by Cach, Lisa
"Not with their eyes, and that is all I will say about that."
She frowned as she tried to puzzle it out, then watched the mares as one by one they approached the box and either pranced away again, or stood and let the stallion touch his nose to her. One mare raised her tail, and even from twenty feet away Evelina could see the flashing of pink as the mare moved an unknown muscle within her exposed sex.
Evelina turned wide eyes to Charles. "Winking?"
"I refuse to answer."
She laughed. "I shouldn't like to imagine the young ladies of Bath winking so. What a frightful sight that would be!"
He mumbled something.
"What was that?"
"I said, 'That opinion depends upon who is watching.' "
"Charles! I am appalled!" And then she dissolved into laughter again. "Tell me what they do if they are not ready to breed."
"At worst the mares will kick or bite, but otherwise they will simply ignore him."
"I think it might be the stallion's fault on occasion, if all does not go as he wishes," she said, looking up at her host.
"It is the mare's cycle that determines the mood of the encounter. The stallion has no control over it."
"That is what he tells himself. Perhaps he should try harder," she suggested. "He might find her more receptive than expected."
Their gazes met. "Are we still talking about mares and stallions?" he asked hoarsely.
She winked.
His eyes widened. "Yes! Right, then! Let's walk, shall we?" he said, stumbling away from the rail. "Where has your maid gone? Shall she come with us?"
Evelina laughed and followed him back through the stables.
Chapter Four
Evelina sighed, and Charles watched the movement of her chest beneath her fichu as the breath left her. "I don't know when I've ever seen such a lovely place."
Her pleasure was his own. "I was hoping you would like it."
They were walking down a shaded path beside a brook, one with moss-covered stones on its banks and lacy ferns dipping their deep green fronds down toward the clear, cold water. Sally, of course, followed a few steps behind, and if it were not for her presence, he was not sure what he might have tried with Evelina.
Since the day at Highcastle they had seen each other twice: they had spent a day in Bath, going to a public breakfast, to the Pump Room for the atrocious, supposedly healthful mineral water, and to the Abbey to read the inscriptions on the tombs; and he had taken her to the theater one night, and surprised himself by enjoying the performance.
Most surprising of all, he had begun secretly lusting after Evelina with a force that was frightening—and which he constantly feared she would detect.
It had been that conversation about horse breeding that had undone him, and the wink that could have had only one meaning. Since then every moment, both waking and dreaming, was consumed with thoughts of taking her to his bed. He felt like that pathetic stallion trapped in a box, unable to satiate his desires.
When she'd looked up at him with such hunger, and then winked—winked! With the mares in the paddock doing their own winking right behind her!—he had been so startled he had reacted in exactly the opposite way he wished. He had run from her, instead of dragging her back into the stables and tossing up her skirts, having at her like a sex-starved stallion. That was what he would have liked to have done.
Not that he would have, given the chance to do it over again. He hoped he was enough of a gentleman not to despoil a virgin, however willing.
The rest of the day, though, had done nothing to help his state of arousal. They had walked the circuit of the park, taken a picnic in one of the mock temples, and then frittered away the rest of the day with conversation and reading aloud from one of the novels Evelina had brought with her.
He had been like one drugged, listening with half-closed eyes to her soft voice and watching each movement of her hands and face, and the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He had let his eyes dwell upon the bit of white-clad ankle that showed beneath her hem, and considered what it would be like to let his hand follow that stocking up beneath her skirts to the dark, warm moistness above.
He had looked for an opportunity to steal the kiss she had offered, but Sally was with them then. He could do nothing under her watchful eyes, and Evelina had made no move to dismiss the girl. He had wondered if Evelina might be aware of his frustration, and amused by it, and kept the maid there on purpose.
They were in the country today because Evelina had insisted that it was again time to do something that he wished. What he wished had nothing to do with ambles beneath the trees and gentle conversation, but such would have to do.
A secret, cowardly part of him wondered if, were Sally to wander off for a while, he would have the nerve to take Evelina in his arms. Or was he using the maid's presence as an excuse not to risk being turned away?
They came out of the woods and followed the path up a flower-strewn hill to a lone oak at the top, under which awaited their art supplies and a picnic lunch.
"If I did not know better," Evelina said as she settled herself on the spread rug, "I would say that you are beginning to enjoy spending time with me."
"That is utterly ridiculous," he said, trying for a jocular tone. "I prefer horses to people, as you have said yourself."
"They are not much for conversation, horses."
"Neither am I." When he was with Evelina, though, that was a bit of a lie. She had a way of coaxing him to speak, drawing words from him when he would otherwise remain mute.
She passed his paper and charcoal to him, and set her own paints and brushes and water jar around her. "Do you think you might stand humanity long enough to do a portrait of me? You still owe me a drawing, you know. And I shall do a painting of you."
"Wouldn't you rather paint the landscape?"
She held the end of a brush to her lip, as if considering. "No. You make a much more interesting subject."
"I shan't like being stared at."
"Nonsense. Men love to be the center of attention."
"Not all men."
"Yes, all men. But as you shall be staring at me in return, you will have nothing about which to complain."
An invitation to stare at her: that could not be considered bad. It was a pity he could not ask her to pose in the nude.
They did a number of drawings and paintings of each other and of the scenes around them, complimenting each other's work, and exchanging questions on technique. Evelina had a talent for the use of color that, in his perception, made up for any weaknesses in perspective.
The time passed in languorous pleasure, and he wondered what had filled his thoughts—and what he had done to fill the days—before he met her.
Chapter Five
"You are looking almost presentable, Charles," his mother said. "I had my doubts that that Johnson girl could effect any changes, but I see that she has. Soon you'll be ready to spend time with real young ladies."
He had stopped by the drawing room to wish her a good night before he left to join Evelina and her parents to attend an assembly. He regretted the courtesy, his mother's words pricking at him and stirring up a defensive anger. Malign Evelina, would she? "Are you implying that Miss Johnson is not a lady?"
"Heavens, no, I would not say such a thing, however warranted the words might be! I simply meant that you will be able to do much better than her, now that you are gaining a bit of polish. After all, she has little to recommend her as a wife. As a social playmate, yes, but I cannot see that she would be good for much more. You could manage a peer's daughter now, with a bit of effort."
The anger boiled up, forcing him to speak when usually he would remain silent. "Miss Johnson has much to recommend her, if a man is seeking a cheerful, warmhearted companion. And I assure you, Mother, many more men seek that in a wife than care about whether her father was a peer."
"Nonsense." She sniffed, dismissing the idea as unworthy. "And even if that were true, it still stands that a
man wants a wife who will not embarrass him with outlandish modes of dress and improper behavior."
"Evelina Johnson is an embarrassment to no one." He was so angry, his mother's words in need of such a range of refutations, he almost did not know where or how to begin. "You speak of her flirtations, yet I warrant that her public follies have far more innocence to them than the hidden indiscretions of others whose reputations are spotless, and most certainly they have none of the cruelty to be found in the wicked whisperings of bitter women."
"Charles! Do not use that tone with me!"
"I will use whatever tone I damn well please, if you are going to say evil things about a girl who has never done you the least bit of harm, and whose only fault lies in an excess of enthusiasm. A fault which, I daresay, many more of us could stand to have a trace of ourselves." He marched to the door and turned to look at his mother, who was gaping at him. "Good night, Mother. Do sleep well."
He decided to walk from the town house to the Johnsons', instead of riding. He needed to clean away the residue of anger with exercise, and let the breezy night air cool his temper.
After a few blocks his thoughts had cleared enough that he could almost laugh at the argument, and at his own altered condition. Three weeks ago he would not have believed that he would soon be defending a young lady to his mother, or looking forward to attending an assembly at her side.
He, looking forward to an assembly. Who would have imagined?
But of course it was not the assembly about which he cared; it was Evelina.
It wasn't just that Evelina had prettiness hidden under her paints; it wasn't completely that she seemed open to whatever advance he might soon gather the nerve to try. It was also that she talked to him... and seemed interested in what he had to say. She actually seemed to like him, despite his bumblings and missteps.
A carriage rumbling by startled him from his thoughts, and looking around he realized he had passed the Johnsons' door three houses back. He retraced his steps and, once in the house, was shown into a library where Mr. Johnson sat, sipping a whiskey and staring at the fire in the grate. They made their greetings, and then Mr. Johnson waved him to a chair.
"You may as well sit. They are going to be a while—some crisis with Evelina's hair, I take it."
"How unfortunate." He had no better response, being unable to imagine what form, exactly, a crisis of the hair might take, or how serious the condition might be.
"Whisky?" Evelina's father offered. "I always need one to endure these evenings. Frightful bores, they are, except for the occasional card game."
"Thank you, sir." He accepted out of politeness and to have something to do with his hands.
"Hear you have some fine horses in your stables," Mr. Johnson said, and soon after that comment all formality disappeared between them. Mr. Johnson was knowledgeable and interested, being a farmer at heart, and had as well an Englishman's love of racing. Two men who loved horses could not but find themselves in sympathy.
For the next hour they discussed the merits and flaws of various breeds, equine ailments, and experimental techniques for extending the natural breeding season, and by the time Evelina and her mother appeared—Evelina wearing hoops that pushed her skirts out two feet to either side—Charles had almost forgotten why he was there.
They both stood and greeted the women, Mr. Johnson doing so with a gruff, exasperated sort of affection. "All the best food will be gone by the time we get there," he complained.
"One would think you didn't get enough to eat at home, the way you carry on," Mrs. Johnson chided. "I can have Cook pack a supper for you, so you needn't eat from a picked-over buffet."
"You have entirely too smart a mouth, my dear," Mr. Johnson said with obvious fondness, holding out his arm for her to take. She did so, giggling with a hand over her mouth like a young girl.
Charles watched in fascination, his own parents having never teased each other in front of him. He wondered if, despite initial appearances, Mrs. Johnson was more like Evelina than she would like to admit—and perhaps that was why she worried at the trouble her daughter might get into.
"Charles, you look almost dashing!" Evelina said, coming up to him.
"‘Almost'?" He had gone so far as to wear a black silk bag to hold his hair at the base of his neck; his shirt was new and had a trace of lace at the cuffs; and he was wearing proper shoes with silver buckles, not muck-encrusted boots.
"You remain distressingly short on hair powder and embroidery."
"All the better for you to shine beside me."
She made a face. "I could have wished for less attention tonight." Her hand went up to lightly touch her hair, which was sporting an extra heavy coating of powder and a quantity of silk flowers and ribbons. She also, for some reason beyond his ken, had painted faint blue veins onto her temples. "Tell me, do you see anything amiss?"
He examined her coiffure, trying to make out in the candlelight what the hair crisis had concerned. It did seem that even with the powder there was the faintest hint of green to her hair. "No, nothing at all."
She sighed in relief and smiled. "Thank heavens. That was the last time I will ever trust the Ladies' Guide for a recipe for a darkening hair rinse; I promise you that."
He realized he still did not know what color her hair naturally was, but asking now would go too close to the issue of suspected greenness. She was wearing less rouge and lip color than usual tonight, and there was no sign of the mouse-skin eyebrows. Was that because of him, just as his clean shoes and black bag were because of her?
He offered her his arm, then had to extend it farther, as her side hoops hit his thighs.
"They are fashionable, but rather inconvenient, I confess," Evelina said, laying her hand on his, their distance from each other making it look as though they were engaged in a formal dance. "I had wanted hoops that were three and half feet—think of all those yards of lovely silk hanging from them, and how tiny one's waist would appear!—but Mama refused."
"I don't know that my arm could have withstood three and a half feet. It is getting tired already," he said as they followed her parents downstairs and out into the night. The assembly was being held at Mr. and Mrs. Wetherby's large house across Queen Square, and like several other guests they would be walking the short distance instead of taking a carriage.
"Nonsense. Men are marvelously strong, and not to be undone by a hoop."
"We are undone by hoops and silks and pretty faces at every turn."
She looked up at him, a smile curling her lips. "Charles! You are becoming much too charming. There will be annoying young misses swarming around you like flies."
"And that would be a tragedy?"
"Of course. They are mercenary creatures, expert at appearing to be other than they truly are in hopes of snaring a husband."
"Oh?" he asked, raising a brow.
"Do not look at me that way. I am not speaking of makeup or bum rolls. I am speaking of hearts."
"Are you wearing a bum roll?" He pretended to peer around at her backside.
She made a face of grave offense.
"I'm teasing," he said, enjoying himself. He felt more lighthearted than he could ever remember. Evelina's devil-may-care attitude drew out his own hidden playful side, and he was surprised at how good it felt.
She bumped his leg with her hoop. "I knew that."
The street lamps left much of the square in darkness, but the pockets of warm light illuminated the occasional guest heading to or from the Wetherby house. The windows were lit, the sounds of music and voices audible down on the street. They caught up with Evelina's parents, and with them went inside and paid their respects to the host and hostess.
"Now I can find something to eat," Mr. Johnson said, when they were finished with the greetings. "You'll stay with Evelina, keep her amused?" he said to Charles.
"Of course."
He was doubly glad he had been assigned to stay by Evelina's side; with her, he would not have to do any of that
embarrassing milling about, trying to look as if he were talking to people to whom he could find nothing to say. When he'd been forced to attend such occasions in the past, he'd usually ended up hiding with other men in a smoky room, or hunkered around a card table, sneaking the occasional longing glance at women who seemed forever out of reach. He had thought them almost frightening in their loveliness, so different were they from men.
"What are you thinking?" Evelina asked, as they wended their way among the other guests. The assembly was being held on both the ground and the first floors, with several rooms opened up to accommodate both the large number of people and the various activities provided for their entertainment. "You look amused."
"I was thinking of men and women, and how sometimes their coming together is as surprising as would be the pairing of a massive draft horse with a spirited Arabian."
They passed a couple coming down the stairs as they were going up, the man over six feet tall, the woman well under five. "Or a draft horse with a pony," Evelina said.
He laughed. "Perhaps the offspring will take the best traits of each parent."
"One would hope so, as the alternative is not pleasant to consider." They drifted into a room where people sat in small groups around tables, playing cards while others watched.
"Of course, it is before the wedding that such considerations should be made," she said. "Now who here would make a good pairing, likely to produce excellent offspring? There are obvious choices," she said, nodding toward a couple who were of like build and coloring, and looked to be in good health. "But we want more of a challenge than that. We are looking to improve the breed, are we not?"
He joined in the joke. "So the gluttonous," he said, slightly inclining his head toward a portly man, "should be matched with the overly thin." He directed his gaze to a young lady whose collarbones protruded and who had hollowed cheeks.
"Yes! Together, they would make children of a perfect thickness. And likewise the talkative with the silent," she said, as they passed a table where two such players sat across from one another.