by Lenora Bell
Miss Tombs nodded, sending her long, pink bonnet ribbons fluttering in the breeze. “Mr. Shelley recommends a dinner of potatoes, beans, peas, turnips, lettuce, with a dessert of apples, gooseberries, strawberries, currants, raspberries, and in winter, oranges, apples, and pears. I was telling Lady Dorothea that if she would only convert and become a devotee of fruits and vegetables, her life would vastly improve.”
“A devotee. Of vegetables,” he repeated. Apparently, Miss Tombs was deadly in earnest about this vegetable stuff.
Lady Vivienne yawned.
“Precisely.” Miss Tombs’s startling blue-green eyes widened. “You must never, never under any circumstance take into yourself anything that Once Had Life. Promise me you will try.”
James pictured a thick slice of ham. “I’m afraid I cannot promise that,” he said gravely. “Think about ham, Miss Tombs. Or a succulent cut of lamb.”
Lady Dorothea smothered a giggle in her hand.
“You must also give up wine, and any other spirits,” Miss Tombs continued.
“That’s where I must draw the line, Miss Tombs. I can’t live without wine.”
“But wine has no healthful properties! It is polluted. You must only drink purified water and nothing else. Mr. Shelley is very clear on the point. I shall write you out a list of fruits and vegetables that are particularly healthful.”
“That won’t be necessary—”
“No, no, I insist. Once you read Mr. Shelley’s pamphlet, you will see the light and join me in banishing animal flesh from your diet.”
Miss Tombs continued enumerating the delights of frugivorousness.
James caught Lady Dorothea’s eye. There was that smile again, the one that made the sun shine brighter and the birds begin to sing.
He wanted to kiss her again.
They could have a very nice time in a rowboat. If it were only the two of them. And if she climbed on top of him while he rowed.
Her shapely legs wrapped around his waist. Her softness sliding down around him, until she took all of him inside her.
Riding him. Rocking the boat until he had to stop rowing, had to stow the oars and steer her instead. Up and down. A tidal wave of passion big enough to envelop an entire village.
“Your Grace?” Lady Vivienne regarded him quizzically.
It was a good thing he’d flung his coat across his breeches flap, or he’d really have given Lady Augusta something to ogle.
“Pardon?”
“How many foals do you expect this year?”
He made some acceptable reply, but talk of stables was difficult to concentrate on when those cherries winked behind him above a butter-colored gown that hugged lavish curves.
The next time he turned around, Lady Dorothea’s bonnet had fallen down her back. She’d tilted her head and offered her face to the sun, leaving the slender column of her throat bare and exposed.
James nearly groaned aloud. What he wouldn’t give to see her naked and glowing in the morning sun.
“Is that a black-headed bunting?” Lady Dorothea pointed toward the shore.
“A what?” asked Lady Vivienne.
“There, in those trees. I saw a flash of yellow and a black head. Might I have a closer viewing?”
The duke angled toward shore.
“It is a black-headed bunting. They are so rare. I’ve never seen one except in books.” Lady Dorothea leaned out of the boat, scanning the tree line.
“Where?” asked Miss Tombs. “I don’t see anything at all.”
“Have a care, Lady Dorothea,” James said.
Too late. She leaned out too far. She tottered for a moment, then lost her balance.
James instinctively jumped up to catch hold of her skirts.
Not a good idea. His bulk suddenly shifting to the side of the boat tilted the whole thing.
The girls screamed and panicked, clutching for him, and that decided it.
Lady Dorothea crashed into the water, James followed, and the rest of them slid down the benches into the cold, muddy river
White and red silk parasols spun down the river like kites soaring in the sky.
“Keep calm, ladies. There’s no danger. The water is shallow!”
Utter bedlam punctuated by terrified shrieks and gurgles.
Ladies flapping and sputtering like angry waterfowl.
Good Lord, if any of them were injured, he would never hear the end of it.
He sighed and began scooping up wet debutantes.
Chapter 12
This had not been the plan.
Charlene had envisioned sliding gracefully into the water and reemerging into the duke’s strong arms. He was supposed to stare at her with that heated gaze, overcome by the impossible-to-be-unaffected-by sight of her wet gown hugging her body.
Now there were wet gowns outlining four curvaceous ladies, and he was rescuing them before her. Of course. Because he was ignoring her.
It would serve him right if she drowned.
Fighting back rising panic, she flailed her arms in the chest-high water. Her boots stuck in the muddy riverbed. She tried to walk forward, but her hem was caught on something. She wrenched at the fabric, to no avail.
The duke carried a clinging Lady Augusta out of the river.
Lady Vivienne calmly swam to shore and walked up the bank on her own.
Charlene would try to do the same if her skirts came loose, but she only sank deeper into the mud. Panic wasn’t the right word anymore. Abject terror, more like.
It galled her to admit it, but she needed rescuing.
No. She did not need rescuing. She would free herself and find the shore, no thanks to the duke. She yanked with all her strength.
Nothing. Still trapped.
Now the duke carried Alice out of the water and set her beside Lady Augusta.
If Charlene perished in a watery grave a few feet from land, it would be his fault. Some gallant knight, leaving her trapped in the muck so long.
He dove into the river and swam toward her with long, sure strokes.
She redoubled her efforts, but the gown remained trapped.
He emerged, shaking his head, sending drops splattering against her cheeks. Water dripped from his black hair in rivulets over his shoulders. He’d lost his cravat. His shirt and waistcoat were stuck to his formidable chest.
For one breathless moment all she could see was him—solid, warm, and safe.
Large hands shaped her waist. He tried to pull her out of the water.
“What’s this?” he asked, puzzled by his inability to lift her.
“My blasted gown is caught on something.”
“My, such language,” he teased.
“Are you going to rescue me or not?”
He chuckled, wrapped his arms around her waist, and reached behind to pull at her gown. “Must have snagged on a rock or a tree root. Don’t worry, I’ll cut you loose.”
He reached into the water and came up wielding an ivory-handled knife.
She tried to twist away from his embrace. She did not need to be rescued.
“Hold still for a moment,” he commanded.
Charlene tried one more time to break free but only succeeded in swallowing water. She clutched the duke’s neck, sputtering and coughing.
“Lady Dorothea, if you don’t stop thrashing about, I’ll cut you instead of the gown. Now hold still!”
He wedged the knife between his teeth and immobilized her against his chest. With the blade between his teeth, he looked like a pirate about to scale the hull and plunder a ship.
Plunder her.
He transferred the knife to one hand. “Keep your arms around my neck.” He sawed at the fabric of her gown. “A bit more. And . . . there. You’re free as a black-throated bunwing, or whatever it wa
s you saw in the trees.”
The sudden relief of being freed nearly made her cry. She bit her lip. She would not cry. “Bunting. Black-headed bunting. They’re extraordinarily rare.”
“Not worth a dunking, in my opinion.” He grinned and flipped his knife back to wherever it had come from.
She was still holding on to his neck. She had to keep her chin out of the water, didn’t she? He was solid and warm, and holding her far too close, his arms wrapped around her waist, his green eyes shifting from amusement to something far more intimate.
He tightened his grip, crushing her against his chest. “You could have drowned,” he said, his voice low and fierce.
And then he swept her into his arms.
They said that in novels, didn’t they? He swept her away, swept her into his arms. But that’s really exactly what it was like. One moment she was mired in mud, trapped by tree roots, and the next moment his arms were around her and she was held tightly against his chest, above the waterline.
She buried her face in his neck.
She had the silliest desire to kiss his neck.
Or maybe lick the droplets of water off his chest.
And her heart might have been palpitating. Only faintly. But still.
Charlene didn’t need a man to rescue her. She didn’t need a man at all. Her new boardinghouse would be female only—except for Kyuzo. He would be the defense instructor and teach the girls to believe in their own strength.
So why did it feel so blissful to be held in the duke’s arms? To be rescued? It had to be the fright of nearly drowning. It couldn’t be anything else.
She rested her head against his chest as he strode through the water, carrying her weight easily.
“Thank you,” she whispered, too soft for him to hear.
“Poor old Froggy.” The duke glanced back, and Charlene followed his gaze. The rowboat was stuck in the mud, only its prow visible.
“Can he be repaired?”
“Not likely. He’s had his day.” The duke’s voice softened. “He used to be my favorite escape.”
Charlene glanced up but could only see his square jaw from her current position against his chest. “Escape?”
“After my mother died, Warbury Park was a prison for me. When I came home on school holidays I spent entire days drifting down the river with some apples and a pile of books, hiding from my tyrant of a father. Even now, I don’t like sleeping in that moldering pile of bricks. Too many ghosts.”
His mother died when he was young. His father was a tyrant. He liked to read. What did he like to read?
Not relevant, Charlene.
He set her on the grass next to Alice.
“What an adventure!” he said in a jovial, booming voice. “Won’t you ladies have a tale to tell.”
Four shivering, soggy girls stared back.
“What will we d-do now?” Lady Augusta asked, her teeth chattering.
“We’ll find a grassy patch and dry in the sun before we walk home.”
“Walk home?” Lady Vivienne tilted her head quizzically, her ruined bonnet shedding water.
“Unless you want to wait here alone while I go back to fetch another boat. There’s no easy passage through these woods for a carriage. I don’t want to leave you alone. I think we should walk back together. Come along.” He motioned for them to stand. “There’s an orchard nearby. The apples ripened early this year because of the warm spring.”
Charlene and the ladies straggled after him in their sodden gowns and mud-caked boots. It was slow going.
“This is all your fault,” hissed Lady Augusta to Charlene. “You’re always causing trouble—ruining gowns, wrestling people to the floor. You should go home. He’ll never choose a walking disaster like you.”
Alice took Charlene’s arm. “I should think Lady Dorothea is the least of your worries, Lady Augusta.”
Lady Augusta narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean by that comment?”
“One of your ringlets is dangling most precariously. I shouldn’t wonder if you’re in imminent danger of losing it altogether.”
“Oh!” Lady Augusta’s hand flew to her hair. One of the long blonde curls hanging from the side of her bonnet came off in her fingers. “Why you . . .” she sputtered. “You’re as bad as Lady Dorothea!” She dropped behind them to adjust her hair.
Charlene grinned at Alice. “Thank you.”
Alice smiled back. “My mother wears false curls. I can spot them every time. Normally I wouldn’t call attention to it, but she’s so very unpleasant.”
The two girls walked arm in arm, wet boots squelching and sodden muslin impeding their progress.
The duke walked in front of them, toward a meadow of grasses and ferns dotted with dainty purple flowers.
“Goodness, do you think his breeches are becoming tighter?” Alice whispered.
“I was wondering the same thing,” Charlene breathed.
The duke’s soaked buckskin breeches clung to his physique, outlining every well-defined muscle in his posterior and thighs. Heat flooded Charlene’s cheeks, keeping her warm despite the cold, wet gown.
He was a front-page scandal, the picture of sin itself.
His Disgrace, in skintight breeches and transparent linen, leading his flock of debutantes into the woods.
“It’s really too bad,” Alice sighed. “He’s making this far too difficult. My last marital prospect was nigh on sixty, and his breath smelled like cod liver oil.”
Charlene glanced at Alice. Understanding dawned. “You don’t want to marry.” Suddenly it all made perfect sense. The loathsome rot, the vegetable treatise. No one was that addlepated. “You’re trying to be disqualified.”
Alice’s blue-green eyes sparkled. “You’ve guessed my secret. Papa ordered me to make an advantageous match, but I want to have at least one adventure first.”
Charlene smiled. “That’s understandable.”
“It is? No one else seems to think so. They all think I should be pining for a husband and a family . . . as if those were the only laudable goals for a girl.”
“I think it’s natural to want to experience a little bit of life first before settling down and becoming a wife.”
“You’re the first person I’ve told,” Alice said. “For some reason I feel I can trust you. So you see, we’re not competitors at all.” She smiled wistfully. “I hope we will be friends.”
They could never be friends. Alice was brilliant and entertaining, but if she knew Charlene’s secret, there would be no more talk of friendship. Not between a genteel young lady and a courtesan’s daughter.
A cloud drifted over the sun. Charlene shivered. She had to remain intent on her mission. Nothing could distract her.
“Now then.” The duke stopped in the middle of the meadow. “There’s nothing for it. All of you. Out of those soaked gowns.”
“What did you say?” exclaimed Lady Vivienne.
“You’ll catch your deaths if you don’t dry those wet gowns,” he said.
“But we couldn’t possibly disrobe . . . could we?” Lady Augusta licked her full pink lips. “You’ll see us.”
“I assure you, I’ve seen females in their undergarments before.”
Lady Vivienne’s graceful hand flew to her cheeks. “We’d rather die.”
“His Grace is right,” Charlene said. “We’ll all catch our deaths if we don’t dry at least one layer. I will be happy to remove my gown.”
The duke nodded. “Thank you, Lady Dorothea. Very sensible of you.”
Lady Vivienne and Lady Augusta glanced at each other doubtfully.
“Well . . . I don’t want to catch a chill.” Lady Augusta batted her eyelashes at the duke.
The duke cleared his throat. “I’m off to fetch some apples. When I return, your gowns will be spread out
on the grasses. That’s a ducal order.”
A purely feminine thrill eddied through Charlene’s body as she watched him marching away to gather food. No wonder he’d been so ill at ease in the dining room. This was his natural habitat. Wide expanses of earth. Sunlight glinting on his hair.
Alice and Charlene helped each other remove dripping bonnets and muddy half boots. Charlene’s yellow straw hat was squashed, and the once-jaunty cherries looked sad and bedraggled. They undid each other’s gowns and spread them atop the meadow grass to dry.
The ladies attempted to remain as proper as possible, repinning their hair and tucking their stocking feet demurely under themselves. They still had layers of over-petticoats, sturdy cotton corsets, and shifts to protect them from the duke’s eyes.
Charlene’s stockings were in shreds from her riverbed ordeal, so she untied her garters and shed her stockings. She buried her bare toes in the warm, fragrant meadow grass and unbound her wet hair, ignoring the censorious look from Lady Vivienne and the murderous one from Lady Augusta.
Charlene held the advantage here, having been raised in a house full of scantily clad women. In fact, the situation was ideal for her seductive purposes.
The duke returned. He’d removed his waistcoat and was using it as an apple basket. “This isn’t so bad, is it?” he asked, setting his harvest down on the grass, averting his eyes from the ladies. “We’ll be dry and back at the house before you know it.”
“If you thought the vegetables were good, watch this,” Alice whispered in Charlene’s ear. She jumped to her feet and shook her head, unraveling her chignon until her hair whipped around her shoulders. “I have an eel in my hair! I can feel it slithering. Help me, Your Grace!”
She shook her petticoats, performing a bizarre hopping eel-and-duke-dispelling shimmy. “I’m simply covered in eels. I can feel them wriggling. Ohh . . .”
The duke caught her by the shoulders. “Miss Tombs, there are no eels in your hair or anywhere else on your person.” He plucked a twig out of her hair. “It’s nothing but a bit of bracken.”