by Lisa Kleypas
Nick watched her intently as he tried to sort through the anarchy of his thoughts. His usual appetite had vanished after their walk this morning. He had not eaten breakfast…had not done anything, really, except to wander around the estate in a sort of daze that appalled him. He knew himself to be a callous man, one with no honor, and no means of quelling his own brutish instincts. So much of his life had been occupied with basic survival that he had never been free to follow higher pursuits. He had little acquaintance with literature or history, and his mathematical abilities were limited to matters of money and betting odds. Philosophy, to him, was a handful of cynical principles learned through experience with the worst of humanity. By now, nothing could surprise or intimidate him. He didn’t fear loss, pain, or even death.
But with a few words and one awkward, innocent kiss, Charlotte Howard had devastated him.
It was clear that Charlotte had changed from the girl her parents, friends, and Radnor himself had known. She had become accustomed to living in the moment, with no thought given to the future. The knowledge that she was being hunted, that her days of precious freedom were limited, should have made her bitter and disillusioned. And yet she still threw pins into wishing wells. A wish. The flicker of hope that implied…it had struck at his soul, when he had believed he had no soul left.
He could not give her to Radnor.
He had to take her for himself.
His hand closed around the painted wood casement, gripping hard to assure his balance. Otherwise, he would have staggered from the violent surprise of his discovery.
“Sydney.”
The sound of Lord Westcliff’s voice startled him. Nick was not pleased to realize that he had been so absorbed in watching Charlotte that his customary alertness had vanished. Keeping his face blank, he turned toward the earl.
Westcliff’s features seemed even more harshly cut and uncompromising than usual. His dark eyes contained a hard, cold gleam. “I see that you’ve taken notice of my mother’s companion,” he remarked softly. “An attractive girl, not to mention vulnerable. In the past, I have sometimes found it necessary to discourage a guest’s interest in Miss Miller, as I would never allow any of my servants to be taken advantage of.”
Nick returned Westcliff’s steady regard, aware that he was being warned away from Charlotte. “Am I poaching on your preserve, my lord?”
The earl’s eyes narrowed at the insolent question. “I have advanced my hospitality to you with very few conditions, Sydney. However, one of them is that you leave Miss Miller alone. That is not open for negotiation.”
“I see.” Suspicion ignited inside him. Had Charlotte confided in her employer? He had not thought that she would trust anyone, even a man as honorable as Westcliff. However, if she had taken that chance, then the earl would undoubtedly offer strong opposition to her being removed from Stony Cross Park. It was also possible that Charlotte had earned his protection by sleeping with him.
The thought of Charlotte naked in another man’s arms brought an acid taste to Nick’s mouth, and he was suddenly filled with bloodlust. It must be jealousy, he thought incredulously. Christ.
“I’ll leave the choice to Miss Miller,” Nick said flatly. “If she desires my presence—or absence—I will abide by her preference. Not yours.”
Nick saw from the warning gleam in Westcliff’s eyes that the earl did not trust him.
The man had good instincts.
Chapter Four
The English celebration of May Day varied from village to village. It had been derived from an ancient Roman festival honoring the goddess of springtime, and over time each region had added its own customs in addition to the standard Maypole dance and a-maying songs. Nick had vague childhood memories of the May celebrations in Worcestershire, especially the man dressed as “Jack-in-the Green,” who cavorted through the village completely covered in fresh greenery. As a small child, Nick had been terrified by the sight of the plant-festooned man and had hidden behind his older sister Sophia’s skirts until he had gone away.
It had been a long time since Nick had seen a May Day celebration of any kind. Now, from his adult perspective, the sexual connotations of the holiday were more than obvious…villagers dancing with the phallic staffs, the May King and Queen going from door to door and sprinkling “wild water” on the household inhabitants…the streets adorned with hoop-shaped garlands featuring pairs of marigold balls hanging in the centers.
Nick stood on a hill near the manor house with a crowd of other guests, watching the riotous dancing in the center of the village. Hundreds of lamps and blazing torches lit the streets with a golden glow. A cacophony of laughter, music, and singing filled the air as women took their turns at the towering Maypole. Blasts from hunting horns frequently punctuated the din. Young men danced with ropes woven of tail hair from cattle, which would later be dragged through the night dew to ensure a good milk supply for the next year.
“I expect good hunting tonight,” came a masculine voice from nearby. The speaker was Viscount Stepney, a brawny young man with a well-known penchant for skirt-chasing. His companions, the lords Woodsome and Kendal, broke into lusty laughter. Seeing Nick’s questioning gaze, Stepney explained with a chortle. “The village girls will go a-maying until morning. Catch one of them in the woods, and she’ll let you do anything you want. Even the married ones do it—they’re allowed to remove their wedding rings for this one night.”
“And their husbands don’t object?” Nick asked.
That question made the lords laugh in unison. “Why no,” Stepney explained, “they are too busy chasing fresh young tails themselves to give a damn about what their wives are doing. A pleasant holiday, is it not?”
Nick smiled slightly, making no reply. Clearly Stepney and his companions considered it great sport to spend ten minutes coupling with peasant girls in the woods. “A poke and a wiggle,” as Gemma Bradshaw had dryly described the lovemaking style of most of the men who frequented her establishment. They had no conception of real sexuality, no requirement of a woman save that she spread her legs. Obviously a quick mating between strangers afforded a certain kind of release. But that was too simple, and too easy, to satisfy Nick. Thanks to Gemma’s tutoring, he had developed a complex palate.
The image of Charlotte’s face, her dark eyes and pointed chin and sweet mouth, hovered at the back of his mind. Let Stepney and his friends go in search of a quick tail-tickle. Nick had far more interesting prospects.
“Come, Sydney,” the viscount urged. “The village girls will become available immediately after the betrothed of May is chosen.” Seeing Nick’s unfamiliarity with the phrase, he explained, “A lad of marriageable age lies on the green and pretends to sleep. The girls who are willing to marry him race to be the first to awaken him. The first one to kiss him will be able to claim him as her betrothed.” He smiled lecherously and rubbed his hands. “And the other girls—all in need of consolation—scatter into the forest, waiting to be caught by enterprising fellows such as myself. You should have seen the one I captured last year—black hair and red lips—ah, what a fine little mount she was. Come, Sydney—if you’re fleet-footed, you’ll catch one for yourself.”
Nick was about to refuse when his gaze was caught by a new cluster of girls grasping the Maypole ribbons. One of them seized his full attention. Like the others, she wore a white peasant dress, her hair covered by a red cloth. At this distance her features were difficult to discern, but Nick recognized her at once. A rueful smile curved his lips as he recalled Charlotte’s saying that she intended to stay in her room with a book that night. No doubt the Westcliffs would disapprove of her attending the village festival, and so she had chosen to go in disguise. Fascination and desire swirled inside him as his gaze tracked Charlotte’s slim figure. She wound in and out of the Maypole circle, her hands flung exuberantly high over her head.
“I believe I will join you,” Nick murmured, accompanying the eager rakes down the hill.
Laughing reckles
sly, Lottie joined the mass of maidens who waited in tense readiness to race to the village green. From what she had been able to deduce, the betrothed of May was an exceptional catch this year—the butcher’s son, a handsome blond lad with blue eyes and a fine physique, and a guarantee of inheriting a profitable family business. Of course Lottie had no intention of trying to reach him. However, it was fun to join in the game, and she was entertained by the excitement of the girls around her.
The signal was given, and Lottie was carried along with the village girls in a frantic rush. The wildness and noise was such a contrast to her quiet existence at Stony Cross Park that she felt a jolt of exhilaration. She had spent so many years learning proper comportment at Maidstone’s, and struggling to remain inconspicuous as a companion to Lady Westcliff, that she couldn’t remember the last time she had raised her voice. Caught up in the moment, she howled with laughter and screamed as loudly as the determined brides-to-be around her as the group swarmed over the green. From somewhere ahead, a jubilant cry rang over the crowd. The victor, a robust red-haired girl, clambered onto her new fiancé’s broad shoulders, exultantly waving a bouquet of wildflowers. “I did it!” she crowed. “I got ‘im, ‘e’s mine!”
Cheering, the villagers surrounded the newly betrothed couple, while disappointed maidens scattered and ran toward the forest. A host of eager men followed, ready to begin the night’s a-maying.
Smiling, Lottie followed at a relaxed pace, having no wish to be the focus of some overexcited lad’s amorous attention. In a few minutes, the revelers would pair off, and she would sneak back to Stony Cross Park. Stopping at the edge of the forest, she leaned against a heavy-crowned sycamore and sighed in satisfaction. Her knees were pleasantly weak from dancing and wine. This was the first year she had actually taken part in May Day, rather than simply watched, and it had been even more enjoyable than she had expected. A tune played insistently in her head, and she sang to herself in a whisper, her eyes closed as she rested back against the smooth, mottled bark.
Go no more a-rushing, maids in May,
go no more a-rushing, maids, I pray,
go no more a-rushing, or you’ll fall a-blushing…
Although all was still and quiet around her, some instinct warned she was no longer alone. Pausing, Lottie lifted her lashes and recoiled as she saw a dark shape right beside her. “Good Lord!” She stumbled backward, and a pair of hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her.
Sputtering in surprise, Lottie flailed at her captor in a bid for freedom.
“Easy,” came a masculine voice, rich with laughter. “Easy. It’s me.”
She gasped and went still, staring up at his dark face. “Lord S-Sydney?”
“Yes.”
“You nearly frightened me to death!”
“Sorry.” He grinned, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness. “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
Lottie laughed and pushed at him, mortified to be caught singing to herself like some half-wit. “How did you find me?”
“It seems to be a talent of mine.” Sydney released her and leaned one shoulder against the sycamore, his careless smile at variance with his alert gaze.
Lottie felt for her kerchief, which had been dislodged in the flurry of activity. “I covered my hair—I can’t think how you recognized me.”
“I know the way you move.”
She did not reply, experiencing a mixture of pleasure and uncertainty. There was a compliment implicit in the statement. But he was a stranger…he had not known her long enough, nor well enough, to distinguish something so intrinsic and subtle.
“Did you enjoy the May festivities, my lord?” she asked as she tied the kerchief back into place.
“I enjoyed watching you.”
Her eyes narrowed in pretend-menace. “Do you intend to tell anyone that you saw me here?”
Lord Sydney leaned closer, as if to impart some highly confidential news. “Not if my life depended on it.”
Smiling, Lottie leaned her shoulder against the tree trunk, mirroring his posture. “Are you going a-maying, like the other young men?”
“That depends.” A flirtatious gleam entered his eyes. “Are you going to run through the forest in hopes of being captured?”
“Decidedly not.”
“Then allow me to escort you back to the house. I shouldn’t like for you to be waylaid by some impassioned village youth.”
“Oh, I would outrun any of them,” Lottie said confidently. “I know these woods quite well, and I am small enough to dart easily among the trees. No one could catch me.”
“I could.”
“A man as large as you? I think not. In these woods, with all the underbrush, you would be as noisy as a rampaging elephant.”
His body tensed subtly, his appreciation of the impudent challenge almost palpable. “You might be surprised—” he began, and paused as he was distracted by a feminine squeal from somewhere to the left of them, as a village girl was “caught” by a randy young man. A moment of silence, and then a loud moan of pleasure filtered through the trees.
When Sydney turned back to Lottie, she was gone.
Laughing inwardly, she slipped through the woods like a wraith, raising her skirts to her knees to keep from being snagged by branches. She maneuvered easily through the maze of trunks and flexible saplings, until finally all was quiet and there was no sign of anyone behind her. Pausing for breath, Lottie glanced over her shoulder. No movement, nothing except for the distant sounds of May Day carousing.
Either Lord Sydney had decided not to give chase, or he had lost her in mid-pursuit. A triumphant smile curved her lips—she had proved her point. Turning, she continued toward Stony Cross Park—and shrieked in alarm as she walked right into a hard male body.
She was caught against a deep chest, a pair of powerful arms subduing her easily. It was Lord Sydney, his low laugh tickling her ear. Stunned, she leaned against him, requiring temporary support as she strove to recover her equilibrium.
“How did you get in front of me?” she asked breathlessly.
“Flank speed.” His gentle fingers sought to restore her kerchief, but it slid from her fine, slippery hair, revealing the neat braided coil at her nape. He let the cloth drop to the ground. A smile wove through his voice. “You can’t escape me, you know.”
The teasing words seemed to contain a hint of warning.
Lottie stood in the shelter of his body, absorbing his warmth, his spicy masculine scent. How had she come to be alone in the darkness with him? She did not believe in happenstance. This could only be a result of her own relentless attraction to him…an attraction that seemed to be returned in full measure. As they both fell silent, Lottie became aware of a nearby couple, their entwined figures barely visible through the trees. The muffled sounds of sexual revelry brought a rush of heat to Lottie’s face.
“Take me back to the house, please,” she said.
Lord Sydney released her. Lottie stepped away, almost bumping against the large tree behind her. Following, he pressed her against the wide trunk, using his arms to protect her from the rough bark. Her breath caught sharply. Her hands slid to his upper arms, where the brutal swell of muscle was manifest through his coat. She knew that he was going to kiss her, that he wanted her. And heaven help her, she wanted him too.
He stroked the curve of her cheek with a single fingertip, so carefully, as if she were a wild creature that would bolt at the slightest sign of haste. Her breath quickened as he touched her chin and tilted her head back in an angle of surrender.
His gentle mouth descended to hers, molding, coaxing, until she parted her lips with a gasp of pleasure. The tip of his tongue stroked the edge of her teeth, ventured farther, brushed the inside of her cheek in a burning, delicate exploration. The kiss made her light-headed, and she wrapped her arms around his neck in a desperate bid for balance. He let her have more of his weight, pinning her securely between his body and the unyielding oak at her back. She twisted and pulled at him,
until he made a soothing noise and ran his hands down her back. The slow caress only sharpened her need, making her arch against him in a blind, instinctive search. She felt something against the fabric of her rough-woven skirt…the intimate bulge of his sex.
The rigid length of him matched perfectly in the notch between her thighs. His hardness pressed into her softness, his mouth possessed hers with wicked skill, while his arms surrounded her. Sliding her hands into his hair, she curved her fingers around his scalp, beneath the thick locks that gleamed like silk in the fragmented moonlight. A harsh breath escaped him, and his lips slid along her throat. Even in her innocence, she sensed the wealth of experience in his careful touch, the hunger he kept so tightly shackled.
Her peasant blouse had slipped over one shoulder, revealing the white gleam of her skin. His fingers stole to the ribbon of her gathered neckline and tugged deftly, causing the crumpled linen to slide downward. Gradually his hand eased beneath her chemise. Her cool, soft nipple tightened against the calloused pads of his fingers, the peak turning harder and warmer with each circling stroke.
Lottie pressed her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder. She had to stop him now, before her will was completely demolished. “No. Please stop. I’m sorry.”
His hand slid from her blouse, and he touched her damp lips with his fingers. “Have I frightened you?” he whispered.
Lottie shook her head, somehow resisting the urge to curl into his embrace like a sun-warmed cat. “No…I’ve frightened myself.”
For some reason her admission made him smile. His fingers moved to her throat, tracing the fragile line with a sensitivity that made her breath catch. Tugging the peasant blouse back up to her shoulder, he retied the frayed ribbon that secured the neckline. “Then I’ll stop,” he said. “Come—I’ll take you to the house.”
He stayed close to her as they continued through the forest, occasionally moving to push a branch out of the way, or taking her hand to guide her over a rough place on the path. As familiar as she was with the woods of Stony Cross Park, Lottie had no need of his assistance. But she accepted the help with demur. And she did not protest when he paused again, his lips finding hers easily in the darkness. His mouth was hot and sweet as he kissed her compulsively…swift kisses, languid ones, kisses that ranged from intense need to wicked flirtation. Drugged with pleasure, Lottie let her hands wander to the thick dishevelment of his hair, the iron-hard nape of his neck. When the blistering heat rose to an untenable degree, Lord Sydney groaned softly.
