Lois Menzel

by Ruled by Passion

  He stopped several feet from her as he said, “You swim well for having practiced only a short time. But your arm position could be better.” Before she even realized what he was doing, he had taken her by the shoulders and backed her into shallower water. Stretching one of her arms in the air he bent it carefully. “The arm should be just so, while your head is here.” He moved her arm in relation to her head. “Try it.”

  Too distracted by his casual directions to object, she did as he asked.

  “Good,” he approved. “Don’t you feel it works better?”

  “Yes, I do. You are right. Thank you.”

  “Try several strokes together. See if you can maintain the style that long.” Again she did as he asked while he swam alongside. She took a breath just as a ripple from him broke against her face. She gulped and sputtered, lost her concentration, and went under. The water was not deep, and her feet soon found the bottom. Even as they did, she was aware of his hands at her waist, steadying her.

  She pushed water and wet strands of hair from her eyes then instinctively reached to hold him away—to let him know she could stand without help. Her open hands encountered the cool, firm muscles of his chest, and she snatched them away as if they had contacted an open flame. She looked up into his face, to tell him he need no longer hold her. What she saw there temporarily froze the words in her throat, for his face held an expression like none she had ever seen before. Even in the dim light, she could see that his eyes were searching hers, as if they, too, were seeking answers.

  With great effort, she managed, “You … you may let me go now, Lord Tenbury.”

  “Must I? I had much rather not.”

  The hands at her waist moved around to the back and pulled her against him. Now her hands had no choice but to come again to his chest. She rolled them into fists, so she would not have to feel …

  One of his hands came to her shoulder and then slid to the side of her neck, the thumb tracing the line of her chin. Slowly, her hands unclenched, until her sensitive fingertips lay against his smooth skin.

  When his thumb traced her lower lip, her eyes moved to watch his mouth. She thought he said her name once—so quietly she could not be certain. As he bent his head, she focused on his lips, then closed her eyes as his mouth met hers. She could never remember clearly afterward whether she had returned his kiss. She could not remember how long the kiss lasted—she only knew that it did not seem long enough. Her hands, at first so tentative, had begun caressing his wonderful skin. They traveled over his shoulders and around his neck, thereby flattening her chest against his with only a wet layer of thin fabric between.

  When the kiss ended, Tenbury held her face for a moment in both hands, certain now that she would not attempt to flee from him. Realizing he had chosen a poor place to make love to a woman, he took Anne’s hand and started to lead her to the bank. “Shall we get out of the water?”

  His words seemed to break the spell she was under. She pulled her hand away, refusing to go with him, feeling as if she had just wakened from sleep. “You go, my lord. I will come out when you are gone.”

  “What is this? I don’t admire coyness, Anne.”

  “Not coyness, sir, but modesty,” she protested, trying to hide the thrill she felt when he used her name.

  “Modesty be damned,” he replied, holding out a hand to her. “Come.”

  She backed off a few steps in the water. “I will not, Lord Tenbury, for I do not wish to.” When he advanced toward her, she added, “And you will not compel me, for you have assured me that coercion is a trait you despise in men.”

  “Very well, madam. You win. I will go back to the Castle to change, and I will await you there.”

  She only nodded, agreeing with what he said he would do. She had no intention of seeing him again tonight. She would return through a servant’s entrance and make her way up a secondary stair to her room. There she was determined to stay until she could adequately digest the happenings of the past hour.

  Safely in her room, Anne stripped out of her wet clothing and took down her hair. She was soon warm and dry in a fresh gown, but she was far from comfortable. She sat in the window seat near an open casement. The scent of the rose gardens below wafted softly on the warm evening air, while the nearly full moon rode high in a clear sky. She realized it was still shining on the stream that ran through the forest, still shining on the pool where she had so recently been. Had she really been there? What took place was so unexpected, she could easily believe it had been a dream. Yet no dream was ever so real, so sensual; no dream would leave her lips tingling and her pulse racing.

  A gentle scratching at her door startled her. When she opened it, she found a footman standing outside. “Lord Tenbury would like you to join him in the green salon, miss.”

  Anne’s hands went instinctively to her hair, hanging damp and loose. “Please convey my apologies to his lordship, and tell him I have retired for the evening.”

  “Very good, miss. Good night, miss.”

  Anne returned to the window and her contemplation of the evening’s events. Six months ago she would have believed that if a man kissed her as Tenbury had, it was the same as a proposal of marriage. She was no longer so naive. Tenbury had kissed many women. He admitted as much when he said he had more experience kissing than Jack. Yet he had never married. Nor had Jack.

  Perhaps Tenbury kissed her for the same reason Jack had—to give her a memory to file away. Yet Tenbury’s kiss was so very different from Jack’s. While she felt amazement, pleasure, and exhilaration with Jack, there was something most unsettling about the experience with Tenbury. In his arms, sharing his kiss, she felt nearly powerless, as if all her strength, all her reason had flowed into him, and she herself had disappeared. Looking back on the experience, she realized she had cooperated in everything he did, followed where he led, never for a moment hesitated, never resisted him.

  Anne yawned as she watched the moon slide behind a cloud. As she crawled into bed and drifted off to sleep, she thought she finally understood what is was to be truly ruled by passion.

  Chapter 12

  Anne awoke the following morning to find a misty drizzle falling outside her windows. The sudden change in weather only served to reinforce her feeling that the fantastic events of the previous evening had never taken place. While her senses insisted she had been kissed by the Earl of Tenbury, her more rational being declared that nothing could have been more unlikely.

  She had difficulty concentrating on her lessons with Belinda and was relieved when noon finally arrived. After luncheon she remained in her room, fearful of going below stairs and encountering the earl. Yet even though she dreaded their next meeting, she tried to imagine what that meeting would be like. Would he smile at her and speak to her tenderly as he had the night before? Or would he treat her as he always had, with friendly reserve? If he regretted his actions, perhaps she would find him cold or aloof. After much consideration, she reached no conclusions. She admitted to herself that her understanding of the amorous overtures of men in general, and Lord Tenbury in particular, was slim to nonexistent.

  Later that afternoon, castigating herself for a coward, Anne made her way to the library. She spent an enjoyable hour with Lady Tenbury until Tom, kept in by the weather, begged her to join him in a game of billiards.

  “You know what a poor player I am, Tom,” she protested.

  “But that is why I like to play with you, Miss Waverly. I cannot beat Uncle Jack or Uncle Nate or Mr. Pearce.”

  When Lady Tenbury chuckled, Anne replied, “You cannot imagine how flattering it is to be sought after because you are the worst at something.”

  “How will you improve if you don’t practice?” Tom asked. “Are you not always asking me that?”

  “Hoist with your own petard, my dear,” Lady Tenbury mumbled as Anne laid her book aside and rose to leave with Thomas. She was still smiling as she followed Tom across the great hall toward the corridor that led to the billiards room.r />
  “A moment of your time, Miss Waverly.”

  Anne paused and turned at the sound of Tenbury’s voice from above; he had just started down the last flight of the staircase.

  “You go ahead, Tom, and set up the game,” she said. “I will be along directly.”

  As the boy walked away, Anne moved to the bottom of the stairs and watched Tenbury descend. He wore a dark blue coat, blue-and-white striped waistcoat and drab buckskins; he held his leather driving gloves in one hand. At the door, Kimble held his lordship’s hat in readiness, while through the leaded windows flanking the doorway, Anne could see the earl’s curricle and team in the drive.

  By the time Tenbury arrived at the bottom of the stairs, Anne’s pulse had quickened, and her palms were damp. She gripped them together painfully as he stopped beside her, then forced herself to look up at him. He was not smiling, yet his manner did not seem diffident.

  Tenbury glanced past her shoulder at the butler and footmen standing nearby before he said, “I am leaving for London in a few moments, Miss Waverly. I was hoping to see you before I departed. This journey is urgent, otherwise I would not choose to leave at this particular time.”

  Did she imagine the slight emphasis he placed on the words “particular time”? Was she also imagining an unusual light in his eyes, something indefinable, seeming to be there one moment and gone the next?

  “When I return, we must discuss at length the topic we touched upon so briefly last night,” he added cryptically.

  Did he think she had been too bold? Had he expected her to repel him? Did he mean to dismiss her from her position because of her improper behavior? These questions were only a few of the many that presented themselves as she answered as casually as possible, “Certainly, my lord. When you return.”

  He regarded her a moment longer, seemed about to say something more, then appeared to change his mind. He pulled on his gloves and collected his hat from Kimble. When he said good-bye, she echoed a response, then stood in the hall and watched him mount into his curricle and drive away. He had promised they would discuss the incident further. But how many days would pass before that conversation could take place, and to what end would the discussion lead?

  On Sunday morning, Anne, Arelia, and Lady Tenbury drove to the service together, covering the distance to the village church in one of Lord Tenbury’s open carriages.

  Dennis Pearce’s older brother, Basil, had been rector of St. Stephen’s for more than fifteen years. His wife of nearly two decades and his brood of eight children occupied two full pews. Almost of a height with Dennis, the rector was of stockier build and displayed a slight paunch. His hair, once dark, was mostly gray. Though his voice was uncannily similar to Dennis’s, the Reverend Basil Pearce had a mellower approach to language than his younger brother. He spoke quietly, sometimes lapsing into a monotone, an unfortunate habit that served to lull certain of his parishioners into a state of somnolence.

  The Reverend Pearce often spoke on traditional themes, and today was no exception. He based his sermon on the text of Matthew chapter twenty-four, verse forty-one: “Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

  Arelia Saunders’s uneasiness began the moment the text was read. Why was it, she wondered, that the sermon so often seemed to be written specifically for her? Surely there were other sinners in the congregation besides herself. She sat very straight in the pew, schooling her face to polite interest. She knew Dennis was somewhere among the listeners; since he was nowhere in front of her, he had to be behind. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort.

  The too-long sermon dealt primarily with the question of temptation and the power of prayer, but the flesh was mentioned often enough to make more than one parishioner squirm.

  When the service concluded and the congregation spilled out into the gray morning, Arelia said in a quiet aside to Anne. “Such a marvelous way to start the week, don’t you think? It is always so refreshing to hear how miserably we fail, no matter how hard we try.” Then she smiled archly as she added, “Though, granted, some of us don’t try so hard as others.”

  Before Anne could respond, they arrived at the carriage and Arelia spoke again. “If the two of you don’t mind, I think I should like to walk back to the Castle. I feel I need the exercise after sitting so long.”

  When neither Anne nor her ladyship made any objection, Arelia turned toward the path leading past the cemetery and into the woods beyond. It was a walk of nearly three-quarters of a mile.

  Since the day was overcast and the hour still early, there had not been enough warmth to burn off the dew. Arelia’s thin shoes were soon wet through from the damp grass, but she did not mind. She watched as a red squirrel scampered to a low branch, then sat to enjoy one of last season’s acorns, his sharply clawed paws skillfully turning the shell as he nibbled his way inside. The wood was lovely. Wild summer flowers bloomed in great profusion on the woodland floor, while overhead the song thrushes called incessantly through the still morning air. Why, surrounded by such beauty, did she feel so close to tears?

  Arelia walked on rapidly until she heard a voice call from behind, “Mrs. Saunders, please wait.”

  She raised a gloved hand quickly to brush the tears from her eyes as Dennis jogged up behind her. “I thought you drove to church this morning?”

  “We did,” she said, not looking at him as he walked beside her. “I chose to walk home.”

  “Alone?” he seemed surprised.

  “Yes, alone,” she answered, more sharply than she intended. Realizing he had not taken his eyes from her face since he caught her up, she said, “You are staring, Mr. Pearce.”

  “If I am, it is because I can see that something is troubling you,” he replied. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Please, spare me the sympathetic vicar’s manner,” she said bitterly. “I have had enough pious posturing this morning to last me a month. Tell me, did you suggest the text for your brother’s sermon, or was it lucky coincidence?”

  “Do you truly believe I would do that?”

  “It would not surprise me,” she said, “particularly after what you witnessed in the rose garden the other night.”

  There was a pause before he replied quietly, “I was afraid that might have distressed you. You have been rather … distant lately.” When she did not answer after several moments, he said, “In that text our Lord has gone to the Garden of Gethsemane. He has asked the disciples to watch and pray with Him, but they have fallen asleep. He is not speaking specifically about temptations of the flesh.”

  “Does the context matter so much?” she returned. “The verse still speaks of temptation and the sins of the flesh. And if that one does not suit, I am certain you could quote me a dozen others that deal directly with the subject.”

  Reaching out he took her arm to stop her and turn her to face him. “You sound as if you are angry with me. Why?”

  “Angry? Yes, I suppose I am angry. What were you doing in the garden at that hour of the night?” she demanded.

  “I could not sleep; I was on my way down to the kitchens to warm some milk. It is much shorter to go through the garden.”

  She half laughed in response. “Warm milk! Most men would pour themselves a large brandy. But you are not like most men, are you, Mr. Pearce?”

  “I hope not,” he answered.

  When she could no longer sustain his regard, she began walking again.

  “I don’t know why you should care so much that I saw you together,” he continued. “It is not my place to judge your behavior, and I have not done so. If you love Lord Wilmington and intend to marry him—”

  “I do not love Lord Wilmington, and I do not intend to marry him,” she interrupted.

  This surprised him more than anything she had said so far, for he had been assuming that her forthcoming marriage was a fait accompli.

  Without pausing to think, he asked, “Then why were y
ou …?”

  “I simply yielded to temptation. It was as your brother said in the sermon, a weakness of the flesh.”

  When he did not reply, she said, “I see I have finally succeeded in rendering you speechless. Would it help my case any if I were to tell you that I would have regretted my actions even if you had not seen us? I know it is wrong to raise false hopes in Wilmington.”

  “Regret and repentance are necessary for forgiveness,” he said, then added unexpectedly, “which I need as much as you.”

  “You need forgiveness? For what?”

  “That night you believe I was … what? … dismayed? disapproving? disappointed? Later, perhaps, I was. But my first feeling, my first emotion was none of those. The first thing I felt when I saw you together … was jealousy.”

  It was now her turn to stop walking and stare at him.

  “It did not last long,” he continued. “I pushed the feeling quickly to its proper place. But it was there. Very strong and frightfully real. So you see, the sermon spoke as much to me as it did to you. None of us is safe from the desires of the flesh. Sin surrounds us every day; we must always be on guard against it.”

  Carefully hiding the hope his little confession raised in her, Arelia asked Mr. Pearce if she might have the support of his arm over a particularly rough portion of the path. He complied and she linked her arm through his, resting her fingers lightly along his strong forearm.

  “It seems we both harbored some misunderstanding about that night, sir. I once thought we could be friends. Perhaps it is still possible.”

  He agreed it was possible, and they lapsed into a companionable silence as they walked along, both occupied with their own thoughts, sifting through the conversation they had just shared, drawing inferences from it.