A Lady Never Tells

by Candace Camp

  They paused to watch the antics of a red squirrel and later to investigate the remains of a bird’s nest that had fallen from a tree. Julian had a healthy curiosity about all things in nature, both flora and fauna, and Eve did her best to read enough to keep up with his questions. She had never thought to learn so much about butterflies, or pheasants and robins, or birches, beeches, and oak trees as she had the last two years, but she had enjoyed exploring such topics—though she could not deny the little ache in her heart when she thought of how it would be if she had children of her own with whom to share these wonders.

  Before long they reached the brook that lay east of town and followed it to a large rock perfectly arranged for sitting and watching the shallow stream as it burbled its way over the rocks. Eve took off her bonnet and gloves and set them aside, followed by her walking boots and stockings. She kilted up her skirt and waded into the water after Julian, bending down to look at the little fish arrowing past their feet or chasing after a frog as it bounded from rock to rock.

  Imogene’s strictures were ignored as they laughed and darted about. Julian had more than one streak of mud upon his shirt, and the bottoms of his trousers had been liberally splashed with water. His hands were grubby and his cheeks red, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. Eve, looking at him, wanted to grab him and squeeze him tight, but she was wise enough not to do so.

  She was standing in the brook when she heard the sound of a horse’s hooves, and realized that they must have drawn closer to the road than she had thought. She turned to climb up the bank, when a small snake brushed her foot as it slithered by her. Eve let out a shriek, forgetting all about the road and the horse, and Julian fell into a fit of laughter.

  “Oh, hush, Jules!” she told him crossly, then had to chuckle herself. She was sure she must have presented quite a sight, jumping straight up into the air as if she had been shot. “’Twasn’t funny.”

  “Yes, it was,” the boy protested. “You’re laughing.”

  “He has you there,” a voice said from behind them.

  Eve whirled around. There, on the small wooden bridge that crossed the stream, stood an elegant black stallion, and on its back was a man with hair as black as the steed’s. They were both, man and horse, astoundingly handsome.

  She felt as if the air had been punched out of her, and she could only stare at the man, bereft of words. The rider swept off his hat and bowed to her, and his hair glimmered as black as a raven’s wing in the sunlight. His eyes were a bright, piercing blue and ringed by thick black lashes as straight and dark as the eyebrows that slashed across his face above them. Even on horseback, it was obvious that he was tall, his shoulders wide in his well-cut blue jacket. A dimple popped into his cheek as he grinned down at her, showing even white teeth.

  “Hullo,” Julian called pleasantly when Eve did not speak, and he splashed out of the water and up the bank toward the man.

  The stranger swung off his mount in a smooth motion and led his horse off the bridge and down toward them. “I had not hoped to find a naiad on my travels today,” he said to Eve, and his bright eyes swept appreciatively down her form.

  Eve was suddenly, blushingly, aware of how she must have looked. Her dress was hiked up, exposing all of her legs below her knees, and her bonnet was off, her hair coming loose from its pins and straggling down in several places, her face flushed with exercise and heat.

  “What’s a naiad?” Julian asked.

  “A water nymph,” the man explained.

  “And something I am not.” Blushing furiously, Eve jerked her skirts down and shook them into place. There was little she could do about her bare feet or her hatless state, of course, for her shoes and bonnet lay several yards behind them on the rock. Her hands went to her hair, trying to tuck some of the stray strands into place.

  “That is always what demigoddesses claim,” the man went on easily, still smiling as he came up to them.

  Up close, Eve could see the tiny lines that radiated from the corners of his eyes and the dark shadow of approaching beard along his jaw. If anything, such imperfections only served to make him even more handsome. Looking at him set up a jangling of nerves in Eve’s stomach, and the afternoon seemed suddenly warmer and more airless than it had moments before.

  “Don’t be absurd.” Eve tried for a tart tone, but she could not keep from smiling a little. There was simply something engaging about the man’s grin, so easy and friendly.

  “What else am I to think?” He arched a brow, his blue eyes dancing. “Coming upon such a lovely creature, the water running around her, the sun striking gold from her hair. Even the animals yearn to be close to you.”

  “Like the snake!” Julian giggled.

  “Exactly.” The stranger nodded at the boy gravely. He turned back to Eve. “There. Even a child can see it. Though, of course”—he tilted his head considering—“one would think a nymph would be more at ease with the creatures of the fields and brooks than to scream at the sight of a snake.”

  “I did not scream,” Eve protested. “And it wasn’t the sight of it, it was the feel .” She gave an expressive shudder, and both Julian and the stranger chuckled.

  Eve was aware she should not be talking with such ease to a complete stranger. Imogene would doubtless have a fit of the vapors if she knew. But Eve was not feeling cautious today. For the past two years she had done her best to live by her stepmother’s rules, and soon she would have to be prim and proper, befitting the chaperone of young women. Surely she could steal this day, this moment for herself. She could even, perhaps, flirt a little with an attractive stranger.

  “It occurs to me that I should stay and guard you from such dangers.” The dimple flashed again as his lips curved into a smile. “Indeed, I should probably escort you home.”

  “’Tis most kind of you, sir, but I cannot trouble you. You were clearly on your way somewhere.”

  He shrugged. “That can wait. It isn’t every day that a man can rescue a nymph, or even a maiden, from dangerous creatures.”

  Eve raised a skeptical brow. “I already have a champion.” She glanced toward her brother, who had already tired of their conversation and was digging into the ground with a stick.

  “I can see that.” The stranger’s eyes followed hers to Julian. “I can scarcely compete.” He turned back to her. “But there may be other times when you are out without your champion. I should be happy to offer you my services as an escort.”

  “You are most kind,” Eve responded demurely, casting a twinkling look up at him through her lashes. It had been a long time since she had flirted with a handsome man. Had she forgotten how pleasurable it was? Or was it this man who made it pleasurable? “Perhaps, if you are in the village for a time, we might chance to meet again.”

  “I can make sure that I am here for a time.” For a moment the laughter was gone from his eyes, replaced by a warmth that Eve felt all the way down to her toes. “If you would but tell me where I might chance upon you taking a stroll?”

  Eve let out a little laugh. “Ah, but that would make it far too easy, would it not?”

  He moved closer, so that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. “I do not think that you are making it at all easy for me.” His voice lowered. “Surely a naiad should pay a token, should she not, for getting caught by a mortal?”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “A token?”

  “Yes. A price. A forfeit. They always do so in stories—grant a wish or give a present. . . .”

  “I am sure that I have no gift here.” Eve knew she should back up, should cease her flirting. But something held her there; she could not look away from his bright eyes, could not suppress the frisson of anticipation running up her spine.

  “Ah, that is where you are wrong, my nymph.”

  He bent and kissed her.

  His lips were firm and warm, the kiss brief. And at his touch, everything in Eve seemed to flame into life. She was suddenly, tinglingly, aware of everything—the sun on her bac
k, the breeze that lifted the loose strands of her hair, the scent of the grass from the meadow, all mingling in a heady brew with the sensations, sudden and intense, spreading through her body.

  He lifted his head, and for a long moment all she could do was stare up at him, her mouth slightly open in a soft O of astonishment, her eyes wide.

  “I . . . I must leave.” Eve turned toward her brother. “Come, Jules, we’d best get back.”

  “Pray, do not leave when I have only just met you,” the man protested.

  “I fear we must.”

  “At least tell me your name.” He took a step after her.

  “No—oh, no. I must not.” She stopped and looked at him, still dazed by the swift tumble of emotions inside her.

  “Then allow me to introduce myself.” He swept her an elegant, formal bow. “I am Fitzhugh Talbot, at your service.”

  Eve stared at him, chilled. “Talbot?”

  “Yes. I have business at the vicarage in the village, so you can see that I am perfectly respectable.”

  Eve let out a little choked noise, and, grabbing Julian by the hand, she whirled around and fled.

  Why oh why did I choose this particular day to indulge in a bit of freedom and flirtation?

  Eve repeated this incantation in her head as she ran down the bank of the stream, pulling Julian along after her. When she reached the rock, she picked up her things, not daring to glance back. She could only pray that Talbot would not take it into his head to follow her.

  “Auntie Eve!” Julian did not have to be told to pick up his own shoes and stockings; he was clever enough to have caught on to the urgency of the situation. “What are we doing? Why are we running?” He turned his head and glanced back toward the road.

  “He isn’t following us, is he?” Eve asked.

  “No. He’s leading his horse back to the road.” Julian paused. “Is he a bad man?”

  “What? No. Oh, no. Pray, do not think that.” Eve paused to put her shoes back on and help Julian into his, then struck out across the field at as fast a pace as her brother could keep up. “I think he is the man who is coming to take me to Willowmere.”

  Talbot was the family name of the Earl of Stewkesbury. And he had said that he had business at the vicarage, her father’s home. It must be that Mr. Talbot had come to fetch her for the earl. She dreaded what he would think when he realized that the “water nymph” he had seen cavorting in the brook, shoes and hat off, hair tumbling down, was the intended chaperone of the earl’s cousins. That rather than a straight-laced widow, she was the sort who romped about letting strangers kiss her!

  “Then he is a bad man.” Julian’s lower lip thrust out.

  Eve glanced down at him and forced a smile. “I am glad that you will miss me, Jules, but you mustn’t think that Mr. Talbot is bad. He is simply . . . well, running an errand for the earl.”

  “But I don’t understand.” Julian panted as he trotted along beside her. “If he is the man who’s come to get you, why didn’t you say who you were? Why didn’t we walk back to the house with him?”

  “If we hurry and take the back way, we can get to the vicarage before he does. I must change clothes before I see him.”

  “Oh.”

  “You know how your mother feels when you are messy and dirty? That’s why we always tuck in your shirt and try to clean up before we return to the house. Well, I think that Mr. Talbot may feel as your mother does.”

  “But he was quite nice. He seemed to like you.”

  “That was when he didn’t know who I was. You see, it’s all very well to like someone when you think she is just a . . . an ordinary person, but it changes when that person is supposed to be in charge of a group of young girls.”

  “I don’t understand.” He looked up at her, frowning.

  “I know. It’s something that makes more sense as you get older. I just need to make sure that when he sees me again, I look much more like a mature, responsible woman.”

  “And not a naiad?”

  “Definitely not a naiad.” Taking Julian’s hand, she broke into a run.

  Fitz stood still for a long moment after the woman ran away, staring after her in amazement. Sudden flight was not typically the feminine reaction to his name. At thirty-two years of age, Fitzhugh Talbot was one of the most eligible bachelors in England. He was the younger half brother of the Earl of Stewkesbury, and though his mother’s family was not nearly as aristocratic as his father’s, the money that she and her father had left Fitz more than made up for that minor flaw. These factors alone would have made him well liked by maidens and marriage-minded mothers alike, but he had also been blessed with an engaging personality, a wicked smile, and a face to make angels swoon.

  Many regarded him as the perfect picture of a gentleman, and indeed it would take a determined soul to find anyone who disliked Fitz. Though he was clearly not a dandy, his dress was impeccable, and whatever he wore was improved by hanging on his slender, broad-shouldered body. He was known to be one of the best shots in the country, and though he was not the horseman his brother the earl was, he had excellent form. While he was not a bruiser, no one would refuse his help in a mill. Such qualities made him popular with the males of the ton, but his skill on the dance floor and in conversation made him equally well liked by London hostesses.

  There was, in short, only one thing that kept Fitz from being the perfect match: his complete and utter disinterest in marriage. However, that was not considered a serious impediment by most of the mothers in search of a husband for their daughters, all of whom were sure that their child would be the one girl who could make Fitzhugh Talbot drop his skittish attitude toward getting married. As a consequence, Fitz’s name was usually greeted with smiles ranging from coy to calculating.

  It was not with a noise somewhere between a gasp and a shriek and taking to one’s heels. Still, Fitz thought, he did like a challenge, especially one with a cloud of pale golden hair and eyes the gray-blue of a stormy sea.

  When he reached the road, he swung up into the saddle and turned his stallion once again in the direction of the village. He did not urge the animal to hurry; Fitz was content to move at a slow place, lost in his thoughts. He had been willing enough when his brother Oliver asked him to fetch the new chaperone for their cousins. Fitz was often bored sitting about in the country, and though the Bascombe sisters had certainly kept things lively since they arrived at Willowmere, the week or two until Mary Bascombe’s wedding had stretched out before him, filled with the sort of plans that provided infinite entertainment for women and left him looking for the nearest door. So he had not mind the trip, especially since he had decided to ride Baxley’s Heart, his newest acquisition from Tattersall’s, in addition to taking the carriage. That way, he could escort the doubtlessly dull middle-aged widow back to Willowmere without having to actually ride in the coach with her.

  But suddenly the trip had acquired far more interest for him. His plan to return to Willowmere the following day now seemed like a poor choice. Surely there must be an inn in the village where he could be put up for a few nights. There was not, after all, any need for the girls’ chaperone to be at Willowmere immediately. What with Cousin Charlotte as well as Lady Vivian overseeing the wedding preparations, not to mention Aunt Cynthia, Charlotte’s mother, who had shown up as well, there was more than adequate oversight of the Bascombe sisters.

  Fitz could take the time to look around the village and find his “water nymph.” First, though, he would pay a call at the vicarage to meet the widow and tell her that they would be leaving in a few days. He might have to pay another courtesy visit to the vicarage in a day or two, but other than that, he would be free to find his naiad and spend his time in a light flirtation—perhaps, even more.

  He thought of the girl’s slender white legs, exposed by the dress she had hiked up and tied out of the way . . . the pale pink of her lips and the answering flare of color in her cheeks . . . the soft mounds of her breasts swaying beneath her dress
as she hopped from rock to rock . . . the glorious tumble of pale curls, glinting in the sun, that had pulled free from her upswept hair.

  Yes, definitely, more than flirtation.

  He considered how to go about finding her. He could, of course, describe her to someone like the local tavern keeper and come up with a name, but that would scarcely be discreet. And Fitz was always discreet.

  He supposed that she could be a servant sent to tend the boy. However, her dress, speech, and manner were all those of a lady. On the other hand, one hardly expected to find a lady splashing about like that in a stream. And who was the child with her? Could the boy have been hers? There was, he thought, a certain resemblance. But surely she was far too young to have a child of seven or eight, which was what he had judged the lad to be. Fitz would have thought that she was no more than in her early twenties. But perhaps she was older than she appeared. There were mothers who romped with their children; he had seen Charlotte doing so with her brood of rapscallions.

  Perhaps she was the lad’s governess—though in his experience governesses were rarely either so lovely or so lighthearted. Or maybe she was the personal maid of the boy’s mother. Personal maids were more likely to have acquired the speech patterns of their mistresses than lower servants, and they also frequently wore their mistresses’ hand-me-downs.

  None of these speculations, however, put him any closer to discovering the girl again. She had hinted that he might come across her walking through town, so perhaps she regularly took a stroll. Still, he could scarcely spend his entire day stalking up and down the streets of the village.

  Lost in these musings, Fitz was on the edge of the village almost before he knew it. Indeed, he had almost ridden past the church before he realized where he was. Reining in his horse, he looked at the squat old square-towered church. A cemetery lay to one side of it; Fitz had gone past it without a glance. On the other side of the church was a two-story home, obviously much newer than the church but built of the same gray stone. This, he felt sure, would be the vicarage.