by Gayle Callen
"Stephen, you must be hungry," Mr. O'Neill said.
Meriel frowned at him in suspicion. "It is almost time for our luncheon, Your Grace. I'm certain Mrs. Theobald will send our meal up to the nursery, as she always does."
"Not today. I've told her you'll be dining with me. Stephen, shall we have a picnic?"
The little boy was beside himself with eagerness. "Can we take Victoria and Albert, too?"
"Of course we can."
Meriel would have done anything to remain at home— except put Stephen at risk. And by the slyly amused expression Mr. O'Neill wore, he guessed her feelings. But that didn't stop him from languidly sweeping his gaze over her behind Stephen's back. His amusement faded, and the smoldering look that replaced it made an answering heat blossom inside her. She wouldn't let this happen— but that didn't stop her body from responding.
The dogs were already out in the corridor, and they followed their master and Stephen adoringly, leaving Meriel to bring up the rear. She refused to look at the man as he walked, for that wouldn't help her physical reaction to subside.
As they walked down the spacious corridor, she noticed the servants peeking out from various rooms to watch. Then to her mortification, Mr. O'Neill suddenly decided to wait for her and took her arm to pull her along between them— right in front of Beatrice and Clover. Meriel had to turn away from their angry, disappointed faces.
Her arm was tense linked with his, and she subtly tried to pull away, but he refused to relinquish his grasp. His arm was warm and very hard, and the curve of muscle made her feel flustered.
On her other side, Stephen was skipping to keep up with them, and when he put his hand in hers, she softened and stopping fighting his uncle.
"You must continue Stephen's lesson on the walk," Mr. O'Neill said. "When we're outside, you can tell us the names of all the flowers we pass."
The sun seemed to burst upon them as they stepped outdoors. It was a rare, warm summer so far, and she didn't even regret her lack of a bonnet. She finally was able to disentangle herself from Mr. O'Neill, so that she could point out the various flowers and plants. She didn't know how much of it Stephen actually absorbed in his excitement, but she felt calmer being able to talk. The dogs cavorted beside them, and after one word from their "master," they stayed out of the flower beds.
They were only a hundred yards past the stables in a small clearing when Mr. O'Neill said, "Let's spread our blanket right here."
"In full view of the outdoor staff?" Meriel asked suspiciously.
"I have a meeting early in the afternoon, so I can't be too far from the house. Stephen, take the blanket and find us the perfect spot."
The little boy did as he was asked, and though Meriel attempted to follow him, once again Mr. O'Neill took her arm and slowed her down. She could feel every groom and stable lad gawking at them.
"You're doing this deliberately," she said in a low voice.
"Doing what?" he asked, full of innocence.
"Touching me while in a public place. What other purpose could there be?"
"A father needs no other reason than being with his son for a picnic."
"You'll get your garments stained. Surely you can't want that."
"Stop fighting, Meriel, or I'll hold your hand next."
She pulled away and glared at him. They both heard the hoots of laughter from the outdoor staff.
"I did not give you permission to use my Christian name, Your Grace— and you would not dare touch my hand in front of your son."
He sighed. "No, I would not dare. But what he can't see— "
She groaned and stomped away from him to help Stephen, who was struggling to lay out the large blanket. The dogs kept lying on it.
Meriel understood that Mr. O'Neill was deliberately wooing her in front of the servants to prove himself the duke. But at least he was being very public about it, rather than cornering her alone, where her strength to resist would be so much harder to maintain.
When she and Stephen had the blanket laid flat, she was startled when something brushed her skirts. It was the Impostor Duke as he moved past her to lay himself out on the blanket, hands behind his head.
She put her fists on her hips. "Yes, it was a terribly long walk from the house, Your Grace. You must be exhausted."
Stephen laughed. "That's sarcasm, Father! Miss Shelby taught me what the word means."
"Sarcasm?" Mr. O'Neill echoed. "And it's so unnecessary, Stephen. Miss Shelby doesn't understand how tiring it is to host a successful dinner party."
"Especially when you have servants to do all the work," she said.
"She's doing it again!" Stephen said gleefully.
Meriel couldn't help smiling at the little boy as she ruffled his unruly hair. "Why don't you see what's in the picnic basket, my lord?"
She knelt on the far side of the blanket from Mr. O'Neill and watched as Stephen unearthed cold chicken and fruit and cheese, along with stoppered bottles of lemonade. The dogs sat beside him and attempted to look pathetic and hungry. Stephen wanted to serve the adults, and she bit back a smile as he carefully set out plates and napkins.
"There aren't any forks," Stephen said, burying his face in the basket to look.
"We don't need them." Mr. O'Neill came up on his elbow. "Chicken tastes better when you eat with your fingers."
Stephen giggled and dug in. Meriel stayed focused on her pupil and her food, but when she was licking her fingers, she glanced up and realized that Mr. O'Neill was watching her, his smile fading. She froze with one finger in her mouth. Something unnameable flashed between them. It was awkward and riveting and…exhilarating. She looked away and quickly found a napkin. The sun was suddenly overly hot, and she wished for a bonnet to hide behind.
"Father, have you ever boxed?" Stephen asked.
She sighed with relief when Mr. O'Neill's attention left her.
"Yes, I have," he said. "Many gentlemen box for recreational purposes."
"What does that mean?"
"We box for fun."
Meriel glanced at Mr. O'Neill witheringly. "Hurting other men is fun?"
He grinned. "The object is not to get hit, Miss Shelby. Stephen, how have you heard of boxing?"
"The grooms box, but they were worried I'd get hurt."
She nodded solemnly. "You are far too young for such things, my lord."
"Father, can you teach me?"
"Lord Ramsgate," she began, "I still think— "
"I can teach you a little," Mr. O'Neill interrupted, "but it is not a sport you should attempt without me."
That mollified her somewhat, and she held her tongue when Stephen pulled his uncle to his feet. To her shock, Mr. O'Neill began to disrobe. He flung his coat down where he'd been lying, and his waistcoat followed. Even his cravat and stock were dropped to the ground, and she finally looked up past his long legs to find him grinning down at her as he rolled up his shirtsleeves and unbuttoned several shirt buttons. She was relieved when he finally joined Stephen, instead of looming over her, inspiring dangerous thoughts.
Off toward the house, she could see the stable boys sitting along fences, waiting for the show. And Mr. O'Neill provided it. He taught Stephen how to hold up his fists to protect his face, and how to throw a punch. He was light on his feet as he moved around the little boy. Meriel hated that she noticed how his damp shirt clung to his back, outlining the width of muscle, and the narrowness of his hips where the shirt disappeared into his trousers. She was glad that she could pretend it was the heat that made her fan herself.
She was more than relieved when they moved on to the next sport, archery. She was skilled at it, but she did not mention it. Sitting and drinking her lemonade was all she wanted to do, as a groom brought bows and arrows, and a target was set up against a bundle of hay. Stephen's arrows all missed their target, and one even sailed into the lower branches of a tree.
The exercise and the sun were finally affecting Stephen, because he pouted at the thought of losing one of the arrows. Mr. O'Neil
l lifted him to reach it, but his fingertips were still a foot away.
Stephen came running toward her as she was packing up the basket. "I can't reach it, Miss Shelby," he said, sniffing back tears. "But you can."
"I'm certainly not tall enough, my lord."
"But if my father lifts you, you'll be just right. Come on!"
"Lord Ramsgate, I cannot possibly allow your father to lift me into a tree!" she protested, hearing her voice rise unprofessionally.
But he was pulling on her hands, and for the first time since her initial week here, she thought he might disintegrate into tears. He took his embarrassment seriously, and the last time he'd cried in front of servants, he hadn't wanted to leave the nursery for days. How would he feel crying in front of his father? And wouldn't Mr. O'Neill insist on her help anyway, just to annoy her?
She found herself on her feet, Stephen dragging her forward. Mr. O'Neill was leaning against the base of the tree, his white shirt bright in the shade, his dark eyes showing nothing but amusement.
With every step closer, a voice inside her rose ever higher, telling her that this was a bad idea. She stumbled to a halt in front of him.
"Use her, Father," Stephen said, giving her a push.
Mr. O'Neill caught her arm, and she shivered at even that contact.
"Turn around."
Was his voice rougher than normal? She couldn't decide, even as she obeyed.
And then his hands were on her waist. Oh, there were plenty of layers between their skin, but just the strength of him took her breath away. He lifted her, and she felt the pressure on her rib cage, in her back. She went higher and higher, her feet dangling.
"Reach for the arrow!" he said.
She was shocked to feel the movement of his jaw against her backside as he spoke. Her trembling fingertips brushed the arrow.
"Higher!" she cried.
He groaned, but soon she had the arrow in her hand. She looked over her shoulder to see Stephen on his knees in the dirt across the meadow, not even paying attention anymore.
And then Mr. O'Neill was letting her down, but so slowly as to make her want to scream with frustration. He was deliberately brushing against her. Her backside slid down the length of his chest, and even lower, across his hips. She was not a naive girl, unaware of a man's hidden form, so she understood the protrusion just above his thighs. It should disgust her.
But when her feet touched the ground, she could not move for a moment. She was overcome by a wave of longing and desire so fierce that it shocked her. Everything she knew about him didn't matter in that moment when they were still touching. She wanted his attention; she wanted to be with him in ways she could hardly imagine.
"Stop it," she whispered, not daring to look over her shoulder at him.
"I can't. I won't."
She felt his lips against her head. His hand moved, sliding forward around her stomach—
Tossing an angry look at him, she pulled herself away and strode to Stephen. Every stable boy and groom on the estate had witnessed the duke's crude assault. He could have shouted his lascivious intentions from the windows and reached fewer people.
He'd chosen her.
She was trapped.
At dinner that night, there were enough flowers to begin another conservatory. Stephen giggled at this new game. When she retired to her room for the evening, she found several new carpets and pillows, even a more comfortable chair by the hearth.
She collapsed into her new chair and put her face into her hands. What was she supposed to do? She still had no clue what the Impostor Duke's intentions were— except for attempting to ruin her reputation.
And poor Stephen, who was so enjoying his father's attention— he would never be the same when he discovered he was being tricked.
She picked up the letter she'd received in today's post. It was from her new brother by marriage. He had sent her a generous allowance, which he hadn't needed to do. It was enough for her to leave, to anticipate beginning a new life.
But she couldn't.
Childishly, she pounded one foot on the floor.
After a second, someone pounded back.
Oh God, she'd forgotten that the master suite was right below the nursery. The man who haunted her days and nights was but a staircase away.
She tucked her feet beneath her and tried to concentrate on the other letter she'd received, from her sister Victoria, the new bride. More and more, Victoria's optimism was proving well founded. She and her husband were slowly becoming happier with each other.
Meriel was relieved for Victoria— and selfishly sad for herself, trapped in a mystery she had to unravel for the sake of a little boy, drawn to the criminal himself.
* * *
But the next afternoon was no better. Meriel was forced to go along in a rowboat across a pond. Again, she was treated to the Impostor Duke coatless, cravatless, and damp from splashing water. Stephen sat in the bow so he could see where they were going, leaving Meriel in the back, an umbrella over her head, facing Mr. O'Neill as he rowed.
He didn't bother to hide his interest. And he wasn't looking at her face. He smiled and let his gaze roam down her body as if she were a piece of art he owned. And everywhere he looked, her skin sizzled. She'd worn the plainest gown with the highest collar, and still it wasn't enough. Would she have to start binding her breasts just to keep them better hidden?
She deliberately dipped the umbrella so that her face was blocked from him. But still his feet were on either side of hers in the tiny rowboat, just under the hemline of her skirt, she realized with dismay. Then he lifted his toes, and her skirt rose a few inches, revealing her black shoes. She gave him a murderous glare from beneath her umbrella, then drove her booted heel onto his foot. He winced silently, grinned, and wobbled his eyebrows.
She had to wipe the smugness off his face somehow, and she recklessly didn't care if she endangered herself to do it. "Your Grace, Stephen tells me he has an uncle. Why did you not have a portrait painted with your brother?"
His smile faded a bit, and he put more effort into his rowing. Now that she had the upper hand, she let herself admire how the damp shirt stretched across his muscled arms.
"The duke and duchess wouldn't allow such a painting," he said, in a voice as smooth as ever.
Was he truly so unruffled? "Why not?"
"Forgive the crudeness, Miss Shelby, but my brother was born on the wrong side of the blanket."
If it still hurt him, he didn't show it. He'd made a success of his life. He had nothing left to prove. So why was he here, pretending to be a duke?
"Father, stop so I can see the school of fish!" Stephen called, pointing into the water.
Mr. O'Neill put up his oars, then casually grabbed hold of the boy's shirt as he leaned over the edge. The perfect father.
Yet he never took his eyes off Meriel.
"Your brother's birthright was surely not his fault," she said.
"No. And he never let it come between us."
If only she could figure out the truth from the lies.
"Stephen tells me that his uncle grew up here with you. He was older, yes?"
"Five years."
"A vast distance when you're young."
"Not so vast."
"Did his mother live here, too?"
He rested one hand on the bench behind him and crossed his feet, his toes tangling in her skirt once more. She didn't look down this time, knowing he wanted to distract her.
"No, my father gave her a house of her own, right here on the estate. That was more generous than most men would have been."
"You admired your father?"
"Of course."
"But how generous could he really have been, when he wouldn't allow her son to live with her?"
She had to admire him, how perfectly normal he kept his expression, polite and amused. She realized she might be hurting him and found herself again sympathetic. It was the woman in her, when she should remain the detective.
"My father was generous enough to house and educate Richard," he said about himself. "Fiona O'Neill knew it was for the best. The duke gave her son what he could, including an inheritance."
She lowered her voice, glad that Stephen was so distracted. "But I heard Sir Charles say that you cheated him of it."
He laughed. "And you believe that envious man?"
"Why would he be envious? He's wealthy, isn't he?"
"But he's not the duke. I am."
You're not, she thought. Did Mr. O'Neill deliberately taunt her, suspecting she knew the truth?