That done, she quickly got to her feet, managed to maneuver her way around the bench, then made a hasty path for the door. She did not wait for Wylde to open the portal for her, but instead opened it herself and then hurried outside, into the morning’s light.
Once there, Lissa paused alongside the profusion of wildflowers and took in several gulps of cool air.
She was amazed that she’d raced out of the river hut like a ninny, more so that she’d allowed him to take such liberties with her, and still more so that she’d responded to his kisses with such wanton passion. What must he think of her?
She heard Wylde inside, gathering up his angling equipment. He seemed in no particular hurry to join her.
It was just as well. Lissa needed these scant few seconds alone to gather up not only her dignity, but her resolve as well.
While she waited for him, Lissa repositioned the fly-tying necessities and her sketchbooks in one hand, then laid her journal atop the pile and hastily scribbled a list of to-dos on the back page.
Directly beneath what she’d written earlier that morning, she drew a rather unsteady line, then listed the following: Keep to course. No more lapses of judgment. None. She underscored the latter entry.
Wylde came out the door. Lissa flipped the journal shut just as he let the latch fall into place.
“You are ready?” he asked. It seemed that his protracted stay inside had been time enough to lessen the dark look of intent in his gaze and to also give some space to their combined lack of propriety.
Lissa felt a small sense of relief. “Very ready, sir,” she answered.
“This way, then,” was all he said, and he led the way back to the river, acting as though he’d not kissed Lissa so thoroughly as to make her see starlight and sunshine all wrapped into one….
*
As Lissa left the river hut with Lord Wylde, there was a stirring of intrigue and gossip brewing within all the hamlets of Derbyshire—one of Lissa’s employees at the eye of it all. The raw-boned Mrs. Rachett, enjoying her moment in the sun, told one and all what she’d overheard about her lady and the Heartless Lord Wylde.
The old woman shared her second-hand knowledge with not only the milliner, the baker and even her godson who oversaw the stables, but also with the third cousin who could cook a duck to perfection at the busiest inn of Derbyshire, as well as her good friend who polished the pews for the rector at Ashbourne Church, with her great-nephew who often helped transport the Mails aboard the Royal Mail Coach, with her childhood friend’s daughter who now baked confections at the far end of the smallest shire, and even with the newsboy from whom she sometimes purchased the print from London that happened a week or so ago in the Metropolis.
Before Mrs. Rachett left for Clivedon Manor just a scant three hours after arriving in the village, nearly everyone in every establishment and beyond had heard of Lady Lissa’s scandalous liaison with the sixth Earl of Wylde, the very same who had made a notorious name for himself as a heartless beast of London Town.
The gossip grew to a fever pitch. By mid-afternoon, the lovely Lady Lissa was said to have become enamored of his lordship… and mayhap even besmirched by him.
The tale succeeded in whipping through all the hamlets of Derbyshire, skimming the very hills… until it seemed even the River Dove pulsed with a curious energy.
Who would have thought the exquisite, perfectly perfect Lady Lissa—the very lady who knew so many fine offers for her hand in marriage but had gainsaid them all—would willingly entangle herself in the dastardly web of a man know as the Heartless One?
Several prayers were whispered in Ashbourne Church for Lady Lissa. Even the rector knelt and offered a heartfelt prayer, for he knew what a fire storm all this gossip would create for his lovely parishioner. He’d married Lissa’s parents, had christened the girl, and had been the one to stand over the graves of her fine parents. To hear that the young lady had chosen such a dangerous path worried him no small amount. He decided it was time to pay a visit to the lovely Lady Lissa Lovington….
Chapter 5
Lissa looked up at Lord Wylde, who stood beside her near the water’s edge. The sun was fully up and shining on them with a bright patch of heat. Since leaving the lodge, they had fallen back into a mode of trout angling and had—thankfully—left any and all mention of their shared kisses behind.
In the interim, Lissa had managed to study the flies flitting above the Dove and instantly decided that the handmade ones she’d created in the river hut were all wrong.
“If you do not mind,” she said aloud, sitting on a rock by the riverbank and pulling out all the supplies she’d brought with her, “I believe I shall tie a handmade fly of my own creation.”
She bent her head, getting to work.
Lord Wylde stared down at her. “What about the green-drake, and the other fly?”
“Not quite right,” Lissa murmured, her mind on her task.
“But I thought they were your chosen flies.”
“I was mistaken. That happens, y’know. An angler can plot and plan all he wants before reaching the water about what type of fly to use, but once at the water the accomplished angler will always reassess things.”
“Reassess?”
“That’s right. Just as the wind will shift, flies will come and go. Whatever fly you thought best might not be at all the desired choice.” She studied the feathers she’d brought, and the hooks as well. “Nature can be tricky, Lord Wylde. One must always be prepared.”
He digested all she said. “And are you, my lady,” he asked, “prepared?”
“Of course,” Lissa replied. “I’ve brought with us all manner of feathers and threads and hooks. An accomplished angler is accustomed to forgoing his preparations and will simply allow the sight of the nature surrounding him to choose his course of action.”
“So what you are saying, then, is that in spite of all your knowledge of insects, you really haven’t a clue as to what will entice a trout to move toward a hook.”
Lissa frowned up at him. “What I am saying is that an angler must prepare to be flexible in his methods of hooking a trout. And I am that. Now, if you’ll just move to the side, so that I can get the best of the sunlight, I shall construct an odd type of fly that is a sum and whole of the insects now buzzing about.”
Wylde indulged her, though appeared skeptical. “I see no single, perfect fly.”
“Precisely,” Lissa said, energized by the fact that they were now embarking—finally—on a course to catch the elusive trout. “The fly I shall create will be a collection of the many flies flitting about. We shall ‘make do,’ as my father used to say.” She busily tied some feathers and thread around a rather large hook. “There. This is it,” she said.
Wylde looked at the hook she presented him. ” ‘Tis huge,” he said.
Lissa nodded, pleased with her handiwork. “And colorful. If you can cast it correctly into the water, it will be the perfect bait.”
“If I can cast it correctly?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I do not. Pray tell, what exactly is your meaning?”
Lissa stood up. “Cast the line with purpose, of course. This is the point in our bargain, sir, when your knowledge comes to the fore,” Lissa said, trying not to notice that he was staring at her overly long. “I am adept only at recreating nature on a hook, not at casting. You, sir, will be the one to place the hook in the water and entice our trout to strike.”
Lissa moved to get a better view of the fallen log and the water pooling around it. She spied several trout bellying-up near the bottom. “There is a trio of them there, sir.”
Wylde finally pulled his gaze away from her. “Where?”
“There. About a yard away from the middle of the log. They appear to be slumbering. No doubt they are watching the water above them for any signs of a tasty fly.”
“I see them,” said Wylde finally. “And there are four, not three.”
Lissa squinted her eye
s. “Ah, yes. Four. Right you are, sir. And two of them are large enough to perhaps be our trout,” she enthused.
Becoming excited, Lissa moved along the bank, careful not to step on any twigs that were half-in and half-out of the water. She knew that any disturbance in the water would frighten the fish away.
She knelt down, not caring that she was muddying the hems of her bright skirt, and taking care not to get too close to the water’s edge. “May I suggest a long cast, one that gives the trout a cross-river view?” she whispered.
“Suggest away,” Wylde said.
Lissa crouched down even more. “Yes. A cross view is best, I think. Lay the fly down atop the water there.” She pointed to a spot near the other bank. “Do so very gently, and then drag the fly back toward you, making a wake in the water, much like something edible swimming above the trout would make.”
“By all means, Lady Lissa.” Wylde zinged out a long cast, laying the long line down perfectly and gently atop the water. He then instantly began to hand retrieve the silk line, causing Lissa’s handmade fly to move like a living insect.
“That is it,” said Lissa, pleased and very caught up in the moment. “Now do remember you must watch for a strike as you are pulling your line back toward you. When you are turning the fly back toward you is most probably when a fish will strike. You do not want to pull too fast, however, or you will get a short strike.”
Wylde did as she instructed. He expertly brought the line back toward him, lifting the rod tip slightly and making the handmade fly move in the water as though it were alive and flitting earnestly through the River Dove.
Halfway back, the line became taut.
Lissa jumped up.
“You have caught one!” she exclaimed, extremely pleased. She raced to stand beside Wylde. “Now whatever you do, do not allow the trout to run all over this water hole. You must pull him in efficiently and with little fuss. A big trout will try and take your line all over the area, perhaps cutting your silk on some sharp rock, tangling it beneath and around fallen branches, or even cutting the line by wrapping it around its gills.”
“I can take care of matters from here,” said Wylde, his features intent as he focused on bringing in the fish on his line.
The trout fought him every inch of the way, flipping and splashing in the water.
“Oh, but he is huge,” Lissa said, her excitement mounting. “You may very well have caught our trout, Lord Wylde!” She beamed a smile up at him.
Wylde, however, was too busy wrangling with the heavy trout on the other end of his line. With much expertise, he managed to bring the fish to the end of the downed log. He unclasped the catching net he carried alongside his belt, intending to scoop the big trout into the belly of it.
“No,” Lissa gasped.
He jerked his gaze to hers. “Now what?”
“No net,” Lissa insisted.
“Faith,” he muttered, “I thought every angler used a net.”
“Then you’ve been misguided. Really, sir, a net is not a natural thing for a trout. You should beach the fish atop the gravel near the river’s side. A huge trout will relax if it is rubbing against something familiar. He will prove easier to deal with that way and will not try to struggle away.”
Without even thinking, Lissa reached out and folded her hands atop Wylde’s, helping him to guide the trout to the gravel bed alongside the river.
The sudden contact of her bare skin atop his jarred Lissa to the quick.
There was power in his lordship; she could feel it pulse through his strong, sturdy hands. She remembered vividly the feel of those large hands cradling her face as he’d kissed her… could remember again the feel of them about her waist as he’d saved her from a tumble into the river. Lissa felt her face heat with a strong blush.
Though Wylde was thoroughly focused on the trout at the other end of the line, he seemed just as aware of the contact of their bare skin.
Timidly, Lissa strove to get a better grip on the pole, but to do so she had to thread her fingers with his. She was amazed to realize how perfectly her hands clasped with his over the end of the long pole.
“A—allow me to aid you,” Lissa murmured, embarrassed by how easily she’d dared to touch him.
Wylde said nothing, but she felt the deep heat of his gaze.
In the next instant, however, all the nervousness of touching him vanished as the huge trout flipped up and out of the water, struggling against the hook that had caught it.
Both Lissa and Wylde held fast to the pole, and together the two of them brought the trout toward them. They beached it on the gravel, bending down side by side as they peered down at the trout’s body.
The fish was beautiful. It was spotted with reddish gold and blue spots… and it was huge—but not nearly as huge as the dark trout that had swallowed Lissa’s locket.
“It isn’t the one,” Lissa lamented, despair in her voice.
“No,” Wylde agreed. “It isn’t. It is not as long, not as dark.”
Lissa wanted to cry. “I had so hoped it would be the trout we are after.”
Wylde studied the fish. “It is the largest trout I have ever caught.”
Lissa was unimpressed. She’d seen countless huge trout.
“But it isn’t our trout, “she insisted. She got to her feet. “Take it, if you must. I can see by the look on your face this catch pleases you.”
What she was thinking about were the rumors she’d heard that the Heartless Lord Wylde enjoyed slicing open the neck of any trout he caught. She’d heard that he kept any fish—no matter how big or how small—and immediately butchered it while at the water’s edge, enjoying every moment of killing and then gutting it.
Lissa turned her back to the water, not wanting to watch as his lordship proved truth to the rumors and made fast work of snuffing out the life of the trout.
She hugged her arms about her waist, taking a deep breath of air, awaiting the sounds of the trout being prepared for a frying pan.
The ugly sounds never came. Instead, Lissa heard the gentle splashing of water.
She turned about. Lord Wylde was lowering the trout into the water. With a carefulness that astonished her, he quickly and expertly removed the hook from the trout’s lower jaw, taking a moment to run one hand along the smooth belly of the fish as he gently reintroduced it to the river. The trout squirmed. Cradling the creature, he lowered it deeper into the water, and then, with an almost reverent unfolding of his hands, he allowed the trout to break free and swim away.
He stayed crouched at the water’s edge, watching the river long after the fish darted for cover. After a moment, as though sensing Lissa’s gaze upon him, he glanced back at her.
“You look surprised,” he said.
“I—I thought you would keep it.”
Wylde got to his feet. He yanked a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and brusquely wiped the wetness from his hands. “No, what you thought is that I would kill it. Immediately. Without hesitation.”
His bald words slammed into Lissa. She wanted to refute the statement, she truly did. She even opened her mouth to speak, but closed it just as quickly. What he said was the truth, and though Lissa wished to deny that truth, she couldn’t—or rather, wouldn’t. She was already being deceitful enough with the man in her hopes of utilizing his presence to ward off her many suitors. She would not add more to it.
“I thought as much,” he growled.
Wylde’s gaze moved suddenly to a spot somewhere beyond Lissa. There came an irascible set to that strong jaw of his. “We’ve company,” he muttered, nodding to the thick foliage behind her.
Lissa turned, spying the brightness of Tilly’s bonnet and red curls as the maid clumsily tried to conceal herself and approach the river without being seen.
“It appears your abigail has gathered her courage and returned to the scene where she left her lady with the likes of whatever kind of beast she believes I am.”
Lissa wanted to throttle Tilly at that
very moment. The girl was actually slinking through the thicket!
Embarrassed, Lissa returned her gaze to Wylde and noted the firm set to his mouth.
“My maid is overly dramatic, sir. Please, pay her no mind. I will call her forth and speak to her about her ridiculous behavior of this morning.”
“I doubt,” Lord Wylde said, his voice as ominous as thunderheads, “that the chit will willingly come out of hiding as long as I am standing near.”
Lissa felt a certain panic. “You do not mean to leave, do you?”
“It would no doubt be best for your abigail, and mayhaps even the two of us, that I did not linger here beside you.” His gaze was so dark it was unreadable, but the sound of his words were unmistakably rich with something Lissa could not quite describe—anger, yes… but something else as well; regret, perhaps?
“But no matter what your maid, or even you, may believe of my character,” Wylde continued, “I am not one to break a vow.”
Lissa felt a perfect widgeon. “I never said—” she began.
“You didn’t have to,” he cut in.
A silence fell between them much like the blade of a guillotine. Lissa clamped her mouth shut tight, embarrassed.
Wylde took that moment to retrieve his gear. “I shall angle at the other side of the river,” he said.
So saying, he maneuvered his way atop the downed log, then made fast work of moving across the water, easily jumping down to the bank on the other side, leaving Lissa and her abigail alone.
Lissa silently watched him. Even though he now stood at the opposite side of the water, she could see clearly that whatever gains she’d made with him while bringing in the trout had obviously been shattered by Tilly’s cloak-and-dagger return to the river.
Lissa turned about, her teeth grinding together. “If you know what is best for you, Tilly,” she said in a harsh whisper, “you will stand upright and walk toward me with your head held high, and you will not act afraid. Is that clear?”
A patch of white, and then a riotous red of curls, could be seen as Tilly, all atremble, rose to her full height from the midst of the thicket.
Lady Lissa's Liaison (To Woo an Heiress, Book 1) Page 6
