But she did not dare.
First, because she honestly did not want to annoy him and second because the formality served as a convenient way to distance herself from their previous inappropriate behavior.
They had been in each other’s company several times since the incident and had never made any mention of the kiss they had shared. She knew it was for the best, knew that was truly the only way she could remain his
“companion.”
Yet she constantly wondered if he thought about it as often as she did.
They arrived at the picnic. Emma got her wish and held regally to Lord Fairhurst’s left arm, while Gwendolyn held his right. As they greeted their hosts, Gwendolyn noted a vague irritation flashed in Mrs. Bartwell’s eyes, but it vanished quickly and she was gracious and welcoming.
They said hello to several of the other guests and then, at Emma’s suggestion, they hiked up a small slope, climbing three abreast, the viscount in the center. They debated where to rest once they reached the top until the viscount selected a spot with both sun and shade where they could easily observe the picnic.
Lord Fairhurst’s groom, who shadowed them at a respectable distance, was sent to fetch a blanket. When he returned and set it out, they each took a comfortable spot.
Emma chatted amicably with the viscount and Gwendolyn was glad her exuberant sister was along to carry the conversation. As the two conversed, Gwendolyn was content to enjoy the lovely weather and surroundings, drinking in the wide views over the lush green fields to the glimmering water on the lake.
The sun shone brightly overhead and the air held a gentle breeze. The wind tugged a few wisps of hair from her tightly pinned chignon, but Gwendolyn did not fuss over her appearance. Instead, she turned her face upward to be warmed by the sun, moving her head slowly from side to side in the breeze.
“Best be careful or else you will ruin your complexion,” the viscount warned.
Gwendolyn would have been pleased at the concern he was paying her, if he had not sounded so much like a fussy aunt. “A few freckles are hardly the end of the world,” she intoned lightly, keeping her head steady. She waited for an additional scolding, but it did not happen.
“Are you ladies hungr y?” the viscount asked. “I can signal for one of my grooms and have him fetch us a basket of food.”
“What an inspired idea.” Emma leaped to her feet. “I shall go along to ensure only the best morsels are selected. Do you have any particular requests, my lord?”
“Surprise me, my dear.”
Emma blushed with delight and hurried away. Gwendolyn waited until she was out of earshot before speaking.
“She is quite taken with you.”
Lord Fairhurst shrugged. “It has not escaped my notice.”
Gwendolyn caught the waving wisps of her hair that had blown free and tucked them behind her ear. “I appreciate your kindness and patience toward her, but would ask that you tread softly. Emma is at a very impres-sionable age.”
“She strikes me as a very sensible young woman,” he commented.
Gwendolyn sighed. “She probably has the most common sense of all of us. But she is very young.”
“And I, no doubt, seem very old to her and therefore a safe individual upon which to practice her flirting. I find her flattery charming.”
“’Tis far more than flattery when it’s true and spoken with sincerity.”
“Bravo! Now that is an expert bit of flirting,” he said in a deep, warm voice. “I commend you.”
Gwendolyn waited until the blush on her face had receded before turning her head away from the sun and looking at him. He stared at her as if he knew what she thought.
“You misunderstood,” she insisted.
“I think not.” His gaze drilled into her. “I will not trifle with her feelings. Or yours.”
“My lord—”
“I have a great favor to ask. When we are alone, would you please address me less formally?”
At his suggestion, a small thrill climbed up her spine.
“I would consider it, but alas, I do not know your Christian name.”
His eyes sparkled and she wondered why he would find that so amusing. “My family calls me Jason.”
“Jason.” She tested the name, letting it roll off her tongue slowly. “If I assume that liberty, you will no doubt wish to do the same?”
“How very absurd. Naturally, I too refer to myself as Jason.”
There it was again! That mischievous streak to his personality, a sharp, clever wit that he appeared to be suppressing, yet at times seemed unable to help himself.
He bent his head and leaned close. She felt his breath waft over her left ear. Realizing how near he was, Gwendolyn caught her own breath and heard it distinctly, sharp and shallow. Lifting her head, she met his eyes directly. An intense, clear emerald green, they held more than a wicked hint of temptation along with a purpose she did not fully understand.
She felt an almost over whelming urge to reach out and touch his cheek, but knew she had not the right.
Planting her hands on his chest, she pushed. He immediately pulled away, but the intensity behind his eyes did not fade.
“Tell me more about our hosts,” he finally said.
“They seemed to have spared no expense for this event.
Is that typical?”
Relieved at the change of subject, Gwendolyn’s eyes spread over rolling green lawns of the property that were now dotted with scores of green and white striped tents.
Ladies and gentlemen were clustered beneath these tents, feasting on a wide variety of culinary delights. Most were seated on chairs, but a few younger couples shared space on one of the many blankets also provided.
“Mr. Bartwell made his fortune in wool, and has been tr ying for the past ten years to remove the smell of trade,” she explained. Gwendolyn noted that their hosts were seated on large armchairs, under a striped canopy that rippled in the breeze. From this vantage point they could admire the spectacle they had created, rather like a pair of Elizabethan royals. “Alas, I fear he has fallen far short of his goal.”
A slow grin grew on the viscount’s face. “He certainly knows how to throw a party. I challenge anyone to label this extravaganza a mere picnic.”
At that moment Emma returned, with two servants in tow, each carrying a large wicker hamper. “I was unsure what you would like. So I brought a bit of everything.”
“Clever girl.”
While the ladies sat eating wafer-thin slices of bread and butter with cheese, the viscount indulged in a more hearty lunch—a sandwich of roast beef, half a roasted pheasant, a substantial wedge of cheese and a bowl of cut-up fresh fruit. They were finishing up the last of the raspberry tarts and lemon cakes when, without any sort of warning, the first fat raindrop hit.
“These summer storms can be drenching,” Gwendolyn cried out as she scrambled to her feet. A gust of wind whipped at her skirts and she struggled to keep herself decently clad.
“I’ll race you to the bottom,” Emma shouted, and she took off running.
Gwendolyn accepted the challenge without thinking, slipping and sliding and shrieking her way down the hill, arriving a few moments after her sister. Breathless and laughing, the two took shelter beneath the portico. Gwendolyn turned to see what had become of the viscount.
He was marching down the hill at a clipping pace, shoulders straight, head forward, rain dripping off the brim of his hat onto the front of his blue superfine coat.
“Lord Fairhurst! Over here!” Emma waved enthusiastically.
The viscount turned his head and gazed back at them, unsmiling.
“My goodness, my lord, ’tis just a bit of rain. Surely you won’t melt?” Gwendolyn said with a smile, as she noticed the drizzle beading on his cheek. “’Twould do you good to be less stiff-necked over these sorts of occurrences.”
“You might find it amusing and freeing to be out in the rain, but I can assure you that my valet will nearly burst
into sobs when he sees the state of my boots,” Lord Fairhurst remarked as he joined them.
“Then let’s go inside,” Emma suggested.
They pushed for ward into the house and promptly became separated from Emma.
“I have never seen so many people in one house.”
Gwendolyn made a slow pirouette in the foyer. “How will anyone be able to move?”
Lord Fairhurst smiled. “There must be some way to escape.” He gestured to the right. “In here?”
“Goodness no.” Gwendolyn shook her head. “The mu-sicians have somehow squeezed themselves in the far corner of the room and are about to start playing. We’ll become trapped once the crowd starts dancing.”
“How about in here?” Lord Fairhurst asked, stopping in front of a half-closed door. “I think it’s the library.”
Gwendolyn’s eyebrow raised. “Mr. Bartwell has a library? How extraordinary. I would hardly consider him a scholarly type.”
She moved forward and pressed open the door, leading the way into the chamber. The dark rain clouds cast the room into gloomy, muted tones, but there was enough light to negotiate the room without falling over the furniture.
To Gwendolyn’s surprise, the room was indeed a librar y, boasting floor to ceiling shelves and rows of leather-bound books neatly arranged upon them. There were also several bronze statues and pieces of antique pottery on display, as well as the stuffed head of a large deer. Gwendolyn moved to the far side of the room, hoping to avoid its eerie, glass-eyed stare.
“This is a most impressive collection,” the viscount commented as he looked at the book titles. “Greek, Latin, French, Italian. It appears that Mr. Bartwell is a Renaissance man.”
Gwendolyn frowned. “That certainly cannot be true.
He barely reads English, let alone other languages.”
“Ah, then he must be a collector who has made some shrewed investments.” Lord Fairhurst removed several books from the shelf and closely examined the contents.
“These first editions are rare and worth a great deal.”
Gwendolyn ran her fingertips over the book spines, translating the titles in her head, and realized Lord Fairhurst was right. She continued down the line, meeting him in the center of the bookshelf.
As she brushed past him, Gwendolyn felt a tingle of awareness. Instinctively, she stepped back, keeping as much space between them as possible. It made little difference. She was still terribly aware of him. Aware of him as a man, attracted to him with a womanly, sexual feeling that fascinated and terrified her.
Something stirred inside her, something that had laid dormant for many years. Something, sadly, that must remain dormant where he was concerned. He was a married man, a most ill-suited individual about whom to weave romantic fantasies.
For an instant, she was consumed by a physical yearning so strong that it clenched painfully around her heart.
Ever practical, she pushed it aside, knowing she was falling in love with an impossibility.
Jason prowled the edges of the library, feeling like a caged tiger, trapped within the constraints of his assumed identity. He knew it was dangerous to be alone with Gwendolyn, even with the door open, yet he found it difficult to do otherwise.
Being near her seemed to emphasize even more his current celibacy and womanless state. Impersonating his brother, a married man, enforced obvious restraints upon him. He was unable to fall into his usual method of an easy flirtation, yet even if he could, he wondered if he would have done so with Gwendolyn.
She had accused him of being too stiff-necked! It was laughable, yet oddly reassuring to know he was succeeding in playing his brother’s part. As the rain started and Emma had conveniently left them alone, what he really wanted to do was pull Gwendolyn behind the thick grove of trees and stand there with the rain pouring over them, until they were soaked to the skin and their garments were drenched and plastered to their bodies.
Needing to distract himself from those erotic thoughts, Jason moved away from the tempting Gwendolyn to exam a vase set prominently on the fireplace mantel. The shape and design had an odd familiarity, proclaiming its near eastern origins. Though works of Egyptian origin were currently all the rage, Jason was well acquainted with Asian artifacts, since his father had indulged in their study for many years.
This piece was thickly potted with a creamy, lustrous glaze. The rim was bordered with a classic scrolling chr ysanthemum with five large blooms done in blue, while the body had an aquatic scene depicting five shrimp among water-fern, duckweed, delicate wandering eel-grass and other small drifting water plants.
Jason frowned in puzzlement, realizing it was indeed the same patterned vase that his father had collected many years ago. The earl had purchased what he said was the only one in existence and was usually correct in these matters. Still, there could be a logical explanation.
Fakes were common in the antiques market and easily passed on to those who were not experts in the field. In this case, however, there was one way to make certain.
Jason lifted the vase and turned it slowly in his hands, searching intently for a particular flaw. “Bloody hell,” he muttered beneath his breath as he discovered the small section on the foot that was unglazed and sandy.
As he had painstakingly unpacked his find and showed it to his uninterested sons, his father had explained that this flaw in fact made the vase even more valuable, since an imperfect piece would normally have been destroyed.
Instead, it had somehow survived. And somehow ended up in Mr. Bartwell’s library, when it should have been on display in the Moorehead Manor drawing room.
“’Tis very pretty.” Gwendolyn nodded toward the vase.
“Is it from the Ming Dynasty?”
“No. The late Yuan period.”
Her eyebrow rose. “I am impressed with your knowledge, my lord, though you could have told me it was from Wedgewood pottery and I would not know the difference.”
“My father has a great interest in antiquities. He has made it his life’s study, an odd interest for an earl, but something we, his family, have come to accept. Our homes are filled with many treasures he has acquired over the years. In fact, an almost identical vase to this one is in my drawing room at Moorehead Manor.”
“How extraordinary. No doubt Mr. Bartwell saw it and when the opportunity presented itself, decided to purchase one for himself.” She smiled. “I think you should be pleased at the notion. Is not imitation the sincerest form of flattery?”
Imitation or thiever y? Jason was most unsure. But he had every intention of finding out.
Chapter Ten
It was not difficult for Jason to find his way to the city of York, but the distance of more than thirty miles meant he would have to stay overnight once he arrived. After speaking at length with Mr. Bartwell at yesterday’s picnic, Jason had in his possession the name and address of the dealer that had sold the antique vase. The stolen antique vase, though he had purposely neglected to mention that fact to Mr. Bartwell. Jason sincerely doubted the man’s involvement in anything illegal, but held fast to his determination to keep anything and everything he had discovered a private matter. Jason surmised it would not be an easy task to obtain information on how and where the York antique dealer had come by the vase, but he intended to try.
Jason undertook this journey alone, forgoing the carriage, enjoying the solitude of traveling on horseback. As he passed through the safety of the ancient walls that surrounded the city, the weariness he had been feeling from the long ride vanished. He had spent most of his adult life in London and entering a city again, a place bustling with people and energy and commerce, rejuve-nated his spirits.
He found lodging at a respectable inn, ate a hearty meal, slept well and set out with optimism the next morning. On the opposite side of the city, he could clearly see St. Peter’s Cathedral towering above all the other buildings, the numerous stained glass windows shimmering in the brilliant sunlight. It was a truly inspirational sight and, whil
e hardly a man to spend a great deal of time inside a church, Jason decided if time allowed he would spare an hour or two to tour the interior.
Following the directions given to him by the innkeeper, Jason made his way cautiously through the narrow cobbled alleyways where the better shops were located. It was a scene from a bygone era, with the half-timbered medieval shops that housed the establishments of the butchers, brewers, bakers, tailors, jewelers, book sellers, wine merchants and antiques dealers lining each side of the street.
A clerk appeared the moment he entered the shop and at Jason’s request, obligingly fetched the owner, Mr. Pimm.
“How may I be of service today, sir?”
Jason smiled elegantly. Mr. Pimm was a bit of a surprise. He was a squat, square man with blunt features and sharp dark eyes, dressed conservatively in a finely tailored black coat and matching black trousers. His white cravat was spotless, starched and simply tied, with a small ruby pin twinkling in the center of the fold.
The refined clothing should have looked ridiculous on such a commonly shaped man, but somehow Mr.
Pimm managed to look respectable, if not elegant.
“I recently attended a party at the Bartwells and greatly admired several antiques that grace their home,”
Jason began. “One object in particular caught my eye.
A Chinese vase from the early Yuan period. A rare find, indeed. Mr. Bartwell told me he purchased the vase from you. I was hoping you might have others I could view.”
“You have an eye for beauty,” Mr. Pimm replied with a smile. “As well as exquisite taste. As you said, pieces of that era are most rare. I assume you are a collector?”
“It’s a passing interest.” Jason let his gaze deliberately drift around the shop. “Tell me, Mr. Pimm, have you been in this business a long time?”
“More than twenty years, at this very location.” The owner’s barrel chest puffed with pride. “’Tis a fascinating way to make a living. These pieces are more than mere objects, sir. They are memories of histor y, a glimpse into the lives of our forebearers. Those who seek to preser ve them are acknowledging the talents of mankind and the beauty of their marvelous creations.”
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