by Anna Bennett
Gray reached beneath her skirt for the other ankle and repeated—sending a jolt of pain up her leg.
“Owww,” she whimpered.
“Probably a sprain. We’ll have Dr. Hopewell from the village examine it.”
Sophie stepped forward and handed her a glass of lemonade. “Drink,” she ordered.
Fiona gulped down a few swallows to appease her friend.
“You must be parched after all the walking we did. And you haven’t eaten anything either,” Sophie chided.
“What?” Gray frowned. “Kirby, bring Miss Hartley a sandwich.”
Oh, for the love of—“I don’t require a sandwich.” Well, she did, but she had no wish to eat it while everyone looked on. “I would like my sketchbook, though.”
“Certainly,” Mr. Kirby piped up. “Here you are.” He handed the pad to her with a flourish, and Fiona relaxed a little as she clutched it to her chest.
“Thank you.”
Gray grunted. If Fiona didn’t know better, she might have suspected he was jealous—of her sketchbook. “You’ll be returning to the Fortress on horseback,” he said. “With me.”
Excellent. And just when she thought she’d suffered all the humiliation she could stand for one afternoon. “I don’t ride,” she confessed. The few attempts she’d made at riding had ended with her covered in mud, bruises, or both.
“You will today,” he said firmly. With that, he stood and carefully pulled her to her feet. Or foot, actually. The one that wasn’t throbbing and puffing up like a popover muffin.
“I don’t wish to be difficult,” she said. “It’s just that after falling once this afternoon, I’m not eager to repeat the experience.”
Gray wrapped an arm securely around her waist and leaned close to her ear. “You cannot walk back to the house, and I cannot carry you the entire way.”
“What about a wagon?” she asked, desperate.
“The hill is too steep. Horseback is safer—trust me. We’ll go slowly. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She wanted to believe Gray. She did. Even if he underestimated the likelihood of calamity striking when she was near. “Very well.”
The words had barely left her mouth before he scooped her into his arms, stalked over to his horse, and deposited her in the saddle. For the second time that day, she found the ground was much too far away for her liking. She clung to the horn of the saddle with one hand and held her sketchbook with the other, praying she didn’t slide off before they even started moving.
But a moment later, Gray stepped onto the stirrup, slung a leg over the horse, and settled himself behind her. His torso was a hard and solid buffer, and the arm he wrapped around her waist made her feel wonderfully safe.
“Fiona, this is Mercutio. Mercutio—Fiona.”
“Wait. You, the infamous naysayer of poetry, named your horse after a Shakespearean character?”
“I cannot help it if the name suits him.” Gray clucked his tongue twice, and Mercutio began ambling down the hill.
* * *
Gray refrained from speaking for the first several minutes of their ride—because he didn’t want to say anything he’d regret.
Two things had raised his ire when he arrived at the picnic spot. First, Fiona had placed herself in peril. And when he imagined what danger could have befallen her, he went a little mad.
Second, Kirby had been directly beneath her—as if he’d been up on the rock with her. As if he were going to be the one to save her. And he’d also been holding her sketchbook, which made Gray wonder if Fiona had been sketching his best friend.
The worst part was, Gray knew damn well he had no right to be angry with Fiona—on either count. She was a grown woman, and if she wanted to risk life and limb climbing a godforsaken rock, that was her prerogative. And if she wanted to sketch Kirby, Gray had no valid reason to object. Hell, he should be glad that Kirby and Fiona seemed to get on so well. Kirby was his best friend, and she was going to be his … his wife.
Of course, the plan had been for them to have a marriage that was uncomplicated and civil. Perhaps more than just in name, but certainly less than a love match.
Because Gray couldn’t promise anything more. And he had to make Fiona understand that before she entered into a union that was destined to be a disappointment.
But it was difficult to remember the precise terms of their agreement while she was leaning into his chest and resting her head on his shoulder. When they’d begun riding down the hill, she was coiled tight as a spring, but now her body melted into his. Even through her skirts and his trousers, he could feel her lithe legs brushing against his thighs. The citrusy scent of her hair tickled his nose, and the even rhythm of her breathing soothed his frayed nerves.
She ventured a glance at him—almost as though she suspected he’d be in a foul mood. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. “Thank you,” she said.
“I wish I’d been able to stop you from falling.”
She laughed at that. “You might as well try to stop a hen from pecking. Or a bull from charging. Shall I go on?”
“No, I understand.” He felt his face crack into a smile. “But I wish I’d been able to spare you the pain at least.”
“You helped me more than you realize. I was completely panicked. Convinced I’d taken my last breath. And you made me believe that I would be all right. So … thank you,” she repeated.
He held her a little closer and nuzzled the top of her head. “You are most welcome. But I must insist on sending for the doctor when we arrive at the Fortress.”
In response, she heaved a deep sigh. “Very well.”
Inclining his head toward the sketchbook, he asked, “Did you draw someone’s portrait today?”
“Hmm? Oh no. That is, I was drawing, but not a portrait. Would you like to see?”
“Certainly.” But as she started to flip open her pad, he said, “Wait. Let me steer Mercutio into the shade so I can have a proper look.”
Once they were out of the sun, she swiveled toward him and offered him her open sketchbook. “What do you think?”
Gray blinked at the scene on the paper, then closed his eyes, letting waves of memories crash over him.
Summers when he and Kirby had pretended the rock was their pirate ship.
The day after his father died, when Gray had gone there to escape the house and the smell of death.
And most recently, the evening when he’d taken Helena there, intent on showing her the moon suspended in the sky and stars twinkling over the valley. But instead of seeing the beauty of it all, she’d turned to him and told him their engagement was off.
“You don’t like it,” Fiona said, sounding crestfallen.
He opened his eyes and shook his head. “That’s not true. I love everything about it.” He examined it more closely, noticing a tiny bird’s nest in a tree, a warm orange glow in the valley, and the perfect harmony of it all. On the horizon, the silhouette of the Fortress stood proudly. None of the cracks or imperfections were visible from Fiona’s perspective. She saw its grandeur—and everything it could be.
She had captured his estate from the best possible angle. But it wasn’t because she wished to flatter him or literally paint a rosy picture. She’d drawn it that way because that’s how she saw it.
“I’m glad you like it,” she said, her relief obvious. “I made it for the countess. But if you would like, I could draw another for you.”
“You made this for my grandmother?”
“Yes. I know how much she loves this place, and…” She blew out a long breath before continuing. “She told me about her condition and how she’s losing her sight. I’m so sorry, Gray.”
“She told you?” he asked, stunned. “She’s very private. I didn’t think she’d mentioned it to anyone.”
“We had a moment alone on the day we went shopping in the village. She is an amazing woman.”
“Yes, she is.”
“When I climbed the rock this morning and saw
the glorious view, I knew she would love it. And since she cannot climb up the rock—although I daresay she might have fared better than I did—I thought I could bring the view to her. Perhaps it will give her some comfort.”
“She will adore it.” And she’d adore Fiona for thinking of it. Truth was, he suspected Fiona had already wriggled her way into his grandmother’s heart.
And if he wasn’t careful, she’d wriggle her way into his as well.
She held the drawing at arm’s length and tilted her head as though examining it with a critical eye. “I shall have it framed when we return to London and present it to the countess as soon as it’s ready.”
Before he could stop himself, he cradled her face in his hands. “That’s the nicest gift anyone’s ever given me.”
Her cheeks pinkened. “Forgive me, but did you miss the part where I mentioned it’s for your grandmother?”
“No. That’s why it’s the best gift. Nothing makes me happier than seeing my grandmother happy.”
Nodding, she smiled. “She said as much.”
“She wants me to take you to the river. Row you around in the boat.”
“Do you want to take me there?”
“Yes.” More than he should. And not just to please his grandmother. Now that he and Fiona had lain together, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. No amount of sawing, hammering, or mindless labor could make him forget the taste of her lips or the feel of her skin. He wanted her again.
“The river sounds lovely, but we haven’t much time left before we return to town. Tomorrow’s our last free day. Papa arrives Saturday, and we’ll all be preparing for the ball that evening.”
“Then we will go to the river tomorrow—assuming the doctor permits you to leave your bed.” He would show her the swimming hole where he and Kirby used to splash and play, naked as the day they were born. He’d show her the rope swing suspended from the sturdy branch of an elm on the water’s edge—the one that could launch you to the deepest part of the river or deposit you ruthlessly in the mud. He’d show Fiona the bright spot in his childhood. Perhaps the only one.
“Tomorrow,” she repeated. “I shall look forward to it. Though I doubt Mama will allow me to go without Lily or Mary—my maid.” Her beautiful eyes glowed with regret.
“I wouldn’t dream of whisking you away without a proper chaperone.” Chuckling, he corrected himself. “Actually, I would if I thought I could get away with it.” His mind was already devising a plan to steal her away for a few moments. “At the risk of stating the obvious, we are lacking a chaperone right now.”
“I confess that fact did not escape me,” she said in a slightly husky tone that set his blood on fire. She dropped her gaze to his mouth and leaned in, till no more than an inch separated their lips. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”
With a growl, he covered her mouth with his. He slid a hand over her bottom, pulling her closer. Her free hand wound around his neck, and her tongue tangled with his. God, he’d missed her. And this taste only made him want her more.
When he’d seen her dangling from the rock, his heart had raced with a potent combination of panic and fear.
But now his heart raced for an entirely different reason. Fiona was talented and thoughtful and beautiful beyond measure … and she seemed to want him. Not just for his title, but for him.
Maybe the idea of them marrying wasn’t so mad after all. He might enjoy making her happy. And just being with her made his damned days a little brighter.
He wanted to pull her onto his lap and slide a hand beneath her skirts, but a rational voice in the corner of his mind whispered that she was injured and that he was supposed to be taking her home and summoning the doctor.
Not seducing her on the back of a horse.
Damn it all to hell.
Beneath them, Mercutio shifted and whinnied, causing Fiona to clutch at Gray’s jacket. “I have you,” he assured her while tightening his grasp on the reins. “But I think Mercutio is telling me that I should take you home.”
She sighed petulantly. “He fancies himself a chaperone?”
“He wants to take care of you. As do I.”
“Then I suppose I cannot be cross with him,” she said with a smile.
Gray made sure she was secure in the saddle before he steered the horse back onto the path. Tomorrow at the river they’d have time to discuss their plans … and their future.
For now, he would savor the chance to hold her close and imagine that this feeling of contentment might not be as fleeting as he feared.
Chapter 21
On the Secret to Capturing a Gentleman’s Attention
From time to time, Miss Haywinkle would pause in the middle of a lesson and send the younger girls to the dormitories. She’d proceed to share a bit of information that might prove useful to those of us on the brink of entering the marriage mart. Lily, Sophie, and I would eagerly await the nuggets of wisdom that would surely spill forth from Miss H.’s lips.
On one such occasion, she bid us to gather closely, as she refused to utter the words in a voice louder than a whisper. “Gentlemen have a great number of responsibilities and can be frightfully busy,” she said. “And that is why, as resourceful young ladies, you may sometimes be forced to employ … unusual methods in order to be noticed.”
“Applying lip rouge?” Lily asked, most serious.
Miss H. pressed a hand to her chest, aghast. “Heavens no, Miss Hartley—not unless you wish to be mistaken for a lightskirt.”
“Please go on,” Sophie begged the headmistress.
“Well,” Miss H. said dramatically, “one particularly effective method involves wearing high-heeled boots while walking on wet or uneven ground … so that you may fall. If all goes as planned, you will successfully turn your ankle.”
When Miss H. noted the confusion on our faces, she elaborated. “A gentleman likes to feel useful, you see. If you turn an ankle, you give him the opportunity to rescue you. To be a veritable knight in shining armor.”
“But a turned ankle is painful.” I felt compelled to point this out, having experienced more than my fair share. “It also prevents one from dancing and walking. And it looks ghastly. Last time I turned my ankle, it swelled to the size of a grapefruit.”
“A grapefruit, indeed. Sometimes I despair of you girls ever finding husbands,” Miss H. muttered to herself.
Later that night, as Lily, Sophie, and I lay in our beds, we resolved never to do anything so daft as intentionally spraining an ankle.
We also vowed to procure a pot of lip rouge at the first opportunity.
“It’s only a minor sprain.” Dr. Hopewell smiled as he snapped his bag closed. “If your ankle hurts or becomes noticeably swollen, stay in bed. Otherwise, I see no reason you shouldn’t enjoy the rest of your stay here.”
“Thank you,” Fiona replied, immensely relieved. She’d had no intention of spending the last few days of the house party cloistered in her bedchamber, regardless of the good doctor’s orders, but now she could enjoy herself without feeling guilty.
“I spoke to Lord Ravenport on my way up. He seemed very concerned about you.”
“Then I will be sure to put his mind at ease,” she replied. Her chest warmed at the thought of Gray fretting over her. He claimed to be cold and unfeeling, but perhaps he was changing. She liked to think so.
The doctor made a perfunctory bow and headed toward the door—just as Lily and Sophie burst into the room.
“Please don’t say you’ve broken your leg!” Lily cried.
“Nothing so dire,” Dr. Hopewell assured her. “But I shall leave it to my patient to explain. Good day, ladies.”
Sophie and Lily rushed to Fiona’s bedside. Her sister grabbed her by the shoulders and looked her up and down as though making sure she was still intact. “You didn’t fall off the horse?” Lily asked.
“No. I managed to make it all the way from our picnic spot to my bedchamber without ever touching the ground—with Lord Ravenport’s he
lp.”
Lily’s eyes went wide. “Wait. The earl carried you to your bed?”
Fiona flushed at the memory but attempted a breezy tone. “Yes.”
Clearly uncomfortable with the talk of earls and beds, Sophie cleared her throat. “We’ve been so worried about you, Fi. How are you feeling?”
“Wonderful.” Fiona grinned. “Never better. Dr. Hopewell says it’s a little sprain—nothing to be concerned about. I’ve no restrictions whatsoever.”
“Thank heaven!” Sophie exclaimed.
But Lily frowned. “Oh dear.”
Fiona chuckled and poked her sister in the arm. “It troubles you that I’m not injured?”
“Mama is going to be disappointed. You know how she adores a bit of drama. When we left her in the drawing room just now, she was beside herself—pacing, crying, and waving her handkerchief about.”
“Oh no.” Fiona threw off the covers and sat upright. “I’ll go to her at once and inform her I’m fine.”
“No, no.” Lily pushed her back onto the mattress. “If you walk in there as though nothing is wrong, you’ll spoil all her fun.”
“But nothing is wrong,” Fiona pointed out.
“Come now. Surely something is wrong,” Lily cajoled. “A bruise, a bump … a scratch?” she asked hopefully.
Fiona considered this a moment. “I am rather famished.”
Sophie leaped to her feet. “I’ll ask for a tray to be sent up.”
Lily tapped a finger against her chin. “Yes, that’s good. We’ll say that nothing is broken, but you’re too weak and sore to move. That should make Mama happy.”
“But Gray and I—that is, the earl and I have plans to go to the river tomorrow. If Mama thinks I’m unwell, she’ll never allow me to go.” Fiona shot Sophie a pleading look.
“Perhaps we can say that you’re rather tired after today’s excitement, but that you expect a good night’s rest will restore you,” Sophie suggested.
“Perfect.” Fiona could always count on Sophie.
Lily propped her hands on her hips and arched a dark brow. “Gray invited you to the river, did he?”