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

by Randall, Lindsay

  “This is what we need,” she said. Noting Lord Wylde’s quizzical look, Lissa explained, “It is important to dye or color silks and feathers to the perfect hue of an insect’s color. Lord Markham knew what he was about; this particular silk will do well for the green-drake’s body.”

  As Lord Wylde watched, she held the hook in one hand, then began to choose dubbing from the assortment surrounding her. She mixed together camel’s hair, brilliant bear’s hair, the soft down from a hog’s bristles, and yellow camlet. All of this went onto the hook, piece by piece, creating a long body.

  Next, Lissa picked up the yellow silk waxed with green wax, ribbing it around the artificial fly’s body.

  “It is most important to make the body of a fly as tight as possible,” she said. “My father taught me that trout can be absolutely savage when on the feed. They will strike hard and fast and can literally split your fly asunder. It is imperative to keep the body tightly woven; otherwise it will unravel and you will lose a large fish.”

  “What else did your father teach you about trout?”

  “Many things… Did you know trout eat bigger game than flies?”

  He shook his head.

  “Ah, but they do,” Lissa said, warming to her subject, relaxing somewhat. “It was not at all uncommon for my father to find small animals in the bellies of the trout he caught. Mice, moles, baby muskrats—he found them numerous times inside trout. A trout, my lord, wants something to wrap its strong jaws around, and so you must create a fly that will entice it to do so. My father was very adept at tying flies that looked similar to small mice. He called them his ‘Midnight Caller.’ He would often fish not at sunrise, but during the dark of the moon.”

  Wylde’s attention was keen. “How interesting,” he murmured.

  “My father was an exceptional man who respected the nature surrounding him and who made great attempts to understand the habits and needs of every living creature that dwells near the Dove.”

  “I see he succeeded in passing on those very traits to his daughter.”

  “You flatter me, sir. I only know an inkling of what my father strived to relate to me. I believe it will take an entire lifetime to glean half as much knowledge as my father possessed.”

  She turned back to her work, Lord Wylde watching her. “What are you doing now?” he asked as she carefully picked through the assortment of hairs and feathers.

  “I shall use these long hairs of sable for a wisp of a tail. And for the wings of this particular fly I shall choose what was once the white-gray feather of a mallard. No doubt Markham dyed these feathers in the root of a barberry tree and woody viss,” she explained, “with alum and rain water. The color now is a very fine yellow, perfect for a green-drake. My father used to do the same. I would help him on occasion.”

  “I should like to meet this father of yours,” he said.

  Lissa stilled. “I am afraid that would be an impossibility. He—he is dead, my lord.”

  “Forgive me, I did not mean—”

  “My father died a little over a year ago—at the very cusp of springtime, when winter was melting away and the earth beginning to blossom. I rather like to believe it was his choice to die at such a time.”

  Lissa fought back the tears that threatened her. Even with the passage of a year, she had not yet learned how to stop the tears. Perhaps she never would.

  She concentrated doubly hard on tying the fly, recalling every minute detail her father had taught her. When she was done, she secured the handmade fly with a strong thread and a tiny, expert knot.

  “There,” she said, ” ‘tis finished. A perfect green-drake.”

  “Beautiful.”

  Something in the tone of Wylde’s voice made Lissa look up from her handiwork. She realized that he was looking not at the fly, but directly at her.

  “My lord?” she ventured, her body tingling oddly beneath his close scrutiny.

  “Perfectly perfect,” he murmured, as though thinking aloud and not really intending for her to hear the words.

  He reached up, transfixed, his right hand brushing lightly against a soft spit of curl that folded against Lissa’s cheek. His black eyes devoured every feature of her face, the long column of her slender neck.

  “Almost too perfect, in fact,” he said, his voice deep and dark and sending the ripple of a chill down Lissa’s spine.

  She shifted nervously upon the bench. “My lord?” she said again, feeling innately that he was experiencing some sort of internal epiphany.

  “Tell me,” he demanded bluntly, “were you lying in wait for me alongside the river’s edge, Lady Lissa of Clivedon Manor? More to the point, are you here now, in my lodge, for some purpose other than retrieving a presumably precious locket—a locket, alas, that you cannot even fully describe?”

  Chapter 4

  For the first time that day Lissa saw very clearly why the sixth Earl of Wylde had earned the title of Heartless. It seemed he had no care for subtlety, did not give a whit about verbally challenging anyone, and—most unsettling of all—he had a way of looking through another person, as though into their very soul.

  “Are you doubting my sincerity, sir?” Lissa asked.

  “I am questioning your purpose. Here. With me. “

  “As we both know, I—I merely accompanied you to teach the rudiments of tying a handmade fly.”

  “And before that, at the water’s edge?”

  Lissa eyed him warily, wondering where the stream of his questions was winding. “I often spend the early morning hours sketching alongside the river, Lord Wylde. I have already told you that.”

  “Then, why have I never seen you before today?”

  “Perhaps we… we simply managed to miss each other on our individual morning outings.”

  “But not this morning,” he pointed out.

  “Really, sir, your questions seem more like an inquisition. Can we not just agree that we had a chance meeting and now have made a pact to help each other?”

  He eyed her closely. “Doubtless that would please you.”

  “Well, I—I see no reason to worry the issue. We simply met in the midst of pursuing our own interests.”

  “Yours merely being sketching insects,” Wylde said.

  Lissa nodded quickly. “That, and—and writing in my nature journal.”

  “I see.”

  She wondered if he did.

  “So that is the whole of it, a purely happenstance meeting?” Wylde asked.

  Lissa nodded again. “Yes,” she said, having to coax the word to form on her lips. “That is the whole of it.” In truth, it wasn’t a total lie. She’d not immediately been thinking of her desire for a pretend liaison with Wylde when she’d struck her bold bargain with him, but had been thinking instead of Lord Langford’s locket and the trout that had eaten it.

  “I simply wish to retrieve my property, sir,” she continued. “Since you own an angling rod and appear adept at casting a fly, and seeing as how I know a thing or two about the insects in this region, it seems only proper that the two of us combine our talents.”

  “Proper?” The word came lowly, succinctly. “Hardly that, Lady Lissa. You’ve no abigail in attendance. Too, I should wonder that your household is not in an uproar at this very moment, fretting over your whereabouts.”

  “I told you, sir, the absence of a chaperone does not signify—not here, in the country. As for my household, those in my employ are entirely accustomed to my penchant to go off on my own.”

  He did not appear convinced. “Even if that means being in the company of someone such as myself?”

  “Such as yourself, my lord?”

  “Aye, that is what I said.”

  “I—I do not understand your meaning.”

  “Come now. Surely you’ve heard rumors.”

  Lissa shifted uncomfortably. “Rumors?”

  “Do not pretend with me. Your abigail ran from the river because of my presence. Even you hesitated a moment when first meeting me.”<
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  “D-do not be absurd, sir.”

  “Don’t you,” Wylde replied.

  Lissa swallowed heavily as he closed the small distance between them, his face now inches from hers.

  “I have to wonder what you truly know about me,” he said. “I had the distinct impression you’d formed an opinion of my character prior to our meeting at the river’s edge this morning. Though you painted a perfect smile on those lovely lips of yours, I could tell by the look in your eyes you were thinking of all you thought you knew of me. Or rather, what you’d overheard about my character.”

  Lissa felt her cheeks burn hot. “I will admit, Lord Wylde, that I… I have heard some gossip affixed to your name, but—”

  “I’d wager you’ve heard more than that,” he cut in.

  He was too close, his black gaze too scrutinizing. “You are overlooking one thing,” Lissa pointed out, albeit rather weakly.

  “Which is?”

  “I do not hold much faith in stories bandied about below stairs.”

  He lifted one dark brow. “Oh? What of those whispered above stairs, Lady Lissa?”

  “I give no credence to poker-talk. Besides, gossip is gossip,” Lissa insisted. “I’ve no time for it, no matter of its origins. I do not make it a habit of repeating or even listening overly much to fantastic tales.” Not unless I want to, that is, she thought.

  Wylde’s gaze narrowed. “Even if those same stories could damage your reputation?” he demanded.

  Lissa had had enough. “Are you trying to intimidate me, sir?” she asked, stiffening, though that reaction served only to bring her face closer to his.

  “Aye, “he answered. “I am.”

  Without further warning he reached up with his right hand, capturing the back of her neck with his palm. The touch of his hand against her bare skin was startling, electrifying. Lissa had a glimpse of his black, fathomless eyes blazing with a fierce intent just before he brought her mouth to his in a thoroughly breathtaking kiss.

  The pressure and feel of his mouth slanting over hers was more than she’d ever encountered in all her life. She could not move, could not think. She knew only the feel of his lips over hers, the heat of his breath on her cheek.

  Rather than intimidate her, his bold kiss served to ignite a fire storm of excitement in Lissa. As if her body had a will of its own, her lashes drifted shut, and she leaned into the kiss, melting against his sturdy frame.

  Wylde fanned his fingers open against the back of her neck, then slowly slid his hand forward, tracing the outline of her jaw with his thumb.

  Lissa felt an immediate wave of pleasure flow through her. Without even thinking she lifted her hands, placing them atop his chest, her finger curling into the fine fabric of his coat. She held fast, not certain if she’d meant to slap him soundly for his boldness or to just simply touch him.

  Whatever her intent, she found herself now clinging to him, as though if she let go, she’d fall into some vast void of incoherent thought.

  Lissa knew she should not be reacting to his shocking behavior in such an unladylike way, but his provocative onslaught proved far too intriguing for her to ignore.

  He razed his mouth alongside her cheek and beyond, burning a path to the downy hair near her left ear.

  Lissa fought for breath, opening her eyes. She had a view of the many fly-angling poles nestled in their perches along the far wall. “Is—is this your idea of intimidating me?” she tried to demand, but the words passed her lips in barely a whisper. “If so, you… you’ve an odd opinion of intimidation, sir.”

  His lips brushed against her earlobe. “Perhaps I have only just begun.”

  She should have been frightened by those words, but was not. Instead, Lissa found herself very curious as to what his next “intimidating” tactic would be.

  She got her answer when she felt the tip of his tongue brush a feathery swirl against her lobe. A purely involuntary shiver whipped down her spine.

  “You smell of honeysuckle,” Wylde murmured.

  Lissa blinked, staring hard at the far wall, trying to mentally count the number of angling poles there, to decide what type of wood each was fashioned from, decipher each pole’s length and heartiness; anything but acknowledge the keen and newly discovered desire surging through her. It would not do at all to be physically swayed by the man, Lissa knew. She needed to keep her wits about her and not become yet another female victim of Wylde’s manly charms.

  “Your skin tastes of the morning’s dew,” he continued.

  Lissa, trembling, blinked again. Two African greenheart poles, she mentally said to herself, stubbornly trying not to become overwhelmed by his tactics. One of British Guyana lancewood, another made of Jamaican greenheart….

  It soon became decidedly difficult to concentrate on the angling rods; Wylde’s mouth moved higher, reaching the shell of her ear.

  Three of the poles are at least twelve feet in length; the others doubtless fourteen feet, Lissa thought, but then she heard and felt Wylde’s breath in her ear. Like a fanning flame—warm, erratic—it rushed inside of her, consuming any and all of her reservations.

  Lissa forgot about the angling rods. Her eyes drifted shut again.

  Wylde lowered his head, nuzzling his way down the long column of her neck, and then back up again. When he reached the underside of her chin, Lissa knew for certain she was completely lost to his lordship’s masterful onslaught.

  His lips soon found hers, claiming them with surprising tenderness, gently teasing each corner, and then slowly easing her mouth apart. She realized with a start that he wanted inside of her.

  Hesitantly, Lissa obeyed the unspoken command. Wylde’s tongue delved inside her mouth, searching out the moist recesses. Never before had she experienced such stark, stunning intimacy. But she wasn’t frightened. Instead, she felt a wave of curious and glorious feeling pour over her. He tasted clean. Like the cool morning air; like the nature she loved so much. When their tongues collided, Lissa felt as though her world had bottomed out and she was spinning in some purely physical realm where nothing mattered but the touch and feel of him.

  His thumbs caressed her cheeks as his tongue delved deeper inside her. It seemed that a volley of Roman candles exploded within Lissa. She felt transported up and out of her body. Felt, in fact, as though she’d died and had been lifted to a place that must surely be paradise. A soft, breathless sigh escaped her.

  At the sound of her pleasure, however, Wylde suddenly stiffened. Abruptly, he ended the kiss, pulling his face back.

  There came a moment of absolute silence and stillness.

  Lissa forced her eyes open, seeing only the obsidian depths of Wylde’s gaze. He studied her for a long breath of a moment.

  “Have you no fear of me?” he finally asked, his voice husky, demanding. “I could, after all, be the darkness that would steal your light… could be a man of scarce morals… someone who could eat you alive.”

  Lissa felt herself blush crimson. How could she charge him with possessing no morals when she herself had allowed him to kiss her so intimately?

  “You—you do not seem so terrible at the moment,” she whispered honestly, “and I doubt you could be so… so heartless as to do the things you just said.”

  The moment the word “heartless” passed her lips, Lissa wished she could snatch it back.

  Wylde’s gaze instantly shuttered. His body stiffened. “Faith,” he muttered. He reached up and firmly guided Lissa’s hands away from where they had been anchored against his chest. “I suggest you take yourself home. Now. Before either of us says or does something more we might come to regret.”

  He might just as well have thrown a bucket of icy river water in her face.

  Lissa felt her entire body burn with a hot blush, caused not only by her careless word choice, but also because of her wanton behavior thus far. She immediately dropped her hands to her lap and clasped them tight together. She felt Wylder’s hard gaze on her.

  “You must think t
he worst of me, sir,” she whispered, feeling miserable inside, “but I—I should like you to know that wh-what I just allowed to transpire between the two of us is… is something I’ve never done in my life before today.”

  “No?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, feeling the shame burn deep, deep inside of her—though not nearly as deep as the effect of his kisses had gone.

  Wylde touched one finger to her chin, forcing her to look up to him.

  Lissa thoroughly expected another tongue lashing. It never came.

  “For what it is worth, I never for one second thought otherwise,” he said.

  Lissa didn’t know whether to feel relieved or even more miserable. Was his comment meant to soothe—or did it indicate that her return kisses had been lacking, even schoolgirlish?

  She had no idea, and at the moment, since she’d so willingly allowed her good sense to fly with the wind, she did not dare to dissect the issue further. Too, she needed Lord Wylde to help her catch the trout that had eaten Lord Langford’s locket and also needed his presence to help ward off her many suitors. It was best that she just get beyond this uncomfortable moment and never, ever, let herself lose control with him again.

  “Yes, well,” Lissa said, clearing her throat and pulling back from the touch of his finger against her chin, “I—I think it wise we both forget about that—that bit of business. We should just agree that I, er, rather, the both of us, suffered a momentary lapse of good judgment, sir.”

  Wylde seemed not so eager to sweep their kisses under the rug. He lifted one brow. “So that is what it was?” he asked far too slowly, the sound of his voice doing odd things to the rhythm of Lissa’s heartbeat. ” ‘A bit of business… a lapse of good judgment’?”

  “Entirely,” she insisted, even though her body claimed otherwise. “I suggest we endeavor to continue on with our original pact. In fact, we should do so immediately.”

  Before Wylde could gainsay her—or worse, announce that their pact was null and void due to her shocking lapse of ladylike behavior and his own daring—Lissa turned back to the table and quickly gathered up her sketchbooks and journal, then chose an assortment of fly-tying accoutrements to take with them to the water’s edge.