He did not want her to be brave, as he did not want to admire her. He resisted thinking of her as special or unique or courageous. But she was. Of course she was.
When she was mounted, the groom handed Thomas the reins to her horse. But Blu tore her eyes from the horse’s head long enough to notice and immediately and loudly protested.
“I will not be led like a child. Give me those strings. I’ll guide the beast myself!”
Concerned for her welfare, he argued the point. She was perched on the saddle as precariously as an egg on a ship’s prow. Plainly, she was terrified. Her lips pressed in a tight white line; her neck was rigid; she quivered and trembled. She was also intractable. When he understood they would not progress a single step until she had her way, he sighed and swore under his breath. Then he shrugged and instructed the groom to give her the damned reins.
“Do you see that line of trees across the meadow?” he asked. She was staring at a point between the horse’s ears, but she flicked a glance upward long enough to skim the distant horizon and nod. “We’ll walk to the trees, turn, and walk back. Are we agreed?”
“Just get on with it.”
“Blu... this is not necessary. You do not have to—”
“Will you stop blathering and just go?” Her horse lurched forward and she shrieked and yanked back on the reins. “God’s teeth! He moved!”
“Easy. Don’t jerk on the reins.” Speaking in a low tone, he coaxed her forward, regretting he had agreed to this idiocy. “Very good. Easy now. Just relax.” Her dark eyes opened as wide as tea trays, concentrating, focusing entirely on the horse. “You don’t have to watch him every minute. He’s done this before. Relax. Lift your head and straighten your spine. That’s right. You’re doing fine. Shoulders back, now. Good.”
She dared a quick glance toward him then toward the meadow dotted with daisies and swaying buttercups. “It’s like... it’s like sitting high in a tree that’s moving!”
Laughing, he nodded. “You’re doing fine, Blu.” Continuing to encourage her, he tutored her on form. After twenty minutes, he could see she had relaxed considerably and had shifted her concentration toward applying his instruction. She wobbled and weaved and continued to suck air between her teeth, gasping on occasion, but she was undoubtedly a natural. If she decided to pursue the sport, she had the unmistakable makings of an excellent horsewoman.
“Why must I ride sidesaddle, but you can ride astride? In greater safety and security, need I add.”
“I have no idea,” he answered honestly.
“There is a great deal of bloody nonsense in this lady business,” she muttered, clinging to the saddle.
As they approached the copse, Thomas admitted he, too, had relaxed and was enjoying the day. Late summer sunlight flooded the meadow, he could smell the sweet fragrance of clover and warm earth, and occasionally the light breeze brought him a tantalizing drift of her perfume. To his surprise, he looked at Blu and realized he would rather be here than anywhere else.
“I think I’m beginning to enjoy this,” Btu said, finding the courage to lean forward and pat the horse’s neck. She tilted her head and gave Thomas a curious look from beneath her hat brim. “What is it like to go fast? Is it wonderful?”
“When you’ve had more experience, we’ll attempt a canter. For the moment, anything more than a light trot is beyond you. You would end on your backside in the meadow,” he predicted, smiling.
“The meadow would be a damned sight softer than the stable yard,” she commented. They turned near the line of the trees and halted.
Without feeling a need for speech, they regarded the vista before them. From here they could see glimpses of the Thames, silvery in the sunlight, dotted with swaying masts. London spread before them, a collection of church steeples and chimney pots, baking sleepily in the August sun.
“Are you enjoying your stay in London Town?” Thomas inquired at length, watching the sunlight play across her cheeks. Over the years, he had put this question a hundred times if he had put it once. But this time he genuinely wished to learn the answer. While awaiting her response, he wondered that he had never before noticed the nobility of her profile. Her jawline was strong and well shaped, her nose a study in perfection. Nor had he imagined how right a riding habit was for her. The molded tailored lines suited her even as they revealed the lush curves of her body.
“Yes and no,” she answered eventually, not looking at him. “Most of the time I long to sail home. But sometimes... sometimes I look at Cecile or Aunt Tremble across the card table and I’m caught short because I’m truly enjoying myself. Or Lady Katherine will offer a word of praise for some small accomplishment and suddenly I feel happy. Or I look at the door and see—” She broke off abruptly and caught her lip between her teeth. A frown puckered her brow. “But I can say this, Thomas, and with truth.” Now she looked at him. “It’s good to have a day like today, when I can be myself and say whatever comes to mind without worrying about receiving a black tick and losing part of my dinner.”
He laughed. “So that’s how Lady Katherine trained you.”
“Thomas—tell me true.” Lifting her head, she fixed him with a look so intense her eyes seemed to turn black. “Have I lost myself?”
“Lost yourself?”
“Sometimes it feels as if the blowsy I used to be is no longer there.” Her gaze searched his expression. “I think of home and the chit I used to be and I fear that girl no longer exists. It’s as if she’s someone I dreamed or someone I once knew. But every day she slips further and further away.” She stared into his eyes and whispered. “It frightens me. Am I still me, Thomas? Or am I someone else now?”
“The truth?”
“Aye. You’re the only one I trust to tell me true.”
Because he saw how important it was, he did not answer immediately. He looked at the lovely young woman beside him and tried to recall the wild dirty creature he had first met. He remembered tangled hair and ragged fingernails, a grimed face and malodorous clothing. It seemed impossible such a description could once have fit the beauty beside him. “The changes have been enormous, Blu. Quite frankly, if I hadn’t seen you then and now, I would not have believed such a transformation possible.”
“But me. Am I lost in the polite words and fancy dress and the niffy-naffy ways?” Her voice sank to a whisper. “In truth, Thomas—I like my bath now.” Her lashes dropped over her eyes. “I like the touch of silk on my skin and I enjoy brushing my hair. I’m offended if one of the servants forgets his manners or I forget mine. I... I even like the small niceties. Have I paid too dear a price?”
“No,” he said softly, looking at her across the space that separated them. “You may be different now, but you are still Blu Morgan. Whatever you’ve lost, you’re better without it. The changes have been for the best.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” she said doubtfully, not certain she believed him. She turned her face toward the stable at the far end of the meadow. “Isabelle came to visit last week. She said she hardly knew me.”
“And you, how did you feel about Isabelle?”
“I still love her. I will always love Isabelle.” She ducked her head. “But she looked like a whore.” Tears glittered in the shadow of her hat brim. “Dammit, Thomas. She looked like a whore. I didn’t know it before. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes,” he said quietly.
“Oh, bloody hell!”
He saw the change in her expression, the sudden go-to-hell determination. It happened instantly, before he could object or do anything to halt her. In a blink, she swung her leg over the saddle and leaned forward on the horse’s neck, slapping him hard and shouting. The horse bolted. Then she was racing away, riding astride and clinging to the horse’s neck, shouting at him to run, faster, faster.
Digging in his heels, Thomas chased after her. But he didn’t interfere, taking the decision as he drew abreast then passed her. Looking back, he drew a sharp breath at the exhilaration ill
uminating her expression.
Her hat flew off and her hair pulled from the pins to stream behind her like a tumbling ribbon of black silk. But it was her face he would never forget, her face burned into his memory. She was afraid, yes, but the fear was overshadowed by rapture. Pure joy lit her features, blinding in its intensity. Tears of jubilation wet her cheeks and she was laughing and shouting. He stared at her, transfixed, thinking he had never seen anything so innocently beautiful or so starkly raw and private as the enchantment transforming Blusette Morgan’s face.
When they reined in at the stable yard, she swung her leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, intoxicated by the wild ride. Throwing out her hands as the groom raced forward, she spun in a circle, her rapturous face lifted to the sun, her waist-length hair floating around her.
“It was wonderful! Wonderful!” She could not stand still. Her cheeks were wet with tears of happiness. “Oh, Thomas! Thomas, it was like flying!” Running toward him, she placed her hands on his shoulders as he caught her by the waist and swung her high, spinning her in a circle, caught up in the infectiousness of her joy. “It was like the beast and I were one, and we were flying over the earth like an eagle! Oh God. I didn’t want it to end, I wanted it to go on forever and ever!”
In the carriage she had posed and postured, deliberately playing her provocative game. As he disliked artifice, he had watched and thought her efforts no more than amusing. But this. This moment was as intensely seductive as any he had known.
Transported by her joy, alone in it, her face was luminous and open. Sunlight shimmered in her black hair and tinted her throat and cheeks a glowing golden color. Her small waist between his hands was warm and vibrant, trembling with her excitement and delight.
And he wanted her. He wanted her with an urgency that hardened his body and turned it molten at the same instant. He wanted her with the same urgency that he wanted breath in his body. He wanted to capture her joy and radiance beneath him, wanted to share it by losing himself in her. He wanted to be the source of that radiant elation, of the heat in her face and limbs.
Bringing her to earth, he drew his arms in and pressed her pliant, trembling body to his. The heat of her slid down his length, wrenching a groan from his lips. He felt a rigid tightness in his groin, felt the urgent strength of his erection and need. Because he could not make himself release her, he clasped her tightly and felt her radiance scorch his flesh and spirit.
“Thank you, Thomas,” she said earnestly, her whisper husky with emotion. “Thank you for today!”
Then she was gone, spinning out of his arms and running pell-mell across the yard toward Monsieur, babbling joyfully of the bliss of flight. And Thomas felt empty, as if she had taken something of himself with her.
He stared after her flying skirts, wondering what in the name of God was happening to him.
~ ~ ~
Blu chattered enthusiastically about riding before dinner, through dinner, and after dinner. “Oh dear,” she said suddenly, pressing her fingertips to her lips and peering guiltily at Cecile. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think...” She glanced at Cecile’s chair and a flush of color deepened on her cheeks. “You must miss riding so much, and here I’ve been lipping about like a buffle cank. Can you ever forgive me?”
“Of course,” Cecile said, touching her hand. “Dearest Blu, I’ve never seen you this excited. And I love to hear about it. What on earth did Edward say when you swung astride and took off like an arrow?”
“You must never do such a thing again,” Lady Katherine interrupted. But she was smiling. A wistful look came into her eyes. “I have always wanted to ride like the wind. Haven’t you, Tremble? Of course,” she added hastily, “I never would. And astride; it just isn’t done.”
It was not until later, when she lay in bed listening to her maid’s snores coming from the closet and still too excited to sleep, that Blu remembered Thomas swinging her into the air, then slowly pressing her down the length of his body. She remembered it now and her privates heated and turned juicy. Her cheeks burned in the darkness.
She recalled the hard feel of his chest and thighs, the powerful heat of his erection. Twisting on the bed, she pressed her hot face to the coolness of her pillow.
It was odd, she thought, confused. She had tried to inflame him in the carriage during the drive to the Mews. Not an easy matter with Monsieur scowling on in disapproval. Perhaps that explained her failure. For she knew she had failed.
Then, when she had not been trying, when seduction had been the last thing on her mind, Thomas had become aroused. It made no sense.
Sighing deeply, she admitted there was much a squab like herself did not know. Tonight, she wished Isabelle were present. There were a dozen questions she needed to ask.
But one thing was certain. She finally understood what Thomas and Monsieur meant by calling the game dangerous. She was too inexperienced to know the rules.
And tonight, remembering Cecile’s generosity and remembering the strange warm moment with Thomas at the edge of the woods, she wavered in her resolve. Until now, it had not occurred to her the game might escalate beyond her control.
~ ~ ~
“Thomas? You’re a hundred miles away.” Lord Whitesall winked at Sir Loren Battersea. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say our Thomas has been pierced by cupid’s dart.”
They strolled beneath hundreds of tiny twinkling lights woven through the tree limbs, pausing now and again to inspect the lively paintings serving as backdrop for the dinner boxes. Richly attired friends leaned from the boxes and called greetings as they passed, following the crowds thronging Vauxhall.
Sir Loren Battersea clasped his hands behind his coat and smiled at Thomas with a sidelong glance. “Let us hope he suffers cupid’s sting. Do you recall what a singularly unsympathetic bastard he was when I suffered the torments inflicted by Lady Jane? Justice would be served if Thomas were to groan on love’s rack.”
“Whatever nonsense are you two spouting?” Thomas snapped, glaring at them.
They exchanged a look across his waistcoat and laughed. “Methinks it’s love,” Lord Whitesall said with a nod.
“Indeed.” Battersea turned to walk backward, smiling at a masked coquette who waved encouragement with her fan. “Imagine. Falling in love with one’s fiancée. How dull.”
“I am not in love.”
“In lust perhaps?” They laughed. “Having raised the subject, gentlemen, perhaps we should end the evening by repairing to Madame Georgette’s. Humphershire tells me Madame has a new Swede who must be seen to be believed. Or are you too besotted to take your pleasure, Thomas?”
“Of course not,” he said sourly. The more he considered the suggestion, the more he felt persuaded that a visit to Georgette’s was exactly what was needed to clear his thoughts. Battersea was correct. It was lust he felt; lust that interfered with common sense. A long time had passed since he had bedded a woman. Spirits rising, he accompanied them to a two-story house on the fringe of the West Side.
But the impressively beautiful Swede did not arouse his interest, a circumstance which surprised and bewildered him. The Swede—her name was Helga—had flowing ash-blond hair instead of black curls that reminded one of midnight heat. Her face was round instead of oval. She had no widow’s peak. She was too tall and her breasts were peaked rather than fully rounded. Why these small observations should emerge as criticisms mystified him. That they should dampen his ardor was infuriating. But they did.
Smoking and drinking Georgette’s best wine while he waited for his friends, he paced and tried to understand the incomprehensible.
One thing could not be doubted. Just any woman would no longer serve. The restless tension he felt could not be laid to mere lust. It was something more. If his need had been lust, he could have taken his ease by following the Swede upstairs.
If not lust—then what?
With a sound of disgust, he hurled his wine glass into the fireplace.
15
&
nbsp; September arrived all too soon, bringing crisp mornings and cool evenings. The ladies of Grosvenor Square smiled at Blusette, Monsieur, and Mouton as each complained of the evening chill and ordered fires in their rooms. Madame Truffoux arrived on Mondays to measure for winter fashions and astound the ladies with the latest colors and materials and designs. Lady Katherine ordered coal for the upcoming months, and during the first week of September, she woke her household at four each morning to begin the autumn laundry.
There was comfort in familiar habits. Otherwise, Katherine spent her days in a mounting frenzy of alarm, passing through the foyer at odd moments to inspect the growing number of cards left on the silver salver beside the street door. Every day a half-dozen footmen appeared on her step, delivering how-do-ye’s from friends returning from the country. Then one day, as she had known it would, the first preseason invitation arrived.
Katherine set aside her morning draught and sat up from the pillows mounded at her back, turning the invitation between her fingertips. If these had been normal times, she would have accepted without much thought. If these had been normal times, she would have been thinking ahead, preparing to resume her morning levees next month. A gallery of admirers would have gathered as they had in the past, to watch her sip her morning chocolate and perform her matinal toilette. But these were not normal times. She looked at Blusette, chatting with Cecile and Aunt Tremble, and wondered if the invitations would continue to arrive and if she would one day resume her levees.
But that was a distressing view. As much as she would have preferred, given the circumstances, she could not avoid society indefinitely. The dreaded moment of truth had arrived with September’s cooler weather. Frowning at Blusette, she tapped the invitation against her cheek in an unconscious gesture of unease and indecision.
“Well?” Aunt Tremble chirped. “What is the invitation, and does it include us all?” This morning, smiling at something Blusette had said, Tremble looked almost youthful.
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