"
CHAPTER FIVE
IT WAS DARK WHEN HE ARRIVED AT GRACECHURCH ABBEY. Sherry would be long abed. Alden nevertheless went straight up to the nursery. He spoke quietly to the nursemaid, assuring himself of the boy's perfect health, then softly opened the bedroom door and walked in. The child slept, his blond head cushioned in shadows, one hand flung out on the moonlit pillow. Α chick, helpless in sleep.
Alden stared down at him for several minutes. What would happen to the child if Sir Reginald Denby seized Gracechurch? If Alden fled to Paris and tried to recoup his losses at those alien tables, he could hardly take Sherry with him. Yet how could a nameless orphan survive in the world without a protector?
He resisted the urge to smooth back the lock of butter-yellow hair that had fallen over the boy's forehead. If it came to a choice between sacrificing the child or Juliet Seton, the answer was obvious. Alden even thought she might understand if she knew.
Silently he walked out of the room and went down to his study.
He sent first for his head gardener. Their interview was brief. The man came in and touched his forehead with one bent forefinger. "My lord?"
"Ι need a pineapple, Mr. Appleby."
The gardener scratched his grizzled head. "I’ve not put any pineapples under glass this year, my lord, what with Your Lordship not usually in residence-"
"Does my mother have any at the Dower House?"
Mr. Appleby's face brightened. "Why, Her Ladyship well might, my lord. Shall Ι send to inquire?"
"I’ll go myself. Meanwhile, please have a footman send for Mr. Primrose."
The head gardener touched his forelock once again and left.
Peter Primrose smiled as he came in. He gave Alden a short bow. "Lord Gracechurch. Ι hope Ι see you well, my lord?"
"And you, sir. Come and sit down."
Alden indicated one of two chairs placed comfortably on each side of the fireplace. The tutor's brown eyes were already wreathed in the fine wrinkles of years spent squinting at books, enlivened by frequent laughter. Peter dressed soberly, but put him in silk and lace and he'd easily pass for a lord. Alden liked him.
"Sherry is doing well with his studies?" he asked.
"He's very bright, my lord. He's reading better than many a boy twice his age. He especially likes Greek-"
"Since you intersperse Homer with reenactments of Trojan struggles in the shrubbery. He told me, last time Ι was here. Sherry can recount every clash between Achilles and Hector, and supply the dialogue in Greek." It was almost too easy to slip into the role of lord of the manor, in charge, as if nothing were wrong, as if he hadn't already risked the child's future.
Peter smiled. "No lad is improved by being whipped to his books-"
Alden walked across the room. "Lud, sir! You don't need to convince me. It's why Ι hired you. My own school days involved enough encounters with the cane. Ι did not learn any better for it." Α small shiver ran down his spine. Without thinking, he voiced a fear he' d never had to contemplate before. "Yet Ι fear our kindness won't prepare Sherry very well for the outside world."
Candlelight shone silver on the tutor's powdered hair as he turned his head. "Ι beg to disagree, my lord. The child is developing a self-confidence and certainty of his own worth that will enable him to face down any bully. By letting him spend half his days outside, he's growing fit and strong. The world won't faze him - even if you send him to school when he's older."
Alden buried the unease and deliberately turned his concern into something general. "Ι can't fix his parentage, sir. He'll a1ways be a bastard with an unknown father."
"As Ι was." Peter steep1ed his hands together, fingertips meeting under his chin, and grinned. "Ι was fortunate to be raised as a gentleman, even if Ι was not raised by a viscount with expectations of that patronage."
Expectations! Of course, he must fulfill them. It was unthinkable that he not! "Ι could hardly have done otherwise, Mr. Primrose."
The young man colored, as if to acknowledge that it might seem unmannerly to talk to his employer so freely, though Alden always encouraged him to speak his mind. "My lord, are you entire1y unaware of how extraordinarily generous it is, in the circumstances, to give the boy a home here?"
Alden suppressed his slight annoyance at this question – the answer was so completely obvious to him.
"Sherry was born here," he said simply. "Where else should he live?"
IT WAS TWO MILES TO THE DOWER HOUSE. ALDEN RODE ALONG the dark track through the woods, listening to the occasional hoot of an owl and the answering rustle of nighttime creatures in the undergrowth. Did a fox also slink by on the prowl? Were the mice and the voles stunned into silence as Reynard trotted past?
Yet Juliet was 1ike a wi1dcat, sensuous and fierce, hunting by herself on the lonely moor. Strong, ferocious, her passing in the night would leave its own wake of disturbance. Alas that the wildcat was no match for the fox in cunning - especially when the fox had a cub to protect. Would she mourn him after he abandoned her? Or would she go back without a second thought to her solitary ways?
He wasn't sure which question disturbed him the most.
The Dower House was lit from top to bottom. Dismissing his troubling thoughts, Alden looked up at the facade. His mother kept town hours, even in the country. She would be up until three in the morning, then sleep until noon. The one part of the wreckage left by his father's death for which Alden didn't have to be financiall
y responsible, Mama had her own independent income. Her son had the burden of worrying about her affairs, but not the necessity to supply her with funds.
Α footman let him in. Alden strode through the house and knocked on the door of his mother' s boudoir. She called out a vague answer. He opened the door and went in.
The widow reclined in a cloud of white silk and lace on a chaise longue. High-heeled slippers, supported on an embroidered cushion, peeked beneath the hem of her robe. Still pretty and girlish, she wore her powdered hair tied up with bows and knots of silk flowers. It ought to have been absurd, but somehow the style was on1y charming on Lady Gracechurch.
"Alden," she said without any other greeting. "Light another candle. Oh, and give me my wrap." Her voice embodied plaintive resentment. "You haven't been to see your mama this age. Ι am quite, quite neglected. No one cares what becomes of me."
Alden lit an entire stand of candles and set the wrap about her shoulders. "Mama, Ι visit you every week and Ι had the pleasure of your company only last night, when Ι asked you to lend me a competent lady's maid. You are still quite well, Ι trust?"
She pouted. "Not at all! Ι have been most unwell. Ι don't recall any lady's maid."
"Kate Winsley. You hired her to assist with your wardrobe, but your woman Polly objected that she needed no help. Kate was in danger of dismissal."
"Oh, that! It's such a problem finding good help these days. Have you brought me a present from London?"
Alden held out his empty palms. "Alas, Mama, Ι didn't come from town. I’ll make you a present of wit, if you like."
He could smell her scent, a little cloying, as she wrinkled her brow. "What kind of present is that? Is it a new kind of sweetmeat?"
Not for the first time, Alden wondered how, with such an empty-headed mother, he could have any brains in his. "Never mind, Mama. I’ll bring you a gift next time."
She leaned back. "It is the least you could do for your poor mama. It was the worst day of my life when Ι found Ι was increasing with you."