“What has happened?” she asked again, softly this time.
She would not let him go until he gave her something. “I am upset over Mr. Vale’s news.” He would tell her nothing about Harrington.
He did not look at her as he said it, did not want to see what was in her eyes.
He stepped back. “I will see you tonight.” He walked away, not knowing where to go, only that he wanted to be anywhere but at Giltbrook Hall.
It was a good day. A lovely, blissful, blessed day.
Roane was free.
Mazie twirled in the sun-drenched foyer, not caring that a footman stood nearby. The weight settled on her the last few days had lifted. She breathed again, enjoyed the birdsong and sunlight and simple joy of being alive.
The events of the last weeks had slowly unraveled her at the seams, and she awaited the last intemperate tug that would pull everything apart. But now, now she was going to a festival. She was going to dance and laugh and celebrate her good news.
“I am glad to see you left your scowl behind tonight, dear brother.” Cat’s voice carried down the hallway. “Nobody frowns on Midsummer’s Eve.”
“Is that due to some magical powers of happiness?” Trent’s deep voice reverberated against the white marble. “I suppose you believe the fairies will be dancing about tonight as well.”
Cat was rolling her eyes as they rounded the corner into the bright foyer. “And what do you know of magic? When was the last time you attended the festival?”
“Parliament is usually in session. I’ve had to be in London.” Trent turned to Mazie and at once she noticed the strain around his eyes, the lines around his mouth that had not been there yesterday. He slid his sharp gaze over her from head to toe, leaving heat in his wake. When he trailed his eyes back up to hers she saw an echo of somethingsadness? Resignation?before he glanced away and bowed.
“Lady Margaret.”
“Lord Radford.” He looked delicious, tall and strong and everything male.
He wore clothes that would blend in with the villagers rather than set him apart. Most noticeably, he wore a simple white neck cloth tied in a knot, similar to what the villagers wore. No starched linen, no waterfall of perfect folds tonight. His jacket and breeches were well tailored but made of soft fabrics and warm colors that hugged him perfectly. His boots, however, were high and shiny and spoke of his wealth.
Despite his clothing, he was brooding about something. It was there in his eyes, in the dark slash of his brow. His mood was, in part, her fault. Nowhere did she wish him pain. She must be honest with herselfthe ache in her chest was for him, for his obvious distress. How irrational she was. They could not both win at this game, and she refused to lose.
Still, she wished her good news was not his bad news. She would see him have fun tonight. It was the least she could do considering the trouble she was causing him.
“Are you in costume then, my lord? Where is your urbane black and navy this evening?” She reached out and plucked at his coat sleeve. He froze under her touch, locked his gaze with hers.
It was all there in his grey gaze. Their passion, the kiss, the panting for breath. The lies. The pressure from the prime minister.
“I am surprised you even know how the villagers dress.” Cat looked him over head to toe. “I should think it has been ten years at the least since you attended the Midsummer’s Festival.”
He did not answer, just looked away and stepped aside, clearly indicating he was ready to leave.
“Somebody is in a mood.” Cat took the lead out the front door. “I cannot wait.” She lifted her hands like she could hold the entirety of their evening. “Midsummer’s Eve is absolutely my favorite holiday.”
“Even better than Christmas?” Trent murmured as he descended the stairs behind Mazie.
Cat ignored her brother and threw a smile at Mazie. “There will be bonfires and dancing.”
“I love dancing.” Mazie could hear him behind her, the heavy fall of his footsteps on gravel.
“We shall dance all night.” Cat swayed as if to music then peeked over her shoulder again. “Midsummer’s Eve is a night for making mischief.”
Trent cursed low under his breath, but Mazie heard. Maybe not the words, but certainly the frustration beneath. In a matter of three strides, he stepped around her, then around his sister and dismissed the footman waiting at the carriage. He turned toward the women with a scowl and Cat stopped short, causing Mazie to nearly collide into her.
“Neither of you will be making any mischief tonight.” He swung his grey eyes to Mazie. “Especially not you.”
She brushed aside her alarm and raised a brow. Truly, she had no intention of causing mischief this eve. She would not run, not when Trent was so obviously suspicious of Mrs. Pearl. It would not do to leave the old woman alone, and Mazie knew Mrs. Pearl would never flee. No, tonight was simply for fun.
“We will arrive early, enjoy the festivities, and leave before the wild making begins.” His eyes were still on her, challenging.
He seemed to be waiting for something, so she nodded. Satisfied, he turned to his sister and handed her into the open carriage. The swags of greenery decorating the vehicle had wilted somewhat in the heat, but the floating ribbons and colorful flowers still looked festive.
Mazie placed her hand on his forearm and noticed at once the tension coursing through him. It was like placing her hand on a taut rope that twisted and turned under its strain. She stepped into the carriage, uncomfortable with her urge to comfort him.
Cat moved her skirts aside so Mazie could sit, then turned her attention to the warm rays of the sun. “This is not an evening for work and responsibility, brother. See if you can remember that.”
“Perhaps you are right, dear sister. But let us not forget Lady Margaret is a confessed thief and my prisoner. It does add an element of concern to the outing.” He sent Mazie a pointed look as he sat across from her. She brushed it off, determined not to think of such things for a few hours.
The coach lurched forward and Mazie grabbed the rail beside her, then relaxed when the horses found their stride. She had to agree with Cat. They all needed a night away, a break from the relentless intensity of their current situation. She certainly had every intention of enjoying herself and not thinking about anything burdensome.
It was glorious to be out. The evening was thick with heat, and the vibrant force of midsummer pulsed through every living thing. Just beyond the gates to the estate, they passed a meadow alight with beauty. Birds trilled in the trees, long grasses rustled beneath the sigh of the wind and the sheep bleated in the fields among the bright red poppies and brazen goldenrod.
She slid her gaze to Trent seated across from her, noticed the way his eyes took in the countryside. Like a starving man outside a kitchen window, all of his being was there in the looking. There was so much vulnerability in it that she was sure he had no idea what he was doing, or he would close down his expression.
With a sigh, she sat back and drank in the rich smell of the evening. Despite herself, she was worried about the man seated across from her.
Chapter Fourteen
“The bonny month of June is crowned/With the sweet scarlet rose/The groves and meadows all around/With lovely pleasure flows.” Midsummer Ballad from Cornwall
The evening showed herself off like an expensive courtesan. With her sweet scent of honeysuckle and cut grass, bright, flashy flowers, and the high trill of her feathered friends, this was a night designed for seduction.
Trent glanced from the passing scenery to the lady captive across from him. She was entirely too fetching in her gown. One couldn’t keep from staring. The emerald green silk shone against her pale almond skin and dark hair, and the sweetheart neckline inevitably led one to certain thoughts. His eyes drifted to the soft white expanse of her breasts like a compass to true north.
He would keep Mazie by his side tonight, see that she didn’t cause trouble. And he would somehow show the villagers that he was not such a beast.<
br />
He stretched his legs, attempting to soothe his tense muscles. His long ride that afternoon had done little to exhaust his mood, but had left him pounded and sore.
“Oh, look,” Cat breathed, and he turned.
There was a swarm of people on the road leading to the festival. Who indeed would miss the bacchanal of Midsummer’s Eve? And beyond, in the clearing, were flags of all colors and shapes. From this distance he could not see the small stands and wandering vendors in the far meadow, but he knew they would be selling everything from roasted nuts and sweet pies to kisses from a local maiden. Kisses he had paid for once, to the chagrin of his father. Flowers hung everywhere. To their left, a bonfire had been lit and the lights burned brightly against the sky just now turning to dusk.
Villagers stopped to watch their approach and made him think of his mother, how she loved this holiday, how she would prepare for weeks. She would want him to wave and toss handfuls of candy to the children, so he did. The smiles and bows that greeted him in return, the joyous shouts from the little ones, eased the ache in his chest. If just a bit.
He swayed as their carriage rolled to a stop. Front and center, of course. The lilting strains of violins filled the air though he suspected it was too early for the dancing. Stepping down, he pushed aside the growling desire to be left alone. A little amusement wouldn’t be so terrible. Perhaps Cat was right. Perhaps he desperately needed to let off some steam.
He helped his sister step to the ground then looked up to offer Mazie his hand. Really, she was stunning. Not the fair English Rose he’d preferred in the past, but rich, deep in her beauty. He ran his gaze up her body—the curve of her waist and flare of her hip, the white tops of her breasts and the deep shadow between. Her eyes held a light smile when they met his. God, she could make mischief tonight if she wanted. He didn’t know what had prompted him to allow her to come.
He tried to smile, though it felt stiff and fake. The news of the day, of Harrington’s corruption, had taken a toll on him. “What shall we do first?”
“Sweets!” Cat cried as Mazie stepped down. “You gave all of ours away.”
Mazie laughed, her gaze out over the crowd. “I do not have a preference where we begin.” With a shift of her chin, her attention flicked to him, her eyes shining. “I do believe amusement will find us this eve, whatever we get up to.”
Her smile did not promise things, but made him think of her naked flesh anyway. The intimacy they had shared in her bedroom. Perhaps it was the dress or the nature of the evening. Perhaps it was her and this effect she had on him.
He glanced around them. He needed a drink. Anything to cut the binds of tension strangling him.
He offered each woman an arm and led them through the tightly packed stalls. The chaotic smells of cinnamon, popcorn and roasting pig mingled into one appetizing scent that made him feel both young and irrevocably aged at once. He bought his sister a sampling of liquorice and taffy, then realized he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. He had been so preoccupied he had ignored his own hunger.
“Anyone care for bucklings?” He could always eat smoked herring, corrupt magistrate or no.
“Oh, yes, with new potatoes.” Mazie did not look at him as she answered, her attention again snagged by the crowd.
He released her arm with marked reluctance. He did not trust her, but neither could she flee far. Not in that dress. He would spot her in an instant.
He stepped up to a wooden stall. It looked clean enough, and he ordered the fish.
“’Appy to ’ave ye ’ere, milord,” boomed the woman behind the counter, her face red from the heat of the stove on this hot evening. “Yer came ter the right place for some tasty bucklings, if I may say so meself.”
“Thank you, madam.” He smiled, a real smile this time. “They do smell wonderful.”
She handed him a box with three paper-wrapped fish and three cones filled with potatoes, but refused his coin when he tried to pay her.
“’Tis my honor.” She shook her head. “I haven’t clapped me eyes on you since you were a boy. And what a fine-lookin’ man you’ve become, tall an’ ’andsome.” She chortled, her shoulders rolling with the sound.
“I hope to be in residence more often, madam. Thank you for the fish.” He dipped his head and turned to join the ladies, but a small boy watching wide-eyed from the back stopped him. He winked at the lad, put the food down then flipped him a coin. “Eat up so you can grow tall like me.”
The boy caught the shiny gold sovereign with both hands, his face breaking into a huge grin. “Thank you, milord,” he called out as Trent stepped away. Then, quieter, “Cor, was that a duke, mama?”
“Are you smiling?” Cat swatted his arm as he joined them, nearly unsettling the food precariously balanced in his hands. “You had better watch yourself, brother, or you might have fun.”
He widened his eyes in mock innocence. “What are you suggesting? That I don’t know how to have fun?”
The two women shared a telling glance. Without reply, he pressed onward, purchasing two glasses of mead for the ladies and a glass of ale for himself. Arms, shoulders, the jostling crowd rubbed against him, nearly spilling his food time and again. But the commotion relieved his wretchedness like sandpaper against a roughened edge. He almost missed the roughness as they stepped out into an open meadow. The dancing green lay bare and lanterns hung about, ready to be lit as soon as the shadows mingled into dusk. He found a hay bale for the ladies to sit on, where they ate their small meal in companionable silence.
Most of the local gentry had commanded a corner of the meadow, resplendent with colorful awnings furnished with blankets and pillows. Tables and chairs were provided for those who did not want to sit on the ground, and small tents offered further privacy. It was under such an awning that his mother had reigned over the festival, and he recognized many of his acquaintances. Strange, but tonight he much preferred the cacophony of the crowd.
Cat stood, squinted across the clearing. “I see my friend Lady Sarah. And I think that is her mother. I will return directly.”
She wandered off with a wave of her hand, leaving him alone with Mazie. His fetching captive. He glanced down to find her watching him. She opened her mouth, as if to say something, then closed it, her full lower lip moist, glistening.
He quickly looked away from all her lusciousness and watched his sister walk toward the colorful tents of the gentry.
Something caught his eye.
Harrington. He walked around the perimeter of the elegant tables with two constables in tow, outwardly intimidating. His hands rested on his hips and there was a swagger to his steps as if he were the reigning power of the evening.
Blast the man.
“How did you know, Mazie?” His voice sounded odd to his own ears. Strangled. “How did you know about Harrington?”
“What?” Hay rustled as she shifted on her seat.
“How did you know I should investigate him?” He looked down at her and Mazie, ah Mazie. She did not think to dissimulate her words.
“Everyone knows. Anyone in the village could have told you. I simply had the opportunity.”
And the courage. “I didn’t know.” Regret. It burned hollow. “It was my responsibility to know, and I did not.”
“But you know now, yes?” She looked up at him with those warm brown eyes.
“Yes.”
“Well, you have power. You can rectify the situation.”
“Rectify the situation,” he repeated. Then shook his head.
It was not so easy, he wanted to tell her. As he unraveled the twisted knot of corruption, he did not know what he would find. What he was willing to find. If he would expose his own father.
Power was not freedom, but responsibility. And responsibility was a heavy weight he could never be free of. He was bound in his liberty, chained in his authority.
And it was on his shoulders. He alone must choose. This freedom she talked of, it could mean he must choose between protect
ing his father, his family honor, or protecting the villagers. He could not have it all.
He was destined to lose something in the end.
Mazie shifted again. She couldn’t sit still, his hummingbird. “What will you do about Harrington, Trent?”
Destroy him. “Wait for now.” He looked down at his fists and willed them to unclench. “Place a watch on him. See if he leads me to more information.” To the others.
“A sound plan, I suppose.”
Trent stared at his hands, wondered again if he should return home, if he was fit company for an evening’s amusement. But Mazie did not seem perturbed by his mood. She certainly did not feel the need to be careful around him.
She placed her hand on his fist. Met his gaze. “I’m sorry about Harrington. For you, I mean. For your place in the mess. I don’t take pleasure in being right about this.”
Warmth flowed into him from her touch. It kindled a reciprocal heat in his chest, a place that had felt cold and dead all day. It was a kindness on her part. Whatever he thought of her, a thief and a liar, she was kind. Even to him. Her captor. It was obvious that she worried about people, that she wanted to help.
The noise of the crowd fell between them and neither tried to brush it away.
“How did you ever play the role of a servant?” he muttered. “You always say what you want. I cannot see you scrimping and bowing.”
“Well, I never said I was a good servant.”
Their laughter mingled together, hers bright, his a hesitant chuckle. Warm. He felt warm. Tinges of happiness fought through his gut-wrenching guilt and worry. It was her doing—Mazie.
A light blush colored her cheeks, perhaps from the heat of the evening. Some part of him, the angry, primitive part, instinctively wanted to be the cause of her flush.
Wanted to make her blood pulse and pound.
He looked away and drew in a breath. Then another. Then glanced back.
Dark hair, pale almond skin and those raw, intelligent eyes. And her mouth, ah, her mouth.
He liked looking at her. Arguing with her. He rather liked her, in fact. Somewhere over the past weeks, she had become a companion to him. Sparring and challenging, yet unexpectedly intimate and warm. Helping even as she hindered.
The Runaway Countess Page 19