Then she heard it. Footsteps. Whispers. Someone, or rather someones, had come outside.
She was about to make herself known when the voices stopped her short.
“She’s not who Geoffrey says she is. Fiancée indeed! I would sooner believe her the princess of Prussia.” A haughty sniff followed. It could belong to only one person—Violet Tremaine.
Geoffrey? Fiancée? It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to determine the person in question. Her. They were talking about her. A chill prickled Ada’s arms that had nothing to do with the night air.
“Then who is she?” A man’s voice—Cadwell Rutherford’s maybe.
“I don’t know. But I have every intention of finding out. She’s pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes, including senile Mrs. Buchanan. But the little upstart hasn’t fooled me. No matter what anyone says, she’s not been born and bred in society. And I won’t have Geoffrey wed to a lowlife. Perhaps the little hussy has him fooled, too.”
“What will you do about it, ma cherie?”
“I’ll write to Mrs. Hayward and ask if she has any connection with Ada McClane. She’s always do-gooding among the huddled masses, providing them employment and such. If anyone of our set knows the working class, it’s her. And I’m certain I’ve seen the chit somewhere before. After that, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m sure Mrs. Hayward will have some news for me.”
Oh no. Violet couldn’t write to Mrs. Hayward. If she did, Mrs. Hayward would undoubtedly look through her books and come across the list of extra help she’d hired last year. Then their secret would be out.
Poor Geoffrey. He sat inside blissfully unaware that their carefully laid plans dangled on a strand of fraying thread that could break at any second.
Leaving him without a fiancée, and her without a paycheck.
She’d tell him. After all, this wasn’t her fault. He’d finagled her into this scheme to begin with, he could wrangle their way out of it, too.
But how?
They’d think of something. They had to.
Another item to add to his growing list of information on Ada McClane.
She played killer croquet.
Indeed, she seemed intent on demolishing everyone else, lining up her shots with precise accuracy and whacking their balls to kingdom come. He could only watch, speechless, as her ball knocked against his and sent it flying into the next county.
A surefire way to work off the stress of the past few days. When she’d told him of Violet’s plans to demolish their facade, he hadn’t been surprised. Still, he wouldn’t have Ada disgraced. He’d see to it that Violet Tremaine was watched carefully. That letter would have to pass through Travers’s hands to get to the post office. And when it did, Geoffrey would make sure he got to it first.
“Good shot,” he called from across the lawn where he assisted Violet in lining up her next move. For a scheming vixen, she certainly put on a charming veneer.
“Thanks, darling,” Ada called back.
Ever since he’d danced with Violet the other night, she’d been stuck to him like a barnacle on a rusty hull. He never should have given in to her request to see if they could still do the tango. They’d participated in a competition last year and outdanced a group of fellow couples. Sure enough, they’d still been terrific.
Outwardly, Violet Tremaine was perfect in every way, did everything flawlessly. Except come up with ruination schemes and play croquet. Such perfection could be dreadfully annoying sometimes.
Now, Ada, on the other hand, couldn’t stop biting her lip to save her life, used the wrong fork at least once during every meal, came down for dinner in a tea dress and for tea in a dinner gown.
And played better croquet than anyone around.
He’d always liked a game of competitive croquet.
“Watch this shot.” They stood only a few feet from each other, both in the lead. She had a few points on him. He intended to claim them back.
She planted her fist on her hip and cocked her head.
He took careful aim and swung. The ball rolled only a pitiful few feet.
“What did you want me to watch?” She rolled her eyes. “Your incredible prowess?”
He took a step closer. Flushed cheeks, wild curls, and snapping green eyes stared back at him. A trickle of sweat dripped down her forehead. Contrast that with Violet’s straight-out-of-a-bandbox appearance.
“Absolutely.” He grinned.
She gave an exaggerated yawn. “Wake me up when you’re ready to stop playing like a girl.”
“Like a what?”
“Like a girl.” Her smile taunted him.
My, she did have spark. There wasn’t a woman in the Four Hundred who would dare talk to him like that. Except Mamie, probably.
“Just you wait, Miss Know-It-All. I haven’t even got warmed up.”
Challenge gleamed in her eyes.
Determination swelled through him. He would trounce her, if it was the last thing he did.
Her next turn sent her ball flying through two wickets. His through one. Two turns later—at the game’s end, she was still ahead. Not by much but, nonetheless, victorious.
He shook his head, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. Barely came up to his tiepin, yet the forest sprite could pummel him at croquet.
She sashayed up to him. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
He shrugged.
“Don’t tell me you’re too proud.” She shot him a saucy look.
All right, he’d admit it. She’d beaten him in croquet. But there was one area where he held the upper hand.
He pulled her toward him, her face inches from his. The fragrance of lemons washed over him, the scent of her hair warmed by the sun. Her chest rose and fell in jagged breaths.
He lowered his lips to hers. It lasted less than an instant, but he made it count. And an instant was all it took for the softness of her mouth and the warmth of her arms to brand themselves indelibly on his mind. She sighed softly.
He stepped back and took satisfaction in the shocked look in her eyes. Of course, she couldn’t slap him, since the entire field of croquet players had just witnessed what they’d thought to be a touching scene between two soon-to-be-married people.
“Congratulations, sweet Ada.” He grinned lazily and sauntered away, the memory of her kiss still blaring through his mind.
He shouldn’t have done that. She was his employee; they would part in less than a fortnight.
Yet, if he had the chance to do it over, blast it—
He still would’ve kissed her.
Chapter 8
The feel of his lips lingered on hers.
She hadn’t bargained on him kissing her. And she definitely hadn’t bargained for the rush of emotions when he had. It lasted barely a second, yet she’d spent hours replaying it in her mind. How he leaned toward her. The gentle, yet insistent pressure, his breath mingling with hers. She’d always wondered what it would be like to be kissed. Now she knew.
Wonderful. Breathtaking.
And guiltily addictive.
Even though they rode side by side, on mounts from the Meadowbrook stable, they’d barely spoken. She continued to play her part, yet if only he’d help her out by spending a little more time with Violet, and less with her. Not that it would be easy for him. Since their very public kiss three days ago, Miss Tremaine had pointedly ignored them both. Good. Since there was no knowing what Miss Tremaine would try next, it was best to let well enough alone.
“Nice weather today.” Geoffrey’s words hurled Ada from her thoughts. No one had wanted to join them on a ride through the woods, so they’d set off with only a groom accompanying them.
“Very nice.”
“Too bad it rained last night, or we could have had another croquet match.” He grinned.
For thunderation’s sake…
Yet turnabout was fair play, after all. “I’d rather streak through the house in my dressing gown than play another game of croquet with you.” The game
she’d enjoyed; it was what passed between the two of them she didn’t dare repeat.
A chuckle. “Streak through the house in your dressing gown? That could be arranged, though it probably would shock my mother. But do let me know when you’re going to do it so I can join you.”
She ground her teeth and gave her horse its head. The mount picked up his pace and forged ahead. Without Geoffrey to distract her, the tightness in the back of Ada’s neck unwound and she drew in a deep breath of peace. Here no streetcars clanged or bells rang. No people talked, no vendors hawked their wares. Only the chirp of birds and the gurgle of a nearby creek.
Lord, I sense You here. Help me to trust You during these final days. I so want to be a success and provide for Teddy. And Lord, I know it’s a strange request, but help me to stop thinking about Geoffrey’s kiss—
A whinny.
A shout.
A thud.
Ada spun her horse around. Geoffrey lay in the dirt, his mount a few feet away. Her breathing froze. She scrambled down. A sickening rip. Her riding habit.
She ran forward and knelt beside him.
“Geoffrey!” He lay perfectly still, eyes closed. “Geoffrey, can you hear me?” Her heart roared in her ears. Was he…? Had he…?
She could see the headlines now: MILLIONAIRE TRAGICALLY KILLED WHILE WITH FRAUD FIANCÉE. Get your papers now.
A low moan. Her breath rushed out all at once.
The groom crouched beside her. “Sir? You all right, sir?”
Geoffrey opened his eyes.
She wanted to cry with relief.
“Blasted horse,” he muttered.
“Where does it hurt?” She gingerly ran her fingers across his arms, his torso. Nothing seemed broken, but she was no doctor.
“My head. My foot.” He stared up at her, one hand clutching his leg.
She reached down and pulled off his shoe. His face tightened with pain. Next, his sock. Taking his foot in her hands, she rotated his ankle slowly. He groaned. It was already starting to swell, but it wasn’t broken.
Thank You, Lord.
“I think we’re going to have to amputate.” Teasing him might offer some slight distraction from the pain.
“As long as you hold my hand, I can take anything.” He smiled.
“As long as you give me my check, I’ll keep holding your hand.”
She moved on to his head, tunneling her hands through his thick, wavy hair. It slid through her fingers like corded silk. Heat braised her cheeks.
She hit a large bump in the back, and he expelled a hiss of air through gritted teeth.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“Good to know you at least have some bedside manner.”
Dust swirled in the air as the groom kicked his horse into a gallop and rode away. Hopefully, he’d hurry back with help.
Ada pulled off her jacket and rolled it into a pillow, placing it under Geoffrey’s head. A breeze chilled the air, so she undid the buttons of her blouse and laid it over him as a blanket. Leaving her wearing only a chemise and corset, her arms bare. She wrapped her arms together, her now tangled hair falling over her shoulders.
Goodness, she must look like a… like a…
“You’re terribly pretty right now.” He watched her through half-closed eyes.
“A gentleman would turn his head,” she retorted. She couldn’t let his concussion-induced words affect her, much as they begged to.
“Right now, I don’t feel like a gentleman.”
“Obviously.” She sat beside him, her skirt over her knees. Minutes dragged by. For goodness’ sake, where was the groom? “Can I get you anything?” She glanced at him. He didn’t move, his eyes closed, his mouth twitching with pain. The swelling of his ankle heightened, turning it purple.
“No,” he mumbled. “Just pray the groom returns before it gets dark.”
She nodded and bowed her head. More time passed. The sky turned from golden to gray.
“Maybe I could help you mount your horse, and we could ride back.”
“Let’s try that.” He pushed himself up to a sitting position. His jaw hardened with the effort, the muscles in his forearms bulging. At least he thought her lady enough not to swear in front of.
She pulled his horse over by the bridle, hoping it would stay put. She knelt beside Geoffrey, and he placed his arm over her shoulders.
“Ready?”
He nodded.
Using their combined weight, he pushed upward to a standing position. He looked at her, triumph in his eyes despite the pain.
“Now, let’s try walking.”
Slowly they took the few steps toward the horse. Each time he put his injured foot down, he sucked in a breath and leaned against her.
Voices sounded in the distance. The groom and someone else. Ada exhaled a relieved breath. She’d had no idea how she was going to get a man twice her size on that hulk of an animal, without the aid of a mounting block.
The rescue party had brought a cart, and together they managed to get Geoffrey situated comfortably. Ada slipped on her earth-bedecked blouse and jacket then returned to his side. “So”—he grinned at her—“not only are you a master at croquet, but you assist during dire emergencies with great efficiency. I have to hand it to you, fiancée mine,” he captured her fingers in his, “you’re a woman of many talents.”
Quite. Right now, she seriously needed to add another one to her repertoire.
Resisting him.
His ankle had swollen to twice its size. His head throbbed like it had been hit with a mallet. Yet with Ada beside him, it all faded to nothing.
She’d been beautiful, his forest sprite, wearing little else besides a corset and skirt, her hair in tangles over her shoulders. So beautiful that if he’d had the strength to move, he would have been sorely tempted to kiss her again.
Ada sat in a chair beside his couch in the small parlor, her head bent over a book, lips pursed in concentration. She’d ordered him to sleep, but watching her proved far more relaxing.
She looked up. “Have a nice rest?” She closed the book.
“Wonderful.” He rubbed his eyes, adding an exaggerated yawn.
“Everyone sends good wishes and hopes for a quick recovery.”
“How’s my mother taking it?” He raised himself to a sitting position. A glass of water sat on a table near him. He moved to reach for it, but she handed it to him first.
“After she got over the shock of seeing me arrive covered in dirt, she didn’t seem too concerned. She and Mamie are playing bridge.”
“I see you found new attire.” She wore another of the dresses he’d bought her, a greenish-blue flouncy thing made of some material he didn’t recognize. Made her eyes look pretty though.
“Indeed.”
“What were you reading?” He glanced at the title on the spine of her book. War and Peace? Astonishing. Yet he should have known by now that Ada McClane was no dime-novel-reading miss. It wouldn’t have gone with her practical, croquet-annihilating self.
She held up the book.
Yes, War and Peace. He raised a brow. “Impressive.”
“Have you read it?”
He shook his head. “Have you?”
She nodded, a tiny grin flickering across her mouth. “Twice.”
“You’re joking.” Once, he could believe. Maybe. But twice?
“Now why would I joke about something like that?” She drummed her fingers on the book.
“I swear to believe you if you read to me.” Him, a grown man, wanting to be read to like a little boy? Yet the allure of hearing her voice proved too tempting to resist.
“Since you’ve never read this book, and I don’t want it on my conscience that you’re behind the times, and since you are paying me a hefty amount of money to be here, yes, I will.”
“Thank you.” He settled himself against the mound of pillows.
She opened the book. The cadence of her voice purled through his veins like liquid honey, and as her words ran
on, every fiber of his being melted into relaxation. He didn’t care much for the story, but the way she read it, emphasizing the right parts… perfection. On and on she read, until he forgot about the pain in his foot, the stresses of the day, and the fact that in such a short time, this would all be over.
Suddenly, he didn’t want it to be. He’d give his millions, his houses, everything, to stay here in this moment, for years to come. Spending time with her, bantering with her, letting her tell him off. Kissing her.
Moments like those, you couldn’t put a price tag on.
She closed the book. “Did you enjoy the story?”
“Very much. Come to think of it, it’s the first time anyone’s ever read me one.” He didn’t say the words to incite pity, but the look she gave him shot straight to his heart.
“No one has ever read you a story before?” She placed the book on the table.
He shrugged. “Have you seen my mother? Does she strike you as the type to curl up in bed in pajamas and read Mother Goose?”
She shook her head with a sheepish smile. “What about your nanny?”
“The one who hated my very existence? She’d rather have eaten a snake. In her defense, I wasn’t exactly the best of little boys. Surly and noncompliant, with a bit of a temper. I used to lock myself in my room and bang my head on the floor, wishing I could become someone other than myself.”
“Why?” She refilled his water glass from the pitcher on the table.
He needed to stop. He’d already revealed too much. Yet she looked at him with true interest, and like that long-ago day on the train, he found himself telling her everything. “Thinking back on it, I just wanted a friend. Someone to talk to who would actually listen. I would have friends over to play, but they seemed more interested in playing with all the toys I had than in interacting with me. My train set was a pretty good substitute, though. I used to name every single car and would talk to them for hours.”
“If I had known you then, I would’ve talked to you.” She handed him the glass.
The Most Eligible Bachelor Romance Collection: Nine Historical Romances Celebrate Marrying for All the Right Reasons Page 5
