by Cheryl Holt
"Be that as it may," he fumbled, "we need to be mindful of our comportment when she's out and about."
"Let me give you a little hint about Lady Penelope." Phillip shifted, as if to relay a dreadful secret that Edward didn't want divulged. "I doubt that my chest was the first she's stumbled upon. You'll never get me to believe it was much of a shock for her."
"What are you saying?"
"Several times already, I've had to chase her out of the stables. She's developed a fondness for some of the lads—if you get my drift."
"Lady Penelope?"
"She's a born troublemaker, and she has the morals of an alley cat. So you had best be careful, or you'll find yourself with a ring on your finger and wed to the wrong girl." He stomped away and muttered, "It would serve you bloody right."
"Phillip!"
Phillip whipped around, ablaze with a level of ire and fury that, considering the innocuous tenor of their conversation, made no sense. "Isn't it embarrassing to picture yourself with a bride who's young enough to be your granddaughter? Or do you merely have a passion for adolescents?"
"Of all the outrageous, inappropriate—"
Before he could finish voicing his affront, Phillip
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been compatible, had had matching hobbies, likes and dislikes, and he was beginning to suspect that it wasn't possible to attain harmony with women who were so much younger than him. The years were an insurmountable barrier.
What a quandary!
If only Margaret's cousin, Winnie Stewart, were of the nobility. How easy his choice would be!
He recalled the day she'd been loitering on the verandah, admiring the grounds. With her brunette hair glimmering in the sun, her tidy gown outlining her glorious figure, he'd deemed her the most fabulous creature he'd ever observed. She'd stirred him in a primal fashion, and he'd found himself wishing he could act upon it, but she hadn't stayed around long enough for him to explore its intensity. Like a frightened goose, she'd fled, and he hadn't seen her since, and to his consternation, he searched for her everywhere.
Out of frustration, he'd once mentioned her to Margaret, pretending a polite curiosity, and when Margaret had claimed that Winnie did not care to socialize, he hadn't dared broach the topic again lest his interest be erroneously construed.
After his vile behavior toward Phillip's mother, he'd sworn to himself that he'd control his base impulses, so he didn't dabble with the women of the lower classes. He didn't tumble the maids, or frolic with the neighborhood widows. Nor did he acknowledge the come-hither smirks of the loose hussies of the ton when he went to London. He never partook of whores, or prowled around at brothels as many other chaps were wont to do.
He was so lonely!
Yet he couldn't make the jump to a sexual relationship. Not out of any loyalty to his deceased wife, but because he wanted more than stealthy, hurried couplings
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that required sneaking in and out of back doors, hiding his horse, and keeping his trousers close in case he needed to execute a hasty exit.
There was never a shortage of available paramours, but he didn't trust any of their motives. While he was repeatedly offered the use of their lush bodies, they all wanted boons from him in exchange. His title. His money. His patronage.
It was hell being an earl, and he envied Phillip, who could meet up with a pretty girl and philander without having to fret about whether the world would end if he did.
Footsteps echoed down the walkway. Whoever was approaching wouldn't be able to see him till they'd rounded the curve in the hedge, and he glanced up, praying it wasn't Olivia or Penelope, or worse yet, Margaret. A more dour, disagreeable individual he'd never encountered.
To his utter and complete delight, it was Winnie, sauntering along by herself. She was lost in thought, her lovely face shaded by a parasol balanced on her shoulder.
At the same instant, their gazes locked, and she started in astonishment. Clearly, he was the last person she'd expected. She wasn't happy at discovering him. In fact, she appeared terrified.
While he'd accepted Margaret's insistence that Winnie preferred her privacy, he still had the impression that she'd been avoiding him. Why? Had he said or done something uncouth of which he was unaware?
"I didn't know anyone was out here," she contended. "Pardon me for bothering you." She whirled and hastened away.
"Winnie!"
She halted, hung her head, her shoulders stiff with tension. "Don't ask me to tarry."
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"I want you to. Just for a bit."
"Edward—"
"Please!"
She vacillated forever, and he watched her, realizing that a severe struggle was being waged within. Finally, she spun toward him, her anguish palpable.
"What is it, Winnie? Have I offended you?"
'Tom? Offend me? How could you think it?"
He held out his hand, utilizing the full force of his station to coax her into taking it, and she couldn't refuse. She wavered, then reached out, as though it were the most difficult task she'd ever been required to perform.
Linking their fingers, like juvenile sweethearts, he urged her onto the seat next to him. He was assailed by her heat, by her smell. Her skin had an intriguing aroma, like a mixture of flowers and tart apples. It teased and tantalized his male sensibilities, making him want to lean in, to sniff and taste her.
Generally, he was the consummate gentleman, a restrained, courteous chap who minded his manners in the presence of a lady. However, with Winnie Stewart, there was nothing genteel about his feelings. He suffered a primitive, almost savage, attraction to her that had him wild to engage in any wicked behavior she would allow, and even some she wouldn't.
While he'd been infatuated with many women, he'd never experienced a connection that was remotely similar. He wanted things from her he couldn't begin to name, first and foremost being the chance to take her to his bed, to have her naked, her creamy, smooth flesh crushed to his own.
The erotic notion was so out of character that he had to ponder whether she hadn't bewitched him. Or, more likely, the celibacy he'd practiced since his wife's death had driven him over the edge!
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He was perched much nearer than propriety permitted, touching her all the way down, her skirt tangled around his legs and feet. The contact thrilled him, made him pulsate with vim and vigor.
Amazingly, his trousers were tight! He was becoming aroused merely from her proximity, while she was too distraught to look at him. Like a shy girl, she stared off to the side, so he shifted into her line of sight Her eyes were hazel, winged by dark brows, her cheeks rosy from her stroll in the fresh country air.
She was so fetching, so alluring, and by doing nothing at all, she tempted him beyond measure.
He had a perception of recognition, as though he'd always known her, and he inquired, "Have we met before you came to Salisbury?"
"No." Her mouth quirked in a half-smile.
"Are you sure? Perhaps in London or—"
"I'm positive. I'd have remembered."
"Yes, so would I."
"Are you all right?" she queried, out of the blue. "You seem troubled."
So... she felt it, too, their bizarre bond. He was doleful over his quarrel with Phillip, and it wasn't surprising that she would notice his distress.
As his response, he posed, "Do you ever wish you could alter the past?"
"Yes, all the time."
"I'd like to invent a machine that would enable me to travel back and erase all my mistakes."
'That would be grand, wouldn't it?"
She nodded, and there was a sadness about her, an ingrained sorrow and solemnity that hinted at prior tragedy, at great adversity and misery that had been routed, and he wondered what had happened to her. What
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misfortune had she weathered? What hideous event had left its subtle mark?
Without pausing to reflect, he narrowed the distance between them, and kissed her. The move
was so forward and so presumptuous that he thoroughly shocked her— as well as himself.
For the briefest second, they clung together, so ardent that they might have been the last two people on earth. Then, as abruptly as it had started, the embrace ended. She wrenched away and leapt to her feet, her cheeks flaming, her fingers pressed to her lips.
His primary reaction was to apologize, but he wasn't sorry. Instead, he asked, "Would you walk with me some night? In the moonlight? I'd like to see it shining on your hair."
"No, I never could."
"Why?" he questioned stupidly. As if he needed her to tell him it was an idiotic request!
Acutely afflicted, she falteringly explained, "You may—or may not—marry Olivia. But if you decide not to, the reason can never be because of me. The Hopkins family took me in when I had nowhere else to go. They've been kind to me."
"I understand."
"You shouldn't beg me to sit again. Or to linger." She strode farther and farther away. "I'll want to say yes, but it's not a good idea. For anyone."
"You're correct, of course."
She departed, vanishing behind the shrubbery, and he listened to the brush of her slippers until they faded away.
Their affinity could only lead to disaster and regret, for it would be the height of disrespect and cruelty to dally with Winnie when he was pursuing Olivia for possible
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matrimony. Yet he couldn't keep himself from fantasizing over how marvelous it would be to have her as his own, or from yearning to make it a reality.
With a heavy heart, he stood and returned to the house. Alone.
Chapter Seven
Olivia sat in the garden, on the bench Penny had shown her, where she could peek through the hedges to spy on Phillip.
Margaret was visiting one of Edward's neighbors, so Olivia had come outside with her portfolio, and was pretending to draw the yard. If anyone chanced by, she had various mediocre illustrations that would prove her interest in art was a ladylike hobby and nothing she pursued with any enthusiasm.
In reality, she was drafting copies of Phillip from memory, while eager to catch a glimpse of him.
It had been three days since she'd seen him. Or more precisely, three nights. After their terrible row in the library, she'd sneaked down often, hoping he would be waiting for her, that she might apologize or discuss what had transpired, but as he'd vowed, he hadn't deigned to join her.
She was desperate to know his opinion of their tryst. For her own part, she was confused, perplexed, and restless. The ways he'd touched her had stirred her body in a fashion she didn't understand. She couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and she was never comfortable.
Her nipples had taken on a life of their own. They were constantly erect and rubbing her chemise. Her breathing was elevated, making her corset intolerable because she couldn't fully inhale. Her loins chafed and itched for a manipulation she didn't comprehend, so she
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was forever shifting about on chairs, yearning to alleviate the torment.
Was he suffering misery that was remotely similar?
Oh, how could he have forsaken her so easily? She'd felt such a sense of connection with him, and it made her worry over her obligations to Lord Salisbury. Was she loose? Fickle? How could she be so enamored of Phillip when she was trying to entice Edward into marriage? What did her behavior say about her character and morals?
She'd liked what Phillip had done to her, had liked it so much that she was wild to do it over and over, as soon as a rendezvous could be arranged. Her greatest regret was that she'd panicked and had begged him to stop.
If she hadn't, they could have continued. Phillip would have unveiled the mysteries of what happened between men and women. Most certainly, he would have assuaged the corporeal distress that was driving her mad.
There had to have been an end point to their conduct, a goal or destination they were attempting to attain, and if they'd kept on, she wouldn't be languishing so dreadfully.
Through the bushes, movement captured her attention, and she slid down the bench so she could have a better perspective. Phillip! Finally! Surrounded by several men from the stables. He was leaned against the corral fence, an arm tossed across the top board. His head was tipped back, the sun on his face, and he was so handsome she could barely look at him.
A charcoal pencil was clutched in her hand, and she'd planned to sketch him, but she was frozen, unable to do anything but stare and admire. She'd had the fabulous rogue all to herself, had explored and caressed and fondled, had kissed him as if there were no tomorrow, and she was ready to do it again, if she could finagle another appointment.
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But how? How to persuade him to spend time with her? It wasn't as if she could stroll over and ask him to chat. Their stations were so disparate that there was no excuse she could give as to how she'd met him. He'd declared that he wouldn't parley in the library, so what was she to do?
Morose and depressed, she observed as he tensed. The men with whom he'd been joking scattered, and another man came into view.
It was the earl! Talking to Phillip.
Seen together, they were two peas in a pod. The same height, the same broad shoulders and striking features. The only genuine contrasts were their ages, and the fact that Phillip's eyes were blue, while Edward's were brown.
Phillip was Edward's illegitimate son! There was no question. No other could have sired him. How could she not have noticed?
She was furious. He'd never told her, and that seemed like a betrayal.
She'd thought they were friends! That they'd established a bond that went beyond rank and class. Couldn't he have trusted her? Was he afraid she'd have swooned? Did he assume she'd been so sheltered that she'd never heard of bastard children?
The men exchanged harsh words—Phillip was notably aggravated—then he stomped away. Edward appeared lost and bewildered, and he lingered, then he too walked on.
For many minutes, she glared at the spot where they'd been, then she slammed her papers into her portfolio, tied the string, and in a huff, marched to the house.
How dare he ignore her! How dare he act as if she were invisible! How dare he carry on, unaffected by what had passed between them.
She rushed up the stairs to her room, and rang for a maid, who aided her in donning her riding outfit.
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If Phillip wouldn't come to her, she would go to him.
Ordinarily, she wouldn't have fussed with her hair or attire, but she was resolved to be as fetching as possible during the pending confrontation, so she strutted and twirled before the mirror until every aspect was perfect. Then she waltzed downstairs and outside, her heart beating frantically.
Could she pull it off?
She flounced into the stable, and a boy greeted her, his awe apparent.
"I would speak with the stablemaster," she haughtily intoned.
The lad scurried off, and he returned with Phillip. When Phillip saw her, he shielded any reaction.
So he worked in the stable, did he? The lying bounder! She was so irate she could have chewed nails in half! "You are the stablemaster?"
"Aye." Caught in a lie, he flushed. "May I help you, milady?"
"I should like to ride. I haven't been in a long while, so I'll require you to attend me."
At her arrogant attitude, he bristled, but he replied politely. "I have a very experienced groomsman who will be more than happy to—"
"No. It shall be you."
"I'm very busy."
"Really?" she queried. 'Too busy to accompany me? I'm the earl's special guest, and I implore your personal assistance. Do you refuse to provide it?"
A muscle ticked in his cheek. There were a thousand scathing retorts he was burning to hurl, a hundred ways he'd like to bring her down a peg, but the stableboy was dawdling next to him, so he couldn't unleash his wrath.
He bowed, acknowledging defeat. "At your service, milady."
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The boy
escorted her to the mounting block where she waited. Shortly, Phillip emerged, leading two horses. Aloof and efficient, he lifted her up, but the instant she was seated, he jumped away.
Without glancing at him, she spurred her horse forward, and she knew he'd follow. He couldn't let her traipse off unchaperoned. Soon, a second pair of hooves trailed along behind. Rage at her autocratic manner billowed off him in waves and, she had to confess, she was a tad shocked herself. She never flung her position or status at others, and the sole rationale she could devise for exhibiting such snobbery was that he mattered to her, and she was determined to be with him.
She hated having him watch her. While he was an equestrian expert, she was a novice. It had been years since she'd ridden, and she hoped she hadn't forgotten how, that she wouldn't embarrass herself by losing her balance and falling on her rear. What a jolly laugh he'd have at her expense!
The mare had a smooth gait, so she adapted and did her best to feign skill. Without delay, they were away from the yard, alone, and on a quiet lane, shaded by trees. She glowered over her shoulder and accused, "You haven't come to the library."
"I told you I wouldn't."
"I didn't believe you."
He shrugged, as if he couldn't care less. Considering how thrilled she'd been at meeting him, and how their secret assignations had absorbed her every waking moment, his detachment infuriated her.
"You're his son, aren't you?" she blurted, wanting to jolt a response out of him.
"Whose?" he casually inquired.
"Lord Salisbury's."
He shrugged again.
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"At least have the decency to admit it to me!" she shouted.
"Yes, I am Lord Salisbury's son. Phillip Paxton. Is that what you're dying to learn?"
She tugged on the reins, her horse whirling toward him, and she sidled over until they were side by side, the animals facing opposite directions, her knees and legs squashed against his.
Phillip scrutinized her; he was nervous and disconcerted, as though—given her condition—he couldn't predict what she might do.
