by Jess Russell
“Oh, I cannot believe she would be so evil! Granted she is vain and jealous, but I cannot see her stooping to arson. Is the duke so sure?”
Olivia abandoned the cat to fetch her cup of tea. “No, Egg,” she said, perceiving that she had started her own particular fire with her tale, “by no means is he certain. I dare say his suspicion was only part of what brought him to act in our case. Mostly, I think it was because I was so desperate and that he could well afford to give us aid.”
“Ah,” Egg said, and then folded her arms across her body.
Olivia took a swallow of stone-cold tea.
****
Olivia was fully prepared for her next meeting with the duke. As she and Egg climbed out of the carriage, Olivia banished all thoughts of drums, dancers, and large glossy birds.
Close up, the house was less imposing than the great sprawling mass one saw from the turn to the dower house. However, the closer view in no way diminished its beauty. It became instead like a patchwork quilt—a square of Jacobean, a bit of newer Georgian, a long wing of Tudor, crowned with medieval towers and Gothic chimney pieces. Somehow all were harmonious, linked by ivies and the patina of time and sea winds on the native rock. It was not a house of symmetry, but it felt alive and warm.
Olivia thought she saw a face in an upper window as she scanned the facade, but it disappeared in the next moment. She joined Egg at the door and they entered.
The duke had invited some of the local gentry, and Olivia was quite pleased with her performance. Indeed the whole party’s manners were stellar; the most correct remarks were made on a variety of civilized topics, the weather being one of the chief subjects—wasn’t it always. Another fulsome conversation was focused on Egg’s recovery and Lady Bainbridge’s roses. Though, to be fair, the talk of roses was mostly a monologue, Lady Bainbridge never missing the opportunity to hold forth. The syllabub was exclaimed over, the roast pork had been done to a turn, according to Mrs. Hargett. Olivia sighed. How obliging of the dear lady, for if you missed the remark the first or even second time, you were sure to get it on the third and even fourth.
The only glitch in the dinner service, if it could even be called such, was perpetrated by a mere footman, who had inadvertently filled her wine glass with actual wine, instead of the watered down stuff the ladies usually were served. At this point in the evening she would have been very happy to drink it and a least half a bottle more; anything to alleviate the tedious conversation rankling her frazzled nerves. But before she got the glass to her lips, she heard a cough to her left and the butler was there with a replacement. Olivia looked to see the duke’s reaction; he merely raised an eyebrow.
Thank goodness Egg, who was doing a remarkable job serving as hostess, rose and asked the ladies to please remove to the drawing room for tea.
Olivia sipped her tea and listened with half an ear to the various stages of blight attacking a rose variety called Flossy. A few stray tea leaves swirled in her Limoges cup and finally settled. A pity her nerves could not follow suit.
The gentlemen soon joined the ladies and her cup rattled in its saucer, once again disturbing the tea leaves. Her stomach not only swirled but performed a small flip. This was the portion of the evening that would afford the duke an opportunity to speak with her in relative privacy. As he entered, he spoke briefly to a footman who promptly opened the French doors to admit a breeze—she hoped—for the room was suddenly very stuffy.
Perhaps the duke was setting the stage to ask her to step out into the garden? Or would he corner her next to the tea tray and propose an assignation for the following day? Or perhaps, she should lay her neck back to signal her readiness, and he would leap over the chaise lounge and claim her?
A short bark of laughter escaped her mouth, which she immediately covered with her hand.
Her timing was most unfortunate, for as she glanced around, the rest of the company was looking decidedly grave. She managed to catch Reverend Hargett’s last few words, “poor unfortunate orphans,” before he petered out, pursed his already tight lips, and added a sniff for good measure.
Oh bother! She had been doing so well. But, honestly, when would he make his bloody move?
The answer was, he did not.
With Mrs. Hargett’s final homage to the roast—“to a turn”—ringing in her ears, she wondered, as she and Egg rode home in the ducal carriage, if the duke even noticed her beyond the wine incident and her outburst of laughter? Which she now recalled had earned her a second raised eyebrow. Other than those instances, he had hardly looked at her, much less proposed an affair.
Well, perhaps he would send a note tomorrow.
He did not.
It was almost two weeks since the duke had taken up residence at Valmere. And though he had come to tea twice since, and she and Egg had dined again at the mansion, nothing had happened. Surely he would declare his intentions within the next few days.
He did not.
****
As he broke the seal and opened yet another letter from Daria, a folded paper dropped out. “The enclosed note holds irrefutable proof of my friend’s close connection with Mrs. Gooden,” wrote Daria. Rhys picked up the neat square. It was obviously much older. He turned it over. No address. He opened it and smoothed it on his desk.
The hand was distinctive, childish but with many curlicues and needless flourishes. It was her writing. He had seen it only once before, in a note she had written him thirteen years ago. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, the memories spinning out like the line on a fishing reel….
Meet me at the boat house at five.
Dee
He had been home from Oxford a whole week before he saw her.
Mac had expressed some concern about the fences at the northernmost edge of the property and had asked Rhys to inspect them. This was their old pattern, Rhys would report back, and the older man would call for tea and a pipe and they would have a chat about things, or more likely just sit by the fire.
Cantering Anthos over the last little rise, Rhys pulled up. Sure enough, the fences were immaculate, nary a rotting post or broken rail. He was turning to head back for the tea and Mac’s company when he saw a lone figure walking along the ridge of cliff toward the sea.
It was a woman. He could see the long shape of her gown and the curve of her bonnet. He would have ridden away, though he was curious, but she called to him. Still, he hesitated. Could he pretend he hadn’t heard? He was shy of women. But she might be in some distress, and being polite, he cantered to her, dismounted, and walked the ten or so yards to make his bow and inquire if she needed his assistance.
As he approached, he saw she was young and a beauty. At ten paces he could safely say she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” said the woman. He blinked and just remembered to bow. She laughed at his dumbness. “You are likely wondering who this forward lady is, speaking to you with no formal introduction and in a blustery wilderness no less.”
He was still getting over the music of her laugh. He swallowed. Bowing again. Preparing to speak.
She laughed again.
“If you’ll forgive me for being so bold and dominating the conversation,” she said with a flashing dimple, “I am newly come to the area. I am staying in the cottage beyond the rise here.” She cocked her head prettily. “’Twas the old Barker place, I believe.”
Another pause and another opportunity for Rhys to get his wits together.
He licked his lips. “Yes, it has stood empty for some time now. I wonder how you heard of it.” The words formed in his mind, but never got beyond his wet lips. Instead he bowed. Again. Stupid clod.
“I collect you must be the young lord home for his summer holiday?”
Grasping at anything, he found his voice. “Yes. Yes, Miss, I am Rhys”—he gulped—“I mean, I am, Marquess of Beckham, ah, Lord Beckham. Yes…”
She made a curtsey. Dark ringlets bobbed and bounced off her pink chee
ks. And though her gown was rather demure, he spied the beginning of a magnificent cleavage.
His mouth turned to cotton.
“What a pleasure to meet you, Lord Beckham. But I must correct you; I am no Miss. I am a Missus. Mrs. Gooden if you please, my lord.” Another smaller curtsey and another—God help him—flash of décolletage.
“Ahhh….” he managed. “Mrs…” He felt as if he had been soundly punched in the stomach.
“However, I am a widow. My dear husband passed away more than two years ago.” This said under long, upswept lashes.
“Ahhh…” he said again. And hope bloomed.
Over the next few days he endeavored to “accidentally” meet up with Mrs. Gooden as often as humanly possible. She would come out and, bless her, pretend surprise. Then they would walk. She chattered away, remarking on the weather, a current fashion, the week’s sermon—he made a note to attend church—and he would measure his steps to fit her tiny ones, head bowed in rapt attention.
He rarely commented, but she did not seem to mind his brevity. Indeed she did not seem to look to him for any meaningful response but rambled on, seemingly happy to listen to her own lilting voice.
It was a very good thing she took no notice of his silence, because Rhys would have been hard-pressed to repeat any of her conversation. His mind so fully occupied with her smell, her tiny white hands, her lashes against her cheek, her breasts pushing against the muslin of her day gown, her slippers peeping out from beneath that gown, her legs swishing inside that gown, thighs brushing…There was not an ounce of room for actual comprehension of language. Not when her lips were so interesting in themselves. God, her lips…He stumbled. She caught his arm to steady him.
“Your p-p-ardon, madam.”
“Oh! Must I be a madam? It sounds as if I am ancient.” She stopped, lashes dipping. “You must call me Dee, at least when we are out of company.”
Rhys froze.
“Please?” She lifted her chin, as if she were waiting for something.
By God, he must make a move! He plunged toward her waiting lips and found utter sweetness—ripe, cool berries mixed with hot honeyed—tongue?
She made a small sound—or maybe it was him? He pulled away suddenly, unsure, trying to quell his ardor.
Then a miracle. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders.
She wanted him? He tentatively put his arms about her. She was so small and soft, like a bird. He did not want to crush her. She pulled him closer, her lips moving beneath his, soft and coaxing. He began to follow her lead, and where she led was pure heaven.
How they parted, how he got back on his horse—which had become just a horse now and not his beloved Anthos—how he got home, he did not know. He even forgot to call in on Mac. Hours later, the old man had to seek him out.
That had been four days ago, and as he lay on the rocky beach, his forehead pressing against the sand, all he could think of was that excruciatingly potent kiss. And when could it possibly be repeated. She had been away for three days now. Where she had gone he did not know. When she would be back was the question pulsing in his mind with each incoming wave.
He had finally got an answer to his prayers in the form of a note—
Meet me at the boat house at five.
Dee
The paper had curled as a red ridge of ember ate at those nine words. But as he had flung the charred bits into the wind thirteen years ago, he had known they would ever be burned on his heart.
He made himself sit straight and look down at this newest letter.
It was a love letter. Dated January 24 but had no year and no salutation beyond, “My Dearest Lord and Master” and signed simply, “Your Dove, Dee.” Clearly this new friend of Daria’s had had a very intimate connection with Dee Gooden. How else would he have a letter this personal? But was this just an old love? Did he have any idea of where she might be now?
Rhys would have to take the chance. He rang for Shields.
“Have my carriage prepared posthaste. I leave for London within the hour.”
****
Sweat tricked down Olivia’s back, finding the channel between her shoulder blades. The heavy basket bumped against her thigh, catching at her skirts, as sand filled her half-boots.
Her heart felt nearly as heavy as her boots. The duke had been called away suddenly, and no one knew when he might return.
The picnic was Egg’s idea. Olivia had suggested several lovely spots along the way, but Egg seemed to have a very specific place in mind. Sure enough, when they rounded the next cove, there was Lord Bertram with a fishing pole, not doing much fishing. Exclamations of surprise and delight caught a rare breeze, and Bertram hurried to meet them. Egg ignored Olivia’s withering look and smiled, innocently turning to Lord Bertram.
They settled on a low, flat rock to share their picnic.
“Well, ladies.” Bertram got up to brush a few crumbs from his coat. “I believe after Cook’s Bath buns I am very much in need of a walk. Do I have any takers?”
Olivia was sorely tempted to jump up and declare she would love a walk above all else, but she was not so cruel. Egg was already rising with the help of a beaming Bertram.
Olivia dutifully played her role. “Lady Wiggins, would you mind terribly if I stayed behind? After so much food and wine I find I am more desirous of a nap than a stroll.”
Olivia settled back onto her elbows, sheltered somewhat from the sun by an overhanging rock, and watched the surf. A flash of white caught her gaze farther down the cove. It was a man. She sat up. It was the duke.
He appeared to be shucking off his boots, stockings, coat, and cravat. Then he strode into the sea as if going into battle.
The spray spattered his breeches and the fine batiste of his shirt. Cupping handfuls of water, he doused his face and neck. The water ran down his chest and back in little rivulets causing his shirt to stick to him.
Olivia had seen him dancing, sipping tea, dining—always the most civilized of social situations. Always hemmed in by a room or a carriage. And always fully attired.
He plunged into the water, diving under a huge curling wave that seemed to swallow him. She waited breathlessly to see his dark head and the white of his shirt. Then, there he was, surging out of the water, like Neptune come to life, but instead of cold white marble, he was warm bronze and rippling flesh and sinew. The clear victor against the sea’s endless flexing muscle. He cut across the waves with long pulling strokes.
Now almost directly in front of her, he was too close. She pushed back into the shelter of the rock and willed him not to look her way.
A sea bird cawed high above drawing attention to itself. The duke, emerging from the water, turned and looked up. His Adam’s apple slid up and down his throat, and the corded tendons in his neck stood out as his arm rose to shade his eyes.
Gentlemen were always covered to their chins in fine linen, their valets taking prodigious care and pride in executing the perfect knot or fall. Such a shame to cover that fine, strong column and the bit of chest exposed below.
She had never lain with a man she truly lusted after. Oh, she had flirted and even dabbled in Paris, but when it came to the crux of the matter she always begged off. No man had ever been enough to pull her over that precipice into such intimacy.
Wes had been her only lover—excepting that terrible first time—and though she had learned to love his body and what it did to her, she had not been particularly attracted to it. He had been stocky and hirsute, muscles thick and compacted into his boxy frame and his skin often red with sunburn and covered in freckles. Beauty and the beast, he had called them.
But this man before her was the exact opposite, lithe and rangy, with wide, sculpted shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, and the most delectable posterior. She tilted her head in order to get the best view as she sank her teeth into a smooth ripe plum. Her toes curled in her boots and a gust of wind cooled her cheeks. That same wind caught the brim of her bonnet, its bright yellow ribbons flutte
ring as it flew into the sky before being dashed to ground and then dancing briefly over the sand to snag on a fallen branch.
He turned, startled.
Oh dear. He charged out of the water and right up to her, his breath coming like a bellows, his glorious Adam’s apple working in his throat. She did not know whether to fling herself at him or retreat, when his gaze flicked to her mouth. Only then did she feel the plum juice wet on her lips and running down her chin. Dear God, she had the terrible urge to lick.
“It was not a whale, Eglantine. There is no shame in being short-sighted. It was most certainly a large black boulder.”
The duke jerked toward the sound as if he were a fish on a hook. Shocked herself, she sat up and guiltily swiped at her lips with the back of her hand.
With some effort, the duke pushed himself away, his hands spearing through his hair, as he spun around churning up the sand. He nearly trampled Lord Bertram’s fishing rod. Instead, he seized it, and Olivia was sure he would have broken it to pieces, except Egg and Bertram were upon them.
“Oh, Your—Roydan—you are back.” Egg was trying to act as if a soaking wet, barefoot duke, who seemed to be in the throes of some tortured emotion, was not in the least out of the ordinary. She turned to her companion for help, but Lord Bertram was strangely mute. Egg, ever the savior, turned back and continued, “Well, it is good you are here. You may settle our dispute. Will you please tell this silly man that the North Sea must contain at least one or two whales? I simply will not be budged in this matter.”
The poor man desperately tried to find his footing, looking from his uncle to Egg and then back again. In the end he did not even attempt an answer. Instead he tried to don his coat, but it was simply too tight, or his body too wet. He could not gather the rest of his cast-off items quickly enough. He balled the whole mess up and shoved it under his arm. His valet would no doubt have vapors.
“You must excuse me, Lady Wiggins.” He bobbed his head to her but made no eye contact. “I have just returned. I did not realize—the time. That is—I must leave you now.” He made a curt bow and strode off toward the direction of the house, but on his way, he passed Olivia’s bonnet. He stopped, squared his shoulders, turned back, retrieved the bonnet from the branch, marched back and presented it to her with a formal bow.