Lady Lissa's Liaison (To Woo an Heiress, Book 1)

by Randall, Lindsay

  Either way, she was doomed to a most embarrassing fate.

  To her surprise, Lord Wylde dropped the wicker basket from his shoulder, set down his net, and was, in a matter of a few agile strides, standing alongside her atop the downed log, his precious angling pole still held tight in one fist.

  “Why the deuce did you climb atop this tree?”

  Lissa, eyes still closed, shook her head. “Foolishness perhaps?”

  “No doubt,” he answered.

  It was then Lissa felt strong, warm and very large hands take hold of her shoulders. She felt Lord Wylde’s fingers splay open and curl slightly over her. She was suddenly anchored safely atop the log, held securely in his very able grip.

  Only then did Lissa feel safe enough to open her eyes. The first thing she viewed was his lordship’s mouth, perfectly perfect in form, a very sensuous mouth indeed—one that had perhaps not smiled often enough… and was not smiling now.

  Lissa’s lashes quickly fluttered upward.

  Not only was his mouth perfect, but his cheekbones as well; they were broad and flat and slightly tanned. And his eyes. Gracious, but his eyes were the most intriguing eyes she’d ever beheld. Dark. Fathomless. Heart-stoppingly deep and engaging.

  Lissa felt herself beginning to swoon again, though this particular sensation had nothing to do with her vertigo.

  “You’re not going to be ill, are you?” he demanded, his fingers tightening about her, his angling rod now tucked into the crook of one arm.

  “No. I—I am quite all right.”

  “The devil you are. You are pale and quivering.”

  “I shall be fine. Truly.”

  “Those half boots you are wearing are hardly the thing for traversing rotting logs. And that dress—”

  “Is far too bright,” she finished. “You’ve already mentioned that fact, Lord Wylde.”

  His splendid mouth formed a frown. “And have I mentioned that you are interfering in my angling?”

  Lissa tried to smile. “No, but I gathered as much. Truly, sir, that was not my intent.”

  “What was your intent, pray tell, Lady Lovington?”

  It was Lissa’s turn to frown. She averted her gaze from his, focusing instead on his fishing pole and the man-made fly tethered to the end of his line.

  “I, uh, wished to talk about your angling for trout. Yes. That is it. That is the whole of it,” she said, pleased with her quick thinking and rather relieved at the sight of the pathetically lacking nymph he had trussed to the end of his line.

  “Oh?” Obviously, he did not believe her.

  “Yes, of course. What else?” Lissa said, finding herself calm enough to paint yet another too-bright smile upon her lips. Insects were her specialty—and the insect Lord Wylde had chosen for his line was the most inappropriate, not to mention poorly tied, thing she had ever viewed. Assured of the fact that she knew of what she spoke, she said, “You see, sir, I have grown up alongside the Dove, and my father was an angler much like yourself. He taught me everything there is to know about the insects of this area.”

  “And?”

  “And, well, you appear to be going about this all wrong, Lord Wylde.”

  “Going about what all wrong,” he demanded. “Saving you from a dunk in the water? From what I see, you are not yet wet. Given another few moments to your own devices, you would have been thoroughly soaked.”

  Lissa felt duly chastised, but ignored her own embarrassment. “Not that, my lord, but your angling tactics.”

  “What about them?” he bristled.

  Lissa knew better than to correct a man about his angling. She knew that fishing was a very male type of endeavor, one that was wrapped up in all sorts of male pride and whatnot. But despite that fact, she couldn’t help but make use of this most opportune moment. “I could not help but notice the fly you chose to cast,” she said.

  “You couldn’t, could you?”

  “Your choice is all wrong, my lord. At this time of year, you should be using a full-bodied fly and not a nymph.”

  Lord Wylde looked as though he’d swallowed one of those flies. “You actually know about nymphs and flies?”

  “Of course I do. I know insects, my lord. A green-drake would have been your best choice. Or perhaps a camlet fly. I’ve studied and sketched the insects of this area for as long as I can recall. I know, in fact, that an angler would be better served by a—”

  Lissa suddenly let out an unintentional oof as her boots slid on the slippery log and she careened to one side. She instinctively reached one hand to her breast in a moment of fright, catching in her palm the hand-painted locket Lord Langford had given to her. The chain—blastedly too secure until now—burst apart.

  Lissa gasped as the troublesome locket fell free of her neck, falling down into the water. A huge, dark-colored river trout suddenly shot out from beneath the log and swallowed the locket whole, then just as quickly snapped back under the log.

  “Oh my!” Lissa cried.

  “What?” Lord Wylde demanded, her cry clearly alarming him. “What the duece is wrong now?” he groused, looping one arm about her waist. “You’re not going to fall. I’ve got you. Don’t scream like that.”

  “The locket,” Lissa gasped, very aware of his muscular arm pinioning her to him, of the hard feel of his chest against hers.

  Pressed against him, Lissa could sense the steady, deep rhythm of his heart, could feel her own heart pounding like the fast wings of a bird in flight. She hadn’t expected to be so affected by the man.

  Lissa glanced down, seeing his strong fingers splayed about the curve of her waist. Such a large hand. And so warm, even through layers of fabric.

  Staring up at him through her lashes, Lissa realized that he, too, seemed momentarily taken aback by the close contact of their bodies.

  She had to shake her head to clear her thoughts. “Th—that trout ate my locket, my lord. Did you see? He just gulped it down!”

  “I saw,” he answered, voice husky, his gaze infinitely dark. He stared at her hard—as though surprised by what he saw, or perhaps, at what he was feeling inside of himself. ” ‘Tis gone now, you can be assured of that.” He released his hold by slow degrees, his open palm skimming the small of her back as he slid his arm away from her.

  A deep quiver of feeling pumped through Lissa. Again, she had to shake her head, had to force herself to remain focused on her purpose. “No, it—it cannot be. I—I must retrieve that locket.”

  “Was it a part of the family jewels?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Priceless, perhaps?”

  “I—I do not believe so.”

  “Then forget about it,” said Lord Wylde. Without another word, he took hold of her right hand and nimbly led her across to the side of the river, firmly planting her down onto the bank. Lissa was once again unnerved by the feel of his hands on her as he set her down.

  “Do not look so Friday-faced,” he growled. “You can purchase another locket.”

  “I cannot!” Lissa insisted, feeling miserable and turning to stare at the water where the trout made its home. “It is irreplaceable. It is… oh, drat, it is imperative I retrieve that particular locket.”

  ” ‘Twould be a neat trick,” he said, moving away from her to gather up his fishing basket and net. He looped the leather straps of both over his neck, tipped his angling pole over one shoulder, then glanced at her one more time before he took his leave. “The inner digestive juices of a trout are very powerful, Lady Lovington—or so I’ve learned. Within twenty-four hours, I suspect that locket will begin to disintegrate, unless it is made of gold.”

  “Gold?” Lissa paused, trying hard to remember from what exactly Lord Langford’s locket had been fashioned. She hadn’t a clue. She’d never wanted the blasted thing to begin with, and she’d certainly not spent an innordinate amount of time looking at or even touching the thing. “Truth to tell, sir, I—I am not certain what it was made of. I do know, though, that it was hand-painted.
Yes, I am quite certain it was hand-painted.”

  He appeared a bit agitated by her vague description of a locket she seemed so bent on retrieving. His frown deepened. “Take my advice and forget about it, my lady.” With that, he turned.

  “Wait!” Lissa cried. “You—you are taking your leave? Just like that?”

  He glanced over one shoulder, his darkling eyes narrowing. “And just what, alas, would you have me do?”

  “Hook that trout, of course!”

  Lord Wylde looked at her as though she’d sprouted two heads. And then he laughed.

  The sound of his laughter smarted. “You find my situation amusing, sir?”

  “I find you demanding a tall order, my lady.”

  “Not so tall,” she insisted. “You’ve a pole in your hand, and you came here to fish. All you need do is fish for that particular trout.”

  He said nothing for a full minute, time in which Lissa feared she’d pushed his patience too far.

  “I suggest you go home, Lady Lovington,” he finally said, his words clipped, “and forget about your locket. No one will be catching that trout, not today anyway. He won’t bite again for a good long while, trust me. I have been tracking him for a number of days, and this is the first I’ve seen him take a bite of anything.”

  With that, the Earl of Wylde headed away from her.

  Lissa blew out an exasperated breath. Feeling desperate, she called after him: “The trout may bite if the right fly is placed before him, sir! He certainly will not surface for a nymph—or even for any of the other flies you have tied, if indeed their craftsmanship is anything like that sorrowful fly I viewed at the end of your line!”

  Her words got his attention.

  Wylde stopped and turned toward her, his gaze blacker than the darkest of crypts. “Sorrowful?”

  Lissa gulped down a lump of fear in her throat.

  “You heard me aright,” she said, straightening, refusing to back down. “For all of your expert casting, sir, you obviously haven’t a clue as to what type of fly should be affixed to your line.”

  “B’god, were you a man to say such a thing to me, I would—”

  “You would what?” Lissa dangerously cut in. “Challenge me? Come now, Lord Wylde, you obviously have a hankering to catch some trout, and you just as obviously haven’t the knowledge as to what bait to use. I can help you.” She paused, then went on quickly, “And you—you can help me.”

  One black brow lifted above his deep, dark eyes. “Oh? How so?”

  “I—I can teach you about the insects that flit in the air above the Dove… and you, sir, can use that knowledge to hook the very trout that ate my locket and has thus far eluded your line.”

  Before she knew what he was about, Lord Wylde closed the distance between them, dropped his wicker basket and fine net to the ground near her feet, then kicked open the lid of the basket with one booted toe.

  “Tell me,” he demanded, “what fly of mine you think I should use to catch that wily trout.”

  Lissa blinked, her nerves frayed by his brusque tone and slamming about. “Well, I—”

  “Tell me.”

  Lissa took in a steadying breath, licked her suddenly dry lips, and then glanced down at the basket. She frowned. It was just as she thought; every fly pinned to the snowy sheepskin was as flawed and pathetic as the nymph at the end of his pole.

  She quirked one brow up at him. “The truth, sir?”

  “Let’s have it,” he all but growled.

  “Very well, but do remember that you insisted. The fact of the matter is, sir, none of them are a good choice. The tails are all too long, the bodies poorly made, and the hooks—”

  “Faith, “he muttered, slamming the lid shut once again. “That’s enough.”

  Lissa cringed, fearing he was about to give her a scathing set-down. Clearly, he hadn’t earned the title of heartless for no reason.

  “Sir?” she managed, her voice sounding far too uncertain even to her own ears.

  But Lord Wylde wasn’t listening, nor was he even looking at her. He was looking at the river, and suddenly he was pacing, back and forth, his pole gripped in one hand, as with the other hand he raked his fingers through the black, shagged lengths of his hair. He appeared to be wrestling with some inner demon; looked frightfully agitated, in fact.

  Lissa caught her bottom lip between her teeth, suddenly amazed at the fact that she was standing alone in the woods with a man so many deemed to be a dangerous cannon, a veritable devil come to walk the earth. That she’d insulted him with her assessment of his fly-tying skills was obvious. That she hadn’t yet been cut down by his legendary fury was nothing short of remarkable.

  She was debating whether to run for safety when he stopped pacing and abruptly turned toward her.

  “Name it,” he demanded suddenly.

  Lissa, her nerves in a jumble, jerked to attention. “My lord?”

  “The fly, my lady. Tell me what fly I should use at this time of year.”

  Lissa wondered if she heard him aright. “Does this mean that you will help—”

  “Aye,” he growled. “I will help, but mind you I cannot promise to do the impossible. The trout you wish to hook is an old and very cautious one. He hasn’t grown huge for no reason. Only the smartest and most cautious trout know when to bite and when not to bite.”

  “Of—of course,” said Lissa, feeling a bit of hope spring forth in her.

  “As for your end of our bargain,” Wylde continued, just as gruffly, “you will share with me your knowledge of insects.”

  “Oh, I will. I shall! In fact, I’ve my sketchbook with me. I’ve sketched all manner of insects, sir. In great detail.”

  Lissa dove one hand into her satchel, producing her sketchbook and nature journal as well. “Come,” she said, placing both atop the ground, “and see for yourself.” She flipped a few pages into the journal, finding an entry she’d written about the green-drake fly. She opened her sketchbook to the exact spot where she’d created a watercolor of the insect. “Notice the tail, my lord. It is long, but not overly so. You want the trout to reach for the tail but to actually swallow the body with the hook. If the tail is too long, the trout will get a short strike, and you will have enticed him but not hooked him. And the body… can you see how it is nicely rounded? You must do the same with your handmade fly, but you must make certain that it won’t unravel when the trout’s strong jaw wraps about it.”

  She glanced up at him, seeing that he was very carefully studying her watercolor creation. “I—I can teach you how to tie such a fly, Lord Wylde.” She frowned as she thought of the trout in the water, its belly filled with Lord Langford’s locket—a locket that was disintegrating as they spoke. “We haven’t much time, though, I am afraid.”

  Lord Wylde’s black eyes met her blue ones. “You are thinking of your locket.”

  Lissa nodded.

  He frowned, studied her, frowned some more.

  “It must mean a great deal to you,” he said at last.

  Lissa thought of Lord Langford. She nodded. “Oh, yes,” she breathed. That blasted locket meant her freedom from at least one of her suitors. “It is imperative that I get it back, sir.”

  Wylde debated some more. He clearly did not like the idea of striking a bargain with her, but at the same time he obviously desired to know all Lissa knew of insects.

  Finally, he groused, “Then it appears, Lady Lovington, the two of us have a great deal of work to do.”

  Lissa wanted to smile with gratitude, but decided against it. Instead, she simply said, “Yes, that does seem to be the size of it, sir.”

  Chapter 3

  Tilly broke free of the coppice and raced for the lawns of Clivedon Manor, nearly out of breath as she came upon Mrs. Rachett, who was busy hanging laundered linens on the line. The older woman barely glanced in Tilly’s direction.

  “Are you not wondering what I be about?” Tilly asked between huge, dramatic gulps of air.

  “No,” sa
id Mrs. Rachett, spreading a fine, white table cloth onto the line. She proceeded to beat the wrinkles out of the linen with her plump, raw-boned hands.

  Tilly decided she might just as well rush into the words she’d been rehearsing during her mad dash back to Clivedon Manor. “Oh, la,” she said to the disinterested housekeeper, “I be thinking surely you of all those in m’lady’s keep would be wondering ‘bout her doings.”

  The stern-faced Mrs. Rachett pursed her wrinkled lips, not replying.

  Tilly decided to cut to the heart of it all. “M’lady is in the woods with the Heartless Lord Wylde, she is, and glad about that fact! Wants t’ spend her day wi’ him, she does, and wants not a word of her lee-a…” Tilly stumbled over the word her lady had used. “…her lee-a-zon, to go ‘round, for she says it’s to be a secret.”

  Mrs. Rachett stopped beating the linen. She peered at Tilly, stared at her hard, then looked back at her laundry. “Hmmph,” was all she said before she resumed beating the linen again.

  Tilly wasn’t fooled by Mrs. Rachett’s supposed lack of interest; she knew the familiar “harrumph” meant the old woman had heard every word quite clearly and was no doubt deciding whose ear she would bend first with her bit of newfound gossip.

  “O’ course, I not be wanting to tell m’lady’s secrets, but I be thinking someone other than me should know… ,” Tilly said, allowing her words to trail off.

  Mrs. Rachett hefted another huge linen over the line. “Scat,” she muttered to Tilly, scowling with earnest.

  Tilly did just that. She ran for the house, quickly slipping inside the side door. Mrs. Rachett was a nasty old woman, to be sure, but she was also a gossip of the highest order. Tilly had no doubt but by sundown word would be spread through Derbyshire about Lady Lissa’s liaison with the Heartless Lord Wylde.

  Feeling as though she’d done a great deed for the day, Tilly popped into the kitchens, intending to pilfer a sweetcake from Cook’s store. She was blasted hungry from all her running about and the excitement at the riverbank. Surely she had a few minutes to prop up her toes and quiet her rumbling stomach.