Oh, to be able to claim the merest jot of such incontestable confidence. Not the ballocks part, of course. Just the boldness.
Years of maternal abuse had turned Shona into a timorous mouse of a thing, and she hated it. Loathed being a dowdy, bashful, gaffe-prone wallflower. Just once, she’d like to hold her head high, poised and self-assured.
Once, dare something a trifle wicked or wanton.
Or both.
Her nape hairs prickled a warning, and she darted an uneasy peek over her shoulder.
No one approached the greenhouse.
Must she be so jumpy, for pity’s sake?
Her errant focus glided back to the lake. If only she possessed the nerve to test the inviting water. But such rash action would bring censure on those she cared for.
If she had an ounce of steel in her, she’d use this house party to her advantage. Perhaps even get herself kissed for the first time. Oooh. At the masque ball. Or better yet, set her cap, her handkerchief—by heavens, her parasol and gloves too—for a gentleman she found striking.
And kind.
He must be kind. And patient. And not given to raising his voice or poking fun at her weight or figure.
She’d had a lifetime of being lectured and screeched at, and too many biscuits, sweet meats, and pastries as a child had developed into excess curves she couldn’t seem to rid herself of no matter how many reducing diets she tried, food choices she restricted, or lengthy daily walks she took.
Even the multiple occasions when Mother had locked her in her room for days with scarcely anything to eat hadn’t willowed her form.
Shona’s mouth twitched on one side.
Likely due to her figuring out how to pick the lock and helping herself to whatever she pleased from the kitchen. Much to Cook and Mama’s consternation. Neither could fathom where the food disappeared to, but never knowing when Mama would choose to deprive her of meals again, Shona always wrapped a supply to stash in her chamber.
Her dearest friend, Katrina, the Duchess of Pendergast, had tried to convince Shona that she wasn’t prone to plumpness.
Pooh. What benevolent drivel.
The looking glass Shona peered into every day didn’t lie. Her bosoms were … well … big. And her hips flared out, generous and full, from her waist.
She formed a small pout with her mouth.
Och. To have slender, narrow hips and thighs. What a lovely thing that would be.
True, no flabby flesh jiggled about beneath her chemise, but at soirée after rout after assembly—when she’d braved lifting her gaze from her hands neatly clasped in her lap—she’d witnessed gentlemen flocking to the lithe, svelte misses. Or the full-bosomed ones with willowy hips, while chuffy, unexceptional lasses such as herself were seldom spared a second glance.
“I’m positive I saw our Lady Atterberry slip out the terrace doors, Clarence, dear.”
Velma Olson.
A familiar grating voice penetrated Shona’s turbulent musings.
Hangnails and hoary toads.
From behind a potted palm, which did little to conceal her, Shona peeked through the other door. A frustrated groan escaped her pursed mouth.
Confound it. She’d been discovered.
Beneath a purple-fringed parasol, Clarence Olson and his domineering mother tramped toward the conservatory, red-faced and perspiring like lathered racehorses.
“And when she did, I purposed to find you at once,” Mrs. Olson said. “It’s providence, surely. She’ll welcome your addresses, darling. How could she not? You’re third in line to a viscountcy.” Pomposity dripped from each affected word. “Trust me. Mothers know these things.”
What colossal windbaggery.
Shona wouldn’t have had Clarence Olson if the peacocks wandering the estate started singing opera. In Gaelic.
Jaw set, she folded her fan and reached into the hothouse to drop it onto the bench with her other belongings. If the Olsons thought she was ripe for the plucking, they’d find themselves gravely mistaken.
“I believe I saw movement near the greenhouse.” Slightly breathless, Mrs. Olson rattled on, “Surely a bashful Scots drab such as she realizes the honor you bestow on her with your attention.”
“Hardly a drab, Mother,” Mr. Olson denied with an impatient shake of his sandy blond-haired head. “She’s really most comely, and I find her accent quite charming.”
Shona barely stifled a derisive snort.
Comely? Charming?
Been nipping his flask of brandy a bit early today, had he?
She wasn’t in the mood for those two.
Like dogs trailing a fox, they’d pursued her relentlessly since Lady Wimpleton had introduced them.
Shona was no fool.
Neither Mrs. Olson nor her bird-witted fop of a son had given her a second look until someone addressed her as Lady Atterberry. Then at once, the rapacious pair had openly questioned several guests about her status. Suddenly, they’d became as attentive as miserly bankers counting their hoarded bank notes.
Fisting her skirts, Shona lifted them scandalously high, exposing the entirety of her calves, and tore from the greenhouse as if hell’s hounds nipped at her satin-covered heels. She’d have preferred the devil’s own dogs to the Olsons’ importuning presences.
The oak grove wasn’t so very far away, and the chance of someone else seeing her pelting, neck or nothing, was slight. She hoped.
“Lady Atterberry. Wait.”
Mrs. Olson’s shrill voice raked down Shona’s spine, like a freshly-honed gardening claw.
I think not.
Breathless from her charge across the grass, her lovely slippers hopelessly stained, Shona plowed into the oaks’ delicious shade. Glorious coolness engulfed her. Despite her frantic flight, she sighed in appreciation. This was where she ought to have hidden away. Next time—
“Lady Atterberry?” Mr. Olson’s reedy voice rang far too near. “Where’d the gel git to?”
“She’s in the trees, of course,” Mrs. Olson said, peevishness sharpening her voice.
Tossing a frantic glance over her shoulder—the dratted pair were still hell-bent on finding her—Shona stumbled over a massive root snaking across the ground.
A wee squeal escaped her. Arms flailing, she fought to regain her balance. From the corner of her eye, she saw the man in brown sprinting toward her, his hands outstretched.
The instant before she plummeted headfirst into the lake, her gaze met his piercing, sky-blue eye.
Chapter Two
Ankles crossed, Morgan lounged against a thick trunk. An oak cluster had grown together, creating a natural alcove, even forming a crude seat.
Still seething from another ugly encounter with Father, which had left him feeling betrayed as well as enraged, he randomly skipped rocks across the lake’s gleaming surface. Sending the flat stones flying released a modicum of the tension throttling through his veins.
He heard the woman’s boisterous entry into this, his coveted sanctuary, before he saw her. Her tiny yelp alerted him, and he wheeled toward her.
Too late.
Her rosebud mouth parted into a startled ‘O’. Her wide, doe-like eyes, the color of warm caramel and filled with shock, embarrassment, and horror, latched onto his.
He lengthened his stride, lurching for her with outstretched hands.
An instant later, her very shapely calves disappeared over a steep drop-off.
Without hesitation, he shucked his coat and tore off his neckcloth. No time to remove his boots, dammit. And they were new too. A pity gift from his sister Viola.
Those unfamiliar with the terrain didn’t realize that, though the ground appeared level, a steep precipice dropped straight into the lake.
Poised on the overhang, he searched the depths for the woman.
There.
A beleaguered head bobbed to the surface. Mouth open, she panted, scraggly locks of sable hair covering most of her face.
Did she know how to swim?
; Even if she did, she’d struggle to make it to shore with her skirts wrapped about her legs
In one swift, smooth movement, Morgan dove into the water. If he hadn’t been holding his breath, he would’ve gasped. To his overheated body, the freezing cold came as a shock and a blessing.
Surfacing, he treaded water, trying to locate her.
As yet unaware of his presence, she bobbed several yards away, barely keeping her head above the water. Her expression determined, her movements labored, she started for shore.
Devil it.
As Morgan suspected, her skirts hampered her, weighing her down like great sodden sails.
What if he hadn’t been here?
She would’ve drowned for certain. Still might.
The black thought burrowed deep in his chest, causing a queer tightness where it anchored.
After dragging in a lungful of air, Morgan hollered. “Turn onto your back and float until I get there.”
Eyes round with shock, she jerked her dark head his way.
Profound relief flooded her pretty features. Obediently, she rotated onto her back, her breasts—the bodice stuck to the full orbs like a second skin—jutted above the water line, the ends pebbled from cold.
He swept a fleeting, appreciative gaze over the mounds.
Voluptuous figures had always attracted him.
Tend to the task at hand, Le Draco. The gel needn’t drown while you ogle her marvelous charms.
With swift, strong strokes, he swam to her. He’d regained most of his strength after the explosion–something that had seemed impossible in the early days of his convalescence. Other than several hideous scars, reduced hearing in his left ear, and the loss of an eye, he was restored.
Physically.
His highly-coveted position in the 1st Royal Regiment of Dragoons, on the other hand…
Fortune hadn’t smiled on him in that regard.
While he’d been unconscious and no one had known whether he’d live or die, his sire had taken it upon himself to retire Morgan’s commission.
Now at eight-and-twenty, he had nothing to go back to.
Nothing to look forward to.
No purpose. No direction. No rudder to steer his life and guide him.
Unless—until—he found employment. He’d become a societal parasite, dependent on the goodwill and generosity of his friends and sister, for he refused to accept a guinea from his father, Ruben Le Draco.
Damned lucky to have survived.
So Morgan had been told over and over.
And over.
The blast had killed five, maiming and wounding dozens more, but he—
Stow it.
As he approached, the girl turned her head. The gratitude in her expression transformed to incredulity when she spied his eyepatch and the vicious scar’s jagged path to his mouth, pulling one corner up at a grotesque angle.
After a year, he ought to have been accustomed to the stunned reactions. Yet, he still cringed inwardly when people—women, especially—flinched and gasped or hastily averted their gazes.
And when children’s faces crumpled in terror—
Enough.
But this profoundly unique creature didn’t look away. Instead, her attention shifted to his remaining eye, and such sympathy blossomed on her porcelain face that his thrumming heart battered against its bruised walls.
Struggling to stay afloat, she managed a timorous smile, full of kindness and empathy.
In that instant, through some sort of preternatural instinct, Morgan knew she’d suffered too. Here she was, her pulse raging at the base of her delicate throat, in very real danger of drowning, and instead of turning away in disgust or revulsion, she’d shown him compassion.
Where the hell would she go, man? It’s not like she has any choice at present.
“Don’t be alarmed, but in order to help you ashore, I must put my arm around your middle.”
Teeth chattering, a bluish tint around the edges of her lips, she gave a shaky nod.
From behind, Morgan encircled her torso, and she stifled a gasp. The plump pillows of her bosoms lay heavily on his forearm. He couldn’t help but admire their fullness. Another time, he might have more completely appreciated the tantalizing display.
“Lay your head against my shoulder,” he gently ordered.
Crimping her mouth into a prim line, she nodded again then dutifully rested her soggy head on his shoulder. Her quaking vibrated his chest.
Fear as much as cold, he’d be bound.
For reasons he couldn’t begin to gauge, reassuring her was vital. He spoke softly into her ear. “It’s all right. I have you now. I promise, you’ll be in your chamber enjoying a hot bath within the half hour.”
A shuddery sigh escaped through her parted lips, and she relaxed against him.
Probably oughtn’t to have mentioned a bath, for now he couldn’t tear his focus from her breasts and stop envisaging bathwater, liberally dosed with scented oil, lapping the rounded mounds. Teasing the rosy tips into hard nubs.
He drew in a long breath, as much from physical exertion as to enjoy her heady scent.
She smelled sweet and delicate. Orange blossoms, but also something musky and a mite earthier.
“Should I kick? I think I can if I pull my gown up.” Her voice was low and languid around the edges, as if she struggled to speak.
Did he detect the faintest trace of a Scottish brogue?
“If you’re able to, yes. That would help.”
Enormously.
This was no skinny miss, all sharp angles and bony contours. Her shapely form deserved further consideration and admiration. But on dry land, when such pleasant contemplation didn’t put them at risk of ending up on the lake bottom.
And with his waterlogged boots, getting them to shore was proving a considerable task.
“I’ve certainly given the guests something to prattle about,” she quipped, raising her gaze, warm and sweet as dark honey, to study him above her forehead.
In a bungling, unpolished sort of way, her attempt at levity was heartwarming.
“Indeed.”
He winked, and her pansy eyes rounded, delicate color flaring across her cheekbones.
They couldn’t go ashore where she’d tumbled into the lake, so he guided them to another area of the beach.
Olson and his annoying, always-looking-down-her-superior-than-thou-nose mother stood gawking nearby, their unhinged jaws drooping to their knobby knees. Denton Olson, however, was notably absent.
No surprise there.
Likely the elder Olson had eschewed the house party and his wife’s and son’s titillating company. Perfect opportunity for him to spend a week in the cozy cottage he’d set his current mistress up in.
A few minutes later—probably no more than three or four, but to Morgan’s burning lungs and fatigued muscles, it felt like hours—he hauled the young woman into shallow water.
Breathing raggedly, he managed to prop her up, and after scrambling to his feet, offered her his hand.
“Here,” he gasped. “Permit me to help you stand.”
Even bedraggled and soggy, and with her hair plastered to her face, her soft treacle eyes glowed with gratitude, and another rosy blush swept up her cheeks’ gentle slopes.
Who was she?
Not one of the usual country house party set, to be sure.
Neither Olson made an effort to assist them. Probably afraid of getting their clothes wet or muddy.
However, Clarence Olson did concede to greet Morgan with a grudging, somewhat curt nod. “Dragon.”
Morgan clenched his jaw, his nails cutting into his palms.
Steady on.
He sucked in a silent, calming breath, forcing himself to relax and smile casually, as if unaffected by the deliberate slur. “Le Draco will do, Olson.”
Leave it to that sod to call Morgan by the nickname his regiment had bestowed upon him after the Battle of Waterloo. Few dared voice it to his face, and he’d bet his rui
ned boots the knave had done so to blacken his character to the woman shivering before them.
“Olson, I tossed my coat aside over there.” Morgan pointed in the general vicinity of where he’d heaved the garment. “Fetch it. Please. She’s freezing.”
Not for long. In this scorching heat, her gown would dry in minutes.
For an instant, Morgan thought he’d refuse, but after his mother touched his arm and murmured something, Olson gave a terse nod and trudged off in the direction Morgan had indicated.
Hugging herself, her chin tucked to her chest, the woman sloshed to shore. Her gown clung just as tenaciously to her backside, giving Morgan a glimpse of wondrously plump buttocks.
A heady wave of lust engulfed him, and he balled his hands against the urge to graze his palm over the supple mounds.
Since the accident, he hadn’t enjoyed feminine delights. No women besides trollops, and deuced few of them, welcomed a disfigured, half-blind man into their beds. And even had he ever been inclined to dally with trulls, he hadn’t the coin to spare.
Olson approaching with Morgan’s coat prevented him from making a complete arse of himself. He wrenched his befuddled gaze away from her delectable behind and swiped his hair off his forehead, shoving the longer-than-fashionable strands behind his ears.
A mocking grin twitched his mouth.
He really ought to get his hair cut. But his long locks irritated Father so much, Morgan had refused to let scissors near his head since learning his sire had overstepped the bounds and taken it upon himself to make the life-changing decision to terminate Morgan’s military career.
His refusal to enter the family business riled Ruben Le Draco more than Morgan’s overly long hair. Every time Morgan saw Father, his sire toddled down the same contentious, verbally plowed-to-bedrock path.
“As a dutiful son, Morgan, you’re obligated to oversee the sugar plantations and refineries.”
Why? So his avaricious father might grow wealthier at the expense of the wretched, abused slaves sweating their lives away in the tropics?
No, by God. Morgan wasn’t having any of it. Ever. He might not have much left in the way of pride or dignity, but his integrity and honor remained intact.
He’d told Ruben as much. Again. Not more than a half hour ago. Nothing this side of heaven or hell would ever compel him to profit off the suffering of others.
The Wallflower's Wicked Wager (A Waltz with a Rogue Novella Book 5) Page 2