And then his hands wandered to her limbs, and he reached down and pulled her knee up over his leg, bunching her dress up high, until he was cradled between her thighs in the most shamefully wanton way. She gasped into his ear, “Etienne, no!”
He stilled, and she could feel him swallow with difficulty and breathe deeply. She felt his heart thumping against her breast and it caused the strangest shuddering through her body. She became aware of every inch of him pressed against her, even down to an odd ridge in the front of his breeches that she did not think could possibly be the bandage at his groin.
She pulled away from him and he released her without hesitation. “I have to go,” she cried into the darkness and stumbled up from the couch and from the folly. The moon glinted through the bare branches lighting her path home, and she ran.
He groaned into the night and doubled over on the couch. He ached with desire, but he had no business touching the innocent young miss that way. He should be deeply ashamed of himself.
But instead all he could think about was the way she fit under him, and how her slender leg had arced over his, allowing him a most improper access to a heated warmth that she denied, even as she felt it. She was ashamed of her passionate nature; he knew that now, and thought it a pity. May was not her mother and someone must teach her that passion was not dirty, and that some man would be exceedingly lucky to have such a fine, sweet, compassionate, and yes, passionate woman as his wife. A man would never need more. There was nothing tawdry about her. She was a shining example of budding young womanhood, if only she would recognize it in herself.
But she was not for him. He was not marriageable, even if he solved his current problems. Non, mais non. He was not marriageable, and the little one, she should be married.
He turned over on his stomach and stifled his groan into his pillow. So why did he ache for her? Why did the sweet curve of her derriere haunt his dreams, and the softness of her skin make him long to touch her, to open her blouse and caress her small breasts?
Base lust, he determined. He was a man who had not had a woman for too long, given his own passionate nature. Perhaps it meant his body was recovering apace. That was a thought to cheer one.
But the little one was not for him, no matter how much he wanted her. And he did want her badly; he could not fool himself. Despite his own thoughts on the subject it was not, he decided at length, mere lust. He had never been attracted to innocent young ladies—had stayed away from them purposely, in fact—but May was different.
He liked her. He respected her. And he wanted her, though he could never have her. That right belonged to the man who would claim her in marriage.
He must not think of that man, that stranger who would first touch her nakedness and arouse her to a fevered height, who would first give her the completion of the desire she felt. He must turn his mind to other subjects like . . . the news she had brought him.
He had recognized her description immediately—the tall, thin man with the look of quality. It was Delisle. Etienne thought he had left enough false trails that they would never track him down, but they were so close. Was he endangering May? Should he leave? He must decide before daybreak brought her to his side again.
Chapter Eight
Lady Dodo Delafont squinted down at the letter she was writing to her niece, Emily, then sighed and put on her spectacles. Age! She was getting old, and there was no denying it. She had stopped celebrating birthdays when she was fifty, almost twenty years ago now, but that did not mean that she stopped getting older.
She glanced over at May, who sat in a chair by the window of the small morning parlor they shared. The girl was gazing pensively out over the terrace of Lark House and down the broad swath of green lawn toward a copse of trees in the distance. Every so often her color would change, and her cheeks would blush a becoming rose, and then she would pale, all while she picked at her shawl fringe.
Dodo would have given much to know what was causing this unusual blue mood. She had not known May before the spring of that year, and the girl had been through so much turmoil; who knew what her normal personality was like? But she had felt a kinship with the girl that she thought stemmed from a shared disdain of artifice, a contempt for men, and a vigorous need to keep busy.
And yet lately the girl had demonstrated a secretive side to her character. She had always been private, even reticent, though not especially shy, but Dodo had thought it was just comparable to her own dislike of excessive emotionalism. But suddenly the girl was going out for hours with only a vague indication of where she was going or where she had been, when in the past months she had been completely open about everything. She had outfitted the folly down in the woods with furniture, and Dodo suspected that May spent a good deal of her time there, but doing what? Reading, as she claimed? She could read in the house.
And that was just one of the mysteries at Lark House. The housekeeper complained to the butler that she thought there were some blankets missing from the linen storage, and some of the housemaids had started talking about ghosts that trod the attic in the small hours of the night. Dodo didn’t believe in ghosts, nor did she believe that blankets could disappear into thin air. But this was not her home; if May was purloining blankets, they were, after all, her own. In any other young lady Dodo would have thought that the sudden secrecy meant she had taken a lover, but that was ridiculous. Emily had told her about the girl’s aversion to men.
And May was not a child but a grown woman capable of ordering her own life as she saw fit. She was evidently recovered from the fear that had plagued her after that unfortunate kidnapping incident in the spring. Perhaps it was time to think about going back to Brockwith, where Emily had been ordered to bed late in a very difficult pregnancy. She longed to be with her most beloved niece—niece by marriage only, but more kin to her than anyone on earth—especially in a time when she felt that she could be of help in keeping her amused during long hours spent in bed.
She set the spectacles on her nose and took up her quill again, dipping it into the ink and continuing the letter to Emily. She rather thought May would be fine without her company, and certainly they spent very few hours of the day together now. She would broach with Emily the subject of leaving and see what she said.
• • •
She had not gone to him that morning, unable to face him after throwing herself at him so shamelessly the previous night. What must he be thinking? Likely what she thought of herself, that she must be the worst wanton in England, besides her mother. May stared disconsolately into the distance, to the misty copse of trees that held the folly deep in its woody depths, and Etienne.
She had lain with him, pressing herself to his powerful body as though she wanted to be taken, kissing him with abandon. But the thought of those men after him . . . it had been too much! She cared more for him than she wanted to think, and could not bear the thought of someone taking him away to hang at Tyburn.
But who was this who was after him? Was it for the supposed attempts on the marquess? Or were these men after him for something else?
Stainer came to the door of the morning parlor and bowed low. “Reverend Dougherty to see the ladies,” he said in his sonorous tenor.
The vicar came in smiling and bowed over Dodo’s hand, and then crossed the room to May. He took her hand, bowing and holding it much too long. His eyes did a slow crawl over her body, and she repressed the shiver she always felt in his presence. Had he never learned how a gentleman treated a lady? Etienne, for all his teasing attentions and suggestive remarks, never made her feel like she was naked and vulnerable.
“My lady, you are looking especially fine this morning! Autumn colors become you as no other.”
Her chin shot up, as it always did when she suspected insincere flattery. She compared his obsequious words with the warm admiration in Etienne’s eyes, and it made her realize that her friend had meant what he said the previous night, when he told her she looked pretty. Now she could see the difference be
tween empty flattery and the truth. It made her heart thud to know that Etienne had genuinely found her attractive.
“What brings you here this morning, Mr. Dougherty?” She sat down in her chair and indicated the sofa.
Dodo joined them. “We did not expect to see you until the end of this week, when we have our next meeting about the fall festival.”
“Ah, well, how can I resist visiting two beautiful ladies on any flimsy excuse?”
Dodo and May exchanged a look of perfect understanding. The butter boat had just been upended over both of them and they were thoroughly soaked.
“And what would that flimsy excuse be?” May asked dryly.
Dougherty had the grace to look sheepish. “Actually I am here on business for my sister.” He turned to Dodo. “My sister reminded me that when last we spoke, you said you would find the knitting pattern for a set of baby’s clothing. She was thinking she would make a few items for the ladies booth.”
“Ah, yes!” Dodo said. “We were speaking of my niece’s coming confinement, and the woolens I am making for the baby . . . or babies, for it is possible she will have twins. I told Mrs. Naunce I would copy out the pattern for her, and I have done so. I was going to send a footman down to the vicarage with it if I was not free within the next day or so.”
“Well, you see before you a ‘footman’ sent to do his sister’s bidding!” Mr. Dougherty cried. “Would you be so good as to retrieve the pattern? She is anxious to start as soon as possible, as the festival is only a little more than four weeks away now. She will need some time to produce a few sets.”
Dodo rose and excused herself, and May politely asked the vicar if he cared for tea.
His expression serious, he shook his head. “Actually, my dear Lady May, I have a second purpose for coming today, and I am so glad to have the opportunity to speak to you.”
May raised her eyebrows. “And what could that be, sir?”
“Do you remember yesterday when we spoke about the gentlemen coming out of the tavern?”
Her heart thudding, May nodded, not trusting her voice.
“I have since learned more from them. Last evening I accosted them in the tavern’s tap room, and we fell to talking. This killer for whom they are searching is a Frenchie, and you know what atrocities they are capable of, murdering bas—” He colored. “Pardon my language, my lady. Every Englishman is hardly rational on the subject of those scummy foreigners.”
“Surely the reason we fought this last war was as much in support of the French as against them,” May said, holding her anger in with difficulty. “We were supporting the French royalists, is that not true? After all, more French suffered at the hands of their own people than did English.”
“There is much in what you say, of course, but it just goes to prove what a murdering race they are, to be sure, killing their own kind so easily. But that is far afield from what I must say. This Frenchie tried to kill one of the quality in London, and now he is on the run. These gentlemen are Bow Street runners, and they are pledged to bring the filthy animal down. He could be anywhere! They ask for our aid in finding and bringing him to justice.”
May’s hand went to her neck and her breathing was almost choked off, her fear thickening her throat.
Correctly interpreting her gesture as alarm but misunderstanding the source, Mr. Dougherty became ardent, moving to the edge of his seat and gazing at her with adoration. “My lady, I would lay down my life to protect you! Do not worry, I will do all in my power to find this animal and bring him in.”
May hardly heard him. Bow Street runners? Who would have hired them to find Etienne? How could anyone know Etienne was still alive to hunt, for Emily’s husband was the one who discovered that Etienne went down in the channel crossing. He was presumed drowned, and all searching for him was called off. None of it made any sense.
There was more to the story than just the attempts on his lordship’s life, and Etienne had better be prepared to tell her, because she was tired of his evasions. She could not help him if she only knew part of the story. She was suddenly aware that Mr. Dougherty had clasped her hand in his and was pressing it to his jacket. She gave a tug, but he was not prepared to relinquish his prize before he had his say.
“My lady . . . May, if I might presume to call you that—”
“You may not!” May exclaimed.
Disconcerted, he loosened his hold momentarily and May jerked her hand away from him.
“As I was saying, I would do anything to keep you safe, my lady. And that is why this very minute I have your steward, Mr. Crandall, organizing the stable hands and groundsmen. I intend to lead a search of your land to be sure that you are absolutely—”
“You did what?” May said, leaping to her feet.
“I am organizing a search pa—”
“On whose authority?” May felt an acid mixture of fear and anger roil through her. Fear won, and she almost could not breathe. Etienne! They would find him, hunt him down like a fox and hand him over to . . . to those men, whoever they were. She did not for one minute think they were really Bow Street runners, but she still did not know who they were. Etienne did. She had seen that in his eyes the previous night.
And then anger surged to the forefront again and she pointed one shaking finger at the reverend. “How dare you order my men to do anything? You have no right!” She strode to the corner of the room and jerked the bell pull. Stainer was there instantly. “Tell Mr. Crandall that he is to cease this minute whatever he is doing. I wish to see him immediately in the library, Stainer.”
The butler bowed and exited and May looked up to find that the reverend had crossed the room and stood near her. Calming her erratic breathing with an effort, she said in a calmer voice, “Sir, you have taken too much upon yourself. This is my land, and I am the only one who may order my men to do anything. I am not convinced of this so-called threat.”
“But my lady,” he said, his voice softer and with an oily sound. “You are a young lady alone, and in need of a man’s protection. My dear, you do not know the dangers that lie outside your door as a man does. Let me be the one to guide you, to help you . . .”
“Mr. Dougherty! I am not your ‘dear’! You presume upon our acquaintance. I may be a woman, but I am very capable of taking care of my own land!”
“Ah, of course you are capable, but a lovely young lady like yourself should only be thinking of feminine things, the latest fashions and poetry, music, frivolity. Let a man take care of the business.” His voice was conciliatory, meant to flatter her into acquiescence.
Gazing at him in disbelief, she suddenly understood him. He was hoping to insinuate himself into her good graces. He thought that at her advanced age, a spinster of all of three and twenty, she was on the hunt for a husband. He had the temerity to think that he could make himself indispensable, after which he would no doubt spout some foolishness about having fallen in love with her and ask for her hand!
He must be that basest of men, a fortune hunter! It was not the first time nor would it be the last that she would find herself the object of someone’s attention, only to realize their only motive was her large inheritance, full control of which she would attain on her twenty-fifth birthday, or upon marriage.
If there was anything in the dance between men and women she was good at, it was repulsing the advances of a fortune hunter. “I am not interested in the latest fashions. I despise poetry. I manage my own land. No one takes over from me my duties.” She stared directly into his hazel eyes and saw that he understood her. “And now, sir, if you will excuse me, I have some impertinent orders to countermand, orders that should never have been given.”
She stalked from the room, leaving behind the reverend, who watched her go with eyes gone suddenly very cold. He frowned at her retreating figure, his eyes squinted in suspicion. What was she more angry at, him presuming to order her men around or his idea to search her land? It would bear some investigation, he thought.
Chapter Nine
Mr. Crandall turned out to be adamant on the point of having the Lark House land searched, and she had to threaten to sack him before he gave in to her order. Perhaps she would sack the old codger anyway, she thought, as she changed from her gown into breeches. Hannah, in stiff-lipped disapproval, provided her with the soft cambric shirt she wore when she went out riding, and she pulled it on over her head and tucked it into the waistband of the breeches, feeling a new snugness in them. It had not escaped her attention that she had gained a stone in weight, and it had made her body rounder, softer than it had been. She stared at herself in the cheval glass as Hannah took her gown and rustled away to the wardrobe to put it away.
Yes, her body had a softer silhouette now, less angular, though she was still slender. She ran her hands down over her hips, and then the memory of Etienne’s hands, pulling her body against his, leaped into her mind and she turned away from the mirror in confusion and started out of the room and down the stairs. She must not think of that! It left her feeling hot and strange, as though she didn’t even know her own mind anymore.
Crandall. Yes, Crandall. Her steward had proved stubborn on many fronts. May wanted to take advantage of some of the new theories in agriculture for the home farm and the orchards, but he dismissed them as foolishness. Things had been done the way they were done for fifty years. No reason to change.
She had tried to explain that in reviewing the records, she had noticed that yields had been steadily falling, but he did not even appear to hear her. Her mother had never interfered in his absolute control, and he did not believe any woman could understand agriculture. He would have to go if she wanted to institute any of the myriad changes she had planned for her land.
The Rogue's Folly Page 8
