by Amelia Nolan
“Did Marian let slip the dogs of war again?” her father had asked her harried mother on more than one occasion.
It could have been the end of her publishing career.
Luckily the imp could take as good as he gave. For that she was thankful. It became a game… which she supposed she had won.
But when Lord Pemberly asked what books she wrote in the style of… she had to tell the truth.
What else could she have done? All her writings were rather lurid romances. She could hardly tell the man she was writing the next Gulliver’s Travels and then hand him a salacious novel about a sultan’s harem.
The only problem was that she had to tell the truth in front of Mr. Blake.
She saw the look in his eyes. The shock.
But after that look… she was not so sure.
He was expecting a blushing, dainty virgin in white, she had thought bitterly at the time. Well, I am not that.
He was attracted to her before, she knew it. The very first look he had given her, the day she arrived, had sent her into raptures. That was followed by polite coldness when he found out she was a servant. At first she thought it was because he despised her for being a commoner – which made her angry, but also made her want him more, if she were going to be honest.
Then he had saved her from his brother’s advances, and shown a renewed interest that led her to be too forward. As a result, he had retreated into coldness again and left her standing there alone.
Hot, then cold. Hot, then cold.
Then the parlor and the introduction to Lord Pemberly. Blake’s hilarity at her witticisms, his attempts to come to her aid.
His shock at her admissions.
She had left the parlor quite sure that he would never speak to her again. In fact, she had been sitting in the garden fretting over it – to come so close to his affections yet again, only to have him yank them away.
And then… what had transpired in the garden.
Good Lord.
She went over the whole thing in her mind again and again: the muscular firmness of his arm. The warmth of his skin. The dark pools of his eyes as he looked down at her… the smell she had breathed in, clean and masculine, that had scented his shirts in the wardrobe… the taste of his mouth, spiced with wine, as his lips found hers.
The thrills of pleasure that had shivered along her skin as he had traced along the curve of her neck.
The lightest sigh of breath in her ear, and the fierce heat and wetness it had brought to her thighs.
The way he had cupped her breast and slowly grazed her nipple with his thumb, torturing her with wanting more.
The unexpected hardness and size of what she had felt beneath the cloth of his trousers when she pressed against his body – which had only doubled the heat between her legs.
She had wanted him to take her right then and there, to lay her down upon the ground and enter her, to possess her, to fill her entirely.
And then… he had backed away.
She remembered his look of horror, as though he could not believe what he had almost done… with a commoner.
She had held out her arms to him, begging him to come back to her.
He turned his back on her once again.
Hot, then cold.
This final barrage of fire and ice had finally broken her heart, she was sure of it.
She had not slept a wink when the morning sun began to peek through her blinds.
She hauled herself to her feet, her eyes scratchy with invisible sand, and trudged through her preparations for the day.
At breakfast she ate nothing. No one spoke to her – they only gossiped about Lord Pemberly and all his ‘degenerate exploits’ in London.
She froze in horror.
Lord Pemberly.
The manuscript.
She ran back upstairs and flung open her wardrobe, then rifled through the piles of papers on the floor. Several were tied with ribbon, and she looked back and forth between them anxiously, wondering which she should give him.
Finally she settled on her most recently completed work. It was not her most polished, but the characters were the best, and the romance was by far the most ardent.
She flew back down the stairs into the great hall – only to realize that no one was stirring yet but the servants. And of course old Lord Blake, who was yelling in the dining room for his breakfast.
She worked in an agitated state the next few hours, checking the windows every few seconds, afraid that she would see Lord Pemberly racing away in his carriage, waving back at her mockingly.
At lunch she ate only a few crusts of bread and drank a little tea, her stomach was so tied in knots. Between Blake and Pemberly – the two men who held her happiness in their careless, fickle hands – she was almost on the verge of hysteria.
Finally, at half past twelve, she heard the clopping of horses’ hooves on gravel.
Her heart seized in her chest, and she ran to the nearest window, terrified that she would see the coach-and-four receding in the distance.
It was only pulling up to the circular drive.
She raced down the stairs, clutching the manuscript in her hands, and burst through the front door – only to find the startled footmen loading up the luggage.
She stood over in the bushes and waited, praying that her aunt would not find her there and force her back into the house.
After about fifteen minutes of waiting, Blake and Lord Pemberly exited the front door into the courtyard. The imp was dressed impeccably, but his face was haggard and pale, and he lurched a bit as he walked. Besides trousers and boots, Blake wore only a loose shirt that showed off his muscular chest and shoulders.
Marian’s heart skipped a beat, though she was furious with it for doing so.
“Are you sure you’re well enough to make the trip?” Blake asked.
“Some hair o’ the dog that bit me shall set me right,” the imp burped.
“It’s seven hours’ ride.”
“Luckily the dog had quite a bit of hair.”
Blake laughed. “I hope last evening was worth it.”
“Pemberly’s First Axiom of Alcohol: the epic scope of the night before can only be judged by the resultant pain the following morning. Judging from my current condition, dear Blake, I dare say we bested both The Iliad and The Odyssey combined. Perhaps with The Aeneid thrown in for good measure.”
She did not want to approach Pemberly with Blake present, but what choice did she have? No choice at all, unless she wanted to dash her only opportunity against the rocks… and hope, perhaps for years, for another passing chance.
Blake had given her a sleepless night and made her feel a fool, damn him. She would not let him rob her of her dreams, too.
They were already at the carriage door. In a moment he would be gone.
“Lord Pemberly!” she cried out as she ran for the carriage.
The servants all looked alarmed.
Blake turned around, his face suddenly whiter than Pemberly’s.
The imp shuddered and closed his eyes. “Not… so… loud.”
“I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly, and held out her manuscript with the ribbon tied around it. She refused to look at Blake, who stared at her as though he had seen a ghost.
Pemberly squinted down at the sheaf of papers as though he couldn’t quite make out what he was looking at.
“My book,” she prodded him. “You promised to take a look at it…?”
His squinting eyes rose up to hers. There was not a bit of recognition in them.
Her heart nearly stopped. She had never considered that all his agreements were made in a drunken stupor, and that he might not remember them the next day.
Pemberly’s valet moved to take her by the arm. Terror rattled inside of her, and she shrugged away his hand.
“The parrot?” she asked frantically. “The duel? Les bijoux indiscrets?”
“Oh, yes, the parrot!” Pemberly said, nodding, and waved away his valet wit
h a flap of one hand. “Yes, I remember you. And the fee,” he smirked at Blake.
Blake’s pale cheeks flushed bright red.
Though she wasn’t exactly sure what Pemberly meant, she could guess, and her cheeks burned scarlet as well. Did Blake brag about it this morning? she thought angrily. The bastard!
Then she remembered that there had not been much to brag about. Or rather, that there could have been far, far more to brag about – and yet he had stopped short. She was confused all over again.
“So, is this your masterpiece?” Pemberly sighed.
“I will let you be the judge of that, m’lord.”
“Lovely,” he said, in a tone that indicated he thought it was anything but.
He took the package from her hands and turned to get in the carriage.
“M’lord,” she said.
Pemberly paused wearily, then turned around with a tight smile on his face. “Yes?”
“Please keep it safe, m’lord. It is my only copy.”
“Ohhhh, your only copy. In that case, I shall try to remember not to wipe my arse with it during my trip,” Pemberly said, and turned back to the carriage.
“M’lord,” she said, anger rising in her voice.
Blake looked like he was about to have a heart attack.
“WHAT?” Pemberly snapped as he whirled around, then immediately held his hand to his forehead, winced in pain, and steadied himself against the carriage.
“Whether you publish it or not, do I have your word that you will keep my manuscript safe until I can retrieve it?”
“Until you can…” Pemberly repeated with a mumble, then laughed mockingly. “Miss… Willows, was it? I assure you, I shall guard it as jealously as I would the golden fleece.”
She tried to add humor to what was turning into an ugly farewell. “Then beware men named Jason, m’lord.”
“Yes, well, you should beware men named Evan, lest he attempt to put his hands on your own…”
Here Pemberly’s eyes dropped lasciviously down beneath her waist.
“…golden fleece.”
As Pemberly climbed into the carriage, she saw Blake ball up his fists. His face darkened.
“If only he would try, m’lord,” she answered. “But I think he would rather stay in his boat.”
All the anger drained from Blake as he looked at her in shock.
Pemberly laughed uproariously and leaned through the open window of the carriage door.
“I must say, I am now one thousand percent more interested in your manuscript, Miss Willows. And you!” he barked as he pointed at Blake. “Attend to your fee! Never work for free, man! Pemberly’s First Posulate of Publishing!”
As Blake blushed fiery red once again, Pemberly pounded on the carriage wall. “Away, Nicholls!”
The driver snapped his whip, and the carriage started down the drive. Pemberly’s right arm jutted out of the window and waved before disappearing back inside.
Blake did not watch the departing carriage, though. He stared only at Marian.
Without looking at him – indeed, she had not met his gaze once the entire time – she haughtily turned her back on him and went inside.
10
Weeks passed, and the warmth of spring gave way to the heat of summer. This year was unusually hot and muggy, worse than any in recent memory. The temperature alone would have made life uncomfortable, but the humidity made it unbearable.
Evan rode alone through the meadows of Blakewood. He wore only a loose shirt along with his trousers and boots, and still he was drenched in sweat. Shimmers of heat rose up over the dry grass, and insects buzzed all around him.
It had been two weeks since Pemberly’s visit, with no word of how badly he had fared with his father.
In that same time, Andrew’s anger at him had not abated. The temporary thaw at dinner that night had lapsed back into deepest winter.
Worse, it had been two weeks since had spoken to or even seen Marian.
He had caught glimpses of her in the hallways, but nothing more. When he did see her, she would immediately turn and walk the other direction, or disappear into one of the passageways the servants used.
Every time, it was a needle through his heart. But he was not about to run after her.
Part of him was angry. Had he not given her the opportunity of her young life by introducing her to Pemberly? She was a common servant girl, and yet he had delivered her work into the hands of a publisher.
Well, not an established publisher…
…or even a successful one… yet.
But a publisher nonetheless.
Then he would remember the morning of Pemberly’s departure and groan inwardly.
Evan had woken that morning with a pounding headache. As the events of the night before came back to him like hazy memories of a dream, he was seized with both ecstasy and shame.
The ecstasy was understandable. For a moment he had held in his arms the woman he wanted more than any other. For a moment, he had everything that he wanted.
The shame was more complicated. Part of him was aghast that he had broken his rule. He had crossed the line he had drawn for himself, and almost taken the honor of a young woman who was under his protection.
He argued with himself that she was far less innocent than she seemed – but that did not invalidate his rule, nor excuse him breaking it.
But there was a shame that galled him on a deeper level. He had wanted her so badly – why had he not taken her? What man would look upon the gates of Paradise and then flee from them?
It was not as though he were forcing himself on her. She had welcomed – nay, enthusiastically returned his advances!
That part of him – the dark voice that sneered at his ‘honor,’ that berated his weakness – insisted that should he ever get the chance again, he must seize it. No more of this limp moralizing. He should take what he wanted, without remorse or indecision.
That part of him had grown louder in the passing weeks. At the same time, it had also become clear that Marian was consciously spurning him.
And he knew why. He had acted like a petrified schoolboy. He had behaved like a man no woman would ever want in her bed.
Evan had hoped that his dishonorable actions of the night before would recede into the distance, and that he would never have to be reminded of them again.
But then Marian appeared. When she did not pine like a lovelorn maiden, nor play along as though nothing had happened, but instead refused to even acknowledge his existence – that had mortified him further.
Then Pemberly had to the gall to utter the crudest of remarks – to not only insult her honor, but Evan’s as well!
But rather than be shocked and outraged, she had returned his vulgarity with one of her own! One that left no question how she viewed Evan: as a neutered, impotent eunuch.
Once again, the shame.
And the anger – at her, at Pemberly –
But mostly at himself.
She had thrust a mirror before him that revealed how she saw him. All his faults and insufficiencies were laid bare in its cruel reflection.
He knew, though, that Pemberly had meant his comments in jest.
She had not.
It still galled him.
The effrontery!
Even now, he returned from his daydreams to the real world and found his teeth set on edge.
He sighed, wiped the sweat from his brow, and forced Bucephalus onward.
A swim would do him good.
About a mile from the house was a pond. It sat at the edge of a deep woods where the men of the family had hunted for generations. The pond was about an acre in size, and unusually clear and deep. Evan and Andrew had spent many a boyhood summer day there swimming and play-fighting in its cool waters.
He wanted nothing more than to get away from the house, if only for a little while. The swelter of the heat was bad enough; the knowledge that Marian was somewhere within its walls, avoiding him, was even worse.
&
nbsp; As his horse came around the edge of the woods and was about to break into the clearing where the pond lay, Evan heard splashing. He cursed silently. It was probably children from the neighboring farms and parcels of land his family owned. He could not very well bathe naked with a gaggle of children staring at him, and though the land was off-limits to them, he was not about to run off a bunch of boys trying to escape the oppressive heat. He sighed. He would wait in the cooler shadows of the trees. Perhaps they would finish soon, and he could swim in peace.
But as he dismounted from Bucephalus and tied his reins to a tree, he was surprised by how quiet the children were. No cries, no screams of laughter, no thrashing in the water.
He walked quietly through the trees and came to the edge of the woods.
There were no children in the water.
It was a woman, young and beautiful.
She was turned away from him so he could not see her face. She was about fifteen feet away from the shore, waist-deep in the pond. She wore only a simple cotton shift. She had obviously been all the way underwater, because the soaked cloth clung to her curves. He could see the rosy pink of her skin under the wet cotton, which was not only translucent but almost transparent. Her wet hair hung in dark, golden tangles down her neck and over one shoulder.
Evan felt his face flush. His manhood began to expand and thicken with desire.
He knew he should not be here watching her. It was ungentlemanly. He was taking advantage of her by staying here. He must leave.
But after weeks of unresolved longing for Marian, and all his fruitless obsession over her, he wanted desperately to not want her anymore – and here was a woman just as beautiful as she, a fantasy made flesh.
I only want to see her face, he thought, not admitting that if she turned, he would see much more of the woman than her face, given how the wet cotton plastered itself to her skin.
I only want to see her face, and then I shall leave.
Seconds later, the woman completely submerged in the water. When she stood up again, she turned around towards Evan.
It was Marian.
His heart stopped beating, then suddenly began to race like a galloping horse.
