She only lifted her brows. Understanding. He put up with a great deal from his wife. Even took care of—she never knew what to call the poor wee thing.
“Papa, Papa!” Chris tugged on his father’s hand. Clearly the adult conversation had nothing to do with his jumping lessons. “Let’s go in for breakfast! We don’t want to keep Petunia waiting.”
“Ah—of course,” Alec said with feigned gravity. “We mustn’t keep your pony waiting. May I interest you in breakfast, Miss MacKenzie?” Without waiting for a reply, he took Zelda’s hand and said to his impatient son, “Run ahead and tell Rowan we’re on our way.”
As Chris raced off, the Earl of Dalgliesh turned to Creiggy, his thoughts focused once again on more pleasant things. “I might be willing to send that favorite nephew of yours to Eaton if you’d entertain Chris for an hour or so this afternoon.”
“You’re sending Ian there anyway.”
“Ah—that’s right.” He smiled. “Do you have other nephews perhaps who could use my patronage?”
“Several, all of whom you’re already supporting. But Master Chris will be ready enough to take a walk to the village and see what’s new at the toy shop, if that suits your lordship.” Her voice was without inflection, her expression bland, only a hint of good humor in her eyes as she met the earl’s gaze evidence of her fondness for the man she’d raised from infancy.
“Understanding as ever, Creiggy,” Alec murmured. “Would you like an increase in your wages?”
“If I needed one, I might.”
“A Scot who turns down money. Let me mark the day.”
“It’s a right fine day if you ask me, money or not,” Creiggy crisply said. “Now I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”
“I believe we’re all famished one way or the other,” Alec murmured. And as Zelda blushed, Alec politely extended his elbow to Creiggy, tightened his grip on Zelda’s hand, and escorted the two ladies toward the imposing entrance of his hunting lodge.
CHAPTER 13
CROSSTREES PAVILION HAD been built as a hunting box for the tenth Earl of Dalgliesh in the reign of George III. The Palladian structure had been much enlarged over the years and recently refurbished. The size was impressive, the luxury impressive, the furnishings a combination of old and new—all costly. The earls of Dalgliesh had always been men of wealth, apparently, Zelda decided, taking in the tasteful opulence as they made their way through a number of rooms and corridors to a sunny breakfast room with enough servants on hand for a royal levee.
Dalgliesh seemed not to notice the oversupply of servants or the opulence, nor did his son or Creiggy, for that matter. While Zelda’s family had considerable land and bankable assets and a good deal of money on the exchange, this was clearly the household of a very rich man.
She didn’t wonder that Dalgliesh, his handsome looks aside, had scores of women in pursuit. Not only had he inherited the family fortune, but he’d augmented it with a new fortune in diamonds. And as everyone knew, rich, handsome peers with ready access to diamonds were viewed with favor by the ladies.
However, in contrast to the plutocratic magnificence of Dalgliesh’s establishment, breakfast was en famille and cozy—the staff very much part of the warm intimacy. Gossip and banter were unrestrained, as were the various discussions concerning events in the neighborhood, and it was some time before Alec turned to Zelda. “Forgive me. I haven’t been to Crosstrees for several weeks. Everyone’s filling me in on the local gossip. Are you getting enough to eat?”
“More than enough, thank you.”
“Have you tried Chris’s favorite—caviar and mashed bananas?”
Zelda nodded. “I liked it.”
“Creiggy’s sister is governess to the Tsar’s children. She sends us more caviar than we need. The staff has taken a liking to it as well.” He glanced at his majordomo presiding over the table service. “Haven’t they, Rowan?”
“They have indeed, my lord.” Alec’s elderly butler, conscious of his position, was slightly more constrained than the rest of the staff, but his smile was genuine, his affection for the earl obvious. “Including the mashed bananas, sir.”
“The Tsar’s children like caviar and mashed bananas for breakfast,” Alec explained. “So we’ve become equally cultivated,” he added with a grin. “Although I’m more than content with a good steak and a mug of ale as well.”
Which he’d been consuming with obvious enjoyment, Zelda noted, his appetite for food similar to his other appetites. The thought didn’t bear contemplation, however, with hours yet to go before her sexual desires would be fulfilled.
As if reading her mind, the earl reached out, gently touched her hand, and quietly said, “We’ll have lunch early. That should help.”
Zelda forced a smile. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“Right about what?” Chris piped up from his seat on his father’s other side. “About going? Are we finally going?”
“Hush, Master Chris,” Creiggy admonished. Seated across the table, she’d witnessed the hushed exchange between Alec and Zelda and recognized it hadn’t been about jumping lessons. “Let your father and Miss MacKenzie enjoy their breakfast.”
“But I’m done. I was finished a long, long time ago!”
Alec gave his son a stern look. “Then you may go and wait at the stables if you prefer, but let Miss MacKenzie finish her meal in peace.”
“I’d rather wait here,” the young boy countered with a wide smile, unabashed by his father’s censure.
Dalgliesh must be a lenient parent, Zelda thought and obliged her restless student by catching his eye and saying, “I’ll be ready as soon as I finish my coffee.”
“Yipee!”
The boy’s high-pitched cry startled the maid pouring more ale for Alec, the liquid slopped over the rim of the glass, and a puddle began spreading over the tablecloth.
The earl tossed his napkin on the spill and shot a critical look at his son, then at Creiggy. “We need some better table manners.”
Creiggy shrugged. “He’s just like you were at six.”
“Is that explanation or defense?” Alec sardonically inquired, helping the maid sop up the mess.
“Neither. It’s simple fact. And as far as I can see,” Creiggy said, reaching for a piece of toast, “a little screaming here and there didn’t adversely affect you. As to what may have adversely affected you, I’d say—”
“No you may not,” Alec softly interposed. “I prefer a pleasant breakfast.”
The old nanny said, “Aye,” and began buttering her toast.
Not just a lenient parent but an indulgent employer, Zelda thought, liking Dalgliesh for it. Too many men unnecessarily exerted their authority. Not that she was personally vulnerable, but she’d seen women enough who were. “There, I’m done.” She set down her empty cup. “Everything was delicious.”
Alec waved away the maid. “Don’t let Chris hurry you.”
“No, really, I’ve eaten a great deal. Although I wouldn’t mind a quick washup before we begin the lessons.” She wished to discard the long, trailing skirt of her riding habit, the yards of black serge unwieldy.
Chris groaned; Alec ignored him and nodded at his butler. “Rowan will have someone show you to your room.” He didn’t dare escort her himself. The temptation to lock the bedroom door behind them and stay there until he couldn’t fuck anymore was too great. “We’ll meet you in the stable yard.”
Zelda was shown to a large bedchamber by a nervous maidservant who immediately disappeared. It must be Alec’s room, she decided, surveying the masculine decor. Clearly he was defiant of propriety to so openly house her in his suite. Which meant he either trusted his servants or cared nothing for gossip. Not that his degree of wealth couldn’t buy privacy.
And a good deal more, she reflected, like the legions of women in his life. Although she happened to be the current female of choice—lucky her. And as soon as she changed, she’d be once again in the company of the disarmingly seductive ma
n who thoroughly bewitched her.
As she moved to her trunk set next to an open armoire, she realized why the maid had left so swiftly. Apparently, someone had begun unpacking her trunk but stopped when they’d seen the ravaged clothing within. Only her butchered lynx coat and one tattered evening gown had been hung in the armoire.
Damn vicious bitch, Zelda testily thought. That coat was a favorite of hers, and it wasn’t as though she could have another tailored to size with dispatch. The Russian furs had been rare, one-of-a-kind skins, handpicked by George Campbell at an auction in Novgorod.
Moving to the armoire, she examined the damage to her coat in the hopes it was repairable. On the contrary. Violetta had slashed through the skins with amazing thoroughness. Bloody lunatic.
On the other hand, she reminded herself, no one had been hurt, her clothing could be replaced, and if she required redress, the prospect of unparalleled sexual gratification at the hands of the very accomplished Alec Munro would go far in the way of compensation.
At which point a lascivious tremor fluttered up her vagina and spread outward in skittish little messages of carnal hope. Oh God—how long must she wait? She glanced at the clock on the bedside table.
Two, three hours, four at the most before she’d experience the full hospitality of the sexually gifted earl. Lord, please not four. Especially when the beautiful, hard-bodied Dalgliesh would be more or less continuously within sight and sound and touch.
She restlessly smoothed her skirt, cautioned herself to observe the proprieties in public, and focus instead on the activity at hand—Chris’s jumping lessons. But it took a moment to curb sensibilities that had become addicted to the pleasure Dalgliesh dispensed. And another moment to refocus her thoughts.
That done, restively, but done, she set about discarding her skirt. The black serge slid to the floor and, stepping over the crumpled fabric, she picked it up. Since she’d be wearing it for the interim, she hung it in the armoire.
Now there was a sight—the ugly next to the demolished.
Eventually she’d have to explain her limited wardrobe. But for now—she turned and surveyed her image in the cheval glass. Her deerskin breeches and black jacket were adequate for the stable yard.
Adequate wasn’t the word that came to mind when Alec caught sight of Zelda approaching the riding ring. Stimulating, titillating, provocative as hell more aptly described her attire. His nostrils flared as he tamped down his lust. There were hours yet before they’d have any privacy. Although, no question, luncheon would be set well forward today.
He wrenched his gaze from the short row of buttons securing her form-fitting breeches and, summoning every ounce of willpower he possessed, he greeted her with well-mannered civility. “You make a fetching figure,” he pleasantly said. “I wish I’d had a riding instructor like you.”
“I’d be happy to give you some lessons later,” she murmured. “If you promise to stop looking at me like that.” She lifted her brows. “Please.”
“Of course. Forgive me.”
She marveled at the instant change in him. His gaze, his expression, his very stance—he’d put a small distance between them—bespoke a bland, sexless neutrality. “Such versatility. You should have been on the stage.”
“Sometimes I am—in a manner of speaking.”
“Are you now?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he repeated with a small smile. “Since I can’t do what I wish to do.”
She blushed.
“Papa, Papa, hurry!” Chris was perched on his pony in the center of the riding ring. “Petunia doesn’t like to wait!”
“We’ll be right there,” Alec replied before turning to Zelda. “Now then,” he went on, temperate and composed, “whenever you tire of this exercise, feel free to stop. Chris can try one’s patience at times.”
“I expect he’ll become bored soon enough.” Zelda used the same polite tone. “Children and lessons aren’t exactly compatible. Although,” she added in a slightly less impersonal inflection, “I need something to take my mind off other things, so I welcome the distraction.”
“Indeed. Unfortunately your breeches are hellishly distracting for me.”
“I’m sorry. If I had—” She paused, felt her face flush. She’d spoken out of turn.
“Had what?”
Conscious of Dalgliesh’s sudden piercing gaze, she softly exhaled. “I was going to wait to tell you, but”—she shrugged—“as it turns out I have nothing else to wear. Your wife cut up my clothes.”
“She did what?” he rapped out.
“She was waiting in my room at Groveland Chase when I came back from speaking to Father this morning. Apparently she’d been busy with my scissors while I was gone.”
“Jesus God,” he said with disgust. A tick appeared over his cheekbone and his voice was terse when he spoke. “I’ll remedy that. Your wardrobe. As for Violetta, I’ll take care of her . . . later,” he added in icy accents.
“Please don’t retaliate on my account. The clothes don’t matter, nor does she, if you must know. She has no impact on my life.”
He wished he could say the same. “I’ll replace your clothes at least. Don’t say no. I insist. Do you shop in Edinburgh or London?”
“Papa! Papa!” A fidgety six-year-old’s strident wail. “I’m tired of waiting!”
Zelda smiled. “Should I take the first round?”
“Please do. He’d prefer you.” Dalgliesh held her gaze for a potent moment. “We’ll talk about this other matter later.”
As Zelda walked away, he beckoned to John, who was chatting with the stable master across the yard.
When John came within earshot, he took one look at his employer’s face and raised his brows. “Trouble?”
“Nothing that can’t be resolved.” Dalgliesh delivered several brief, pointed instructions to his groom. “Have Mrs. Drewe waiting as well,” he added at the last. “Find someone to take care of her children.”
And so the jumping lessons commenced, the matter of Violetta’s wickedness left unresolved, the two lovers under duress but determined to master their desires, both directing their attention to a young boy’s entertainment.
Zelda was a superb teacher, patient, kind, never disapproving, and Chris blossomed under her teaching. Before long, he’d mastered the three-point position—standing in the stirrups, leaning forward, and moving his hands up the crest of the pony’s neck on the approach to the jump. He learned when to settle back into the saddle, how to give his pony more leg to make him lengthen his stride; he began to understand the concept of riders and horses who have feel.
After a time Alec took over, both adults consummate equestrians, their tutelage both a pleasant and successful learning experience for the youngster. Until such a time as Petunia expressed her discontent with further lessons by stubbornly refusing to move.
“You did really well today,” Zelda lauded, helping Chris dismount. “Ponies can be temperamental, but Petunia will be ready to work again by tomorrow. Now, I’ll bet you have some favorite toys.” A diversion to occupy the time was essential. “Maybe you could show them to me. If that’s all right with your father.” She glanced at Dalgliesh.
“I’m at your disposal, Miss MacKenzie.” His voice was placid, his gaze was not. It was covetous, intense.
And instantly triggered a flame-hot response in its recipient.
But before prurient desire had completely overwhelmed Zelda’s sensibilities, Chris grabbed her hand. “I have a big, big, big train set! I bet you’ve never seen one so big!” Beaming with delight, he tugged on her hand. “I’ll show you.”
A little boy’s sweaty hand and hurly-burly ebullience effectively curtailed even rash and reckless craving. “I’d like . . . that,” Zelda said, half breathless. “I don’t have a train set . . . at home.”
“Well, you’re a girl, that’s why.” Little boys didn’t notice subtle nuances in breathing.
Big boys did and took pleasure in it. “Girls like lots of
things boys do,” Alec volunteered as he guided the pair from the training ring, smiling at Zelda over his son’s head.
“Don’t either,” Chris contradicted.
“Riding for one,” Alec said with a wink for Zelda.
“And hunting,” Zelda offered, having heroically mastered her excitable passions. She shot a playful glance at the earl. “Women are good at hunting.”
“No, they’re not,” Chris rebuffed with childish certainty. “It’s mostly men in the hunting field.”
“Well, what about fishing?” Zelda suggested. “I love to fish.”
“You’re different,” Chris quickly retorted. “You’re not like all the other women. You’re fun.”
Alec resisted the impulse to second his son’s comments in an altogether inappropriate way. Instead, he said, “Don’t forget, Miss MacKenzie was raised with four brothers. She knows what men like—don’t you, Miss MacKenzie?” he gently added, enjoying the blush pinking Zelda’s face.
“I suppose I do. Practice makes perfect, I’ve found,” she sweetly replied with a sportive wink for the earl. “Just like practice will give you confidence to take on any jump before long, Chris,” she mildly added.
While the earl quietly seethed at the thought of practice makes perfect in regard to Zelda’s past, Zelda cautioned herself against becoming too enamored with a man who viewed all women as available.
The fact that Crosstrees was less a hunting box than a palace was a potent reminder of the full magnitude of Dalgliesh’s allure. The reigning beauties, bored wives, and young misses playing at seduction all willingly acquiesced, she suspected.
A cautionary tale best heeded.
But a woman who’d braved jungles, climbed the pyramids, traveled the Silk Route by camel caravan wasn’t fainthearted. So fie to all the other women, she decided, and fiddledeedee to caution. This weekend was very selfishly about pleasure—pure and simple. She intended to take delight in every hedonistic second of her visit until such a time as one or both of them brought their little idyll to an end.
Life was to be lived, after all—a lesson learned long ago when her mother had died in her prime.
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