by Mia Marlowe
“Good,” he said. “We can get some fresh air, some exercise, and it will give me a chance to call you by your Christian name without fear of slipping in public.”
“You don’t want to lose the wager.”
“No, I’m counting on you to do that,” he said with a laugh. “Let’s make it early, shall we? Say, eight o’clock?”
“Good. I’m a bit of a lark. An early ride suits me.” She extended a hand to him, palm correctly down. She hadn’t done so at their meeting, but it seemed right now. After all, they were going to be friends. “It would be my honor to show you over Barrowdell.”
“No, the honor is mine.” Rhys Warrington took her hand and instead of bowing over it, he brought it to his lips. He planted a soft kiss at the juncture between her fore and middle fingers. A little thrill zinged up her arm and warmed her belly. His breath feathered over the back of her bare hand, setting every nerve dancing.
It had been a huge mistake not letting her mother dress her after all, she realized. Beatrice Symon never would have forgotten to make sure she donned a pair of gloves. Then she wouldn’t have found herself teetering on a precipice, about to tumble into a pair of brown eyes.
Lord Rhys looked down at Olivia over her knuckles.
“There’s one more thing I’d like to guess about you, if I may,” he said, his voice a rumbling purr.
“What’s that?” she whispered, grateful her voice even worked. A strange warmth pooled between her legs.
“You have no idea how lovely you really are.” He kissed her hand once more and held her with an intense gaze. “Until tomorrow then, my dear Olivia.”
Chapter 4
Rhys strode out the massive double doors of Barrowdell Manor and into the frosty air. He narrowly resisted the urge to swear as he mounted the deep-chested bay while his servant, Mr. Clyde, held the horse’s head for him.
“I’m going to Hell,” he muttered.
“Assuredly, my lord,” Clyde said agreeably as he hauled his wiry frame up onto his piebald cob and fell into a jolting trot beside Rhys. “If I may make so bold as to ask, why are you bound for perdition this time?”
“I warned her,” Rhys said with frustration. Why did she have to smell like alyssums? His mother lined every walkway in her garden with the sweet-smelling flower. The scent always took him home. The home that was now closed as tightly against him as the gates of Heaven. “I told the chit straight out what I was—gambler, drinker, rake, libertine—and she didn’t turn a hair.”
“Perhaps the lady is…well, less ladylike than the duke’s advisors believe.”
“No, she’s the genuine article,” Rhys said. “No one can feign a blush. Olivia Symon turned pink as a dandy’s waistcoat pretty damned convincingly several times. She’s exactly what she seems—a total innocent.”
I’m the one who’s a fraud. He’d thought he despised himself when he woke in a brothel one day with no recollection of the previous fortnight. His self-loathing then was nothing compared to the weight of guilt pressing on him now.
She’d melted when he kissed her hand, like frost sizzling away in sunshine. If he’d pressed the issue, he could have kissed her rosebud of a mouth as well. Judging from the tremble he detected in her fingers, she was ripe for it. Rhys had an almost sixth sense when it came to feminine arousal. When the time came, he doubted Olivia Symon would put up much of a protest.
“If it not be impertinent to ask, milord, why did the Duke of Clarence choose you to court the lady for him?”
“His Highness is badly advised, that’s why.” How Mr. Alcock had arranged for Rhys to assume the role of Clarence’s representative was a mystery shrouded in the steaming pile of excrement called politics. Undoubtedly, Alcock knew a few juicy royal secrets no one wanted brought to light in order to pull off this coup and procure the royal letter of introduction Rhys had presented to Olivia.
Rhys glanced at his servant, who had wisely clamped his lips together on the subject of ill-advised princes. Actually Rhys thought of Clyde more as a friend than servant. After Rhys saved him on the field of battle, Clyde insisted on becoming his valet-cum-butler-cum-general-factotum and man of all work. Even when Rhys’s pockets were light on occasion and he couldn’t pay what was owed for a few weeks, Clyde refused to leave him for a more lucrative position.
“I’ll stick with you like you stuck with me, your lordship, leastwise until I clear my debt to you,” was all Clyde would ever say on the matter.
As a result, Rhys confided in Clyde far more than most wellborn gentlemen did with their valets. He knew exactly what Rhys was tasked to accomplish at the Symon household.
And exactly how high were the stakes.
“I’ve no difficulty seducing a woman, Clyde, but this will be like shooting fish in a barrel.”
“Perhaps that’s why you warned the lady, milord,” Clyde said. “You don’t really want to succeed.”
“Don’t be an ass. Of course I do.” Rhys reined his mount to a sedate walk. Mr. Clyde breathed a heavy sigh of relief as they slowed. His servant had always been an indifferent horseman.
“I know you want what Mr. Alcock’s promised you,” Mr. Clyde said. “But I have to wonder if you warned Miss Symon away because being with her reminds you of who you really are.”
Rhys snorted. “Devil if I know what you mean.”
“This Symon girl, she’s a lady, you say. Not like the randy widows and wayward wives you usually favor, if you’ll pardon my saying so. Miss Symon sort of taps you on the shoulder and calls to mind that you’re still the son of a gentleman in your heart of hearts.”
“You’ve been with me long enough to know better than that.” Rhys had lost count of the number of times Clyde had held his mount in the alley behind a house, ready for a mad dash should the lady’s husband arrive home unexpectedly. “Only a fool doubts the evidence of his own eyes.”
“My ol’ pater used to say it’s a fool who sees only with his eyes.” Mr. Clyde’s father had been vicar of a small parish, so Clyde waxed philosophical more often than Rhys liked. “You may have chosen to act the rake, but that’s not who you are. I’ll lay my teeth on it.”
“In that case, you’d best get used to eating porridge. You forget yourself, Clyde. I do not need your moralizing. Save your country sermons for someone who’ll listen. I intend to rut Miss Symon senseless and in record time.”
Rhys laid a crop across his horse’s flank and leaped into a canter, leaving Clyde to bump along behind him.
“I’ll succeed,” he muttered to himself. “Miss Symon is as good as ruined.”
Like the cavalry officer he was, Rhys had reconnoitered the situation before he turned up in the Symon’s parlor. He’d known all about Olivia Symon’s penchant for orchids and had been prepared to converse intelligently about them. He’d discovered her tendency toward outspokenness before he set foot on her father’s vast estate and knew she sat a horse better than most young ladies of her station. He’d also learned that the heiress was the wealthiest wallflower in England, shy in social situations despite her strongly held opinions.
She needed a friend.
So Rhys pretended to become one. As Olivia toiled in her winter garden in order to gather buds in May, so he too was laying the groundwork for the time when he’d pluck her maidenhead as neatly as clipping a daisy. She’d relaxed visibly once he leveled the class distinction between them by insisting he was a commoner like her. He’d known just how to flatter her intellect, to build up her trust. Telling her the truth about himself had been a calculated risk, but it had paid off. She was intrigued rather than repelled by his admitted status as a rake.
Seducing this virgin was going to be far too easy to be sporting. If she weren’t so earnest about everything, he could almost despise her for being such a naïve little twit.
As Rhys bolted down the rutted road toward the sleepy little hamlet where he’d bespoken rooms at the inn, he decided he could be earnest as well. He would never lie to Olivia. He’d consider it his
handicap in this game. When he managed to seduce her, he’d be fully exonerated for what happened at Maubeuge. He’d have his life back.
If he kept this one promise to himself—not to lie to Olivia Symon—perhaps he’d actually be able to bear living it.
Chapter 5
The longcase clock in the hall below chimed three-quarters of the hour. Olivia adjusted her jaunty little riding hat, pinned it firmly in place, and studied the effect in her vanity mirror. The rest of her ensemble was mourning black, but the hat was a cheerful shade of lilac trimmed in dove gray. The colors lent a soft rosiness to her complexion that unrelieved black had robbed from her. She gave her reflection a nod.
Could Lord Rhys be right? Was she lovelier than she knew?
“Oh, don’t be a ninny,” she chided herself. “The man was only being polite.”
Then she teased a lock of hair loose so it seemed as if she’d only just plopped the hat on her head. She’d been ready for her ride with Rhys Warrington since the clock chimed seven, but she didn’t want him to know it.
A soft rap sounded on her door.
“Come,” she called softly. Her lady’s maid, Babette, slipped into the room.
“Pardon, Mademoiselle Olivia. Your gentleman caller, alors! He is here.”
“Lord Rhys is early,” Olivia said, the strange flutter in her chest starting afresh. She strode toward the door determined not to show how the mere mention of the man sent her pulse racing.
“Oh, mademoiselle,” her maid said, raising a hand to halt Olivia’s progress, “if I may make to suggest…”
“What is it, Babette?”
“You see, my last mistress always said—and she had a way with the gentlemen, bien sur—she always said a man’s sense of appreciation for a lady, it is improved by a teensy bit of a wait.”
“Oh, really?”
“Oui, really.”
“And who was your last mistress that I should take her advice about men?” Olivia’s mother had hired all their servants and considered Babette an excellent find since everyone knew French lady’s maids were the best sort. Babette was assigned as Olivia’s abigail without consulting her as soon as the Duke of Clarence began to show interest in her. “What was your previous employer’s name?”
One of Babette’s pale brows twitched. “La Belle Perdu.”
The Beautiful Lost One. Olivia had heard of the famous French courtesan. The mystery surrounding her was greatly enhanced by the fact that she always wore a half-mask. Even her many lovers claimed never to have seen her whole face. Her life and exploits were emblazoned across the tabloids her mother read, and occasionally the fashionable highflyer even caught a mention in her father’s Times.
La Belle Perdu had moved in the most rarified of circles, privy to the secrets of the high and mighty in both London and Paris. Her death was as spectacular as her life. She died in a desperate leap from the London Bridge into the murky water of the Thames rather than be arrested as a French spy.
“La Belle Perdu. A way with the gentlemen indeed,” Olivia said. “So you think she’d advise me to wait until eight o’clock to meet with Lord Rhys?”
“Oh, non.” Babette shook her head. “She would say a lady must make to wait until a quarter after the hour before she puts her oh-so-dainty foot on the stairs.”
“Well, my feet are not oh-so-dainty, and there’s no lady before my name,” Olivia said. “I feel like riding now, so now is when I’m going.”
She pushed past her servant, feeling a bit surer of herself. Olivia tried to push away her mother’s unending advice as well, but that critical voice was too deeply engrained in her head.
Don’t talk too much. Don’t move too quickly. If this man recommends you to His Royal Highness, you’ll be a princess. Act like one.
How should Olivia know how a princess behaved? She could only act like herself. If Lord Rhys didn’t like what he saw, he could look the other way.
When she rounded the bend in the grand staircase, he came into view, pacing with his hat in his hands in the marble foyer. His garrick caped over his shoulders. If Olivia half-closed her eyes, it seemed the dark coat draped about him like leathery wings, trailing as he paced. He looked even more delicious—and dangerous—than he had yesterday in the parlor, but now a frown marred his brow, and his mouth was set in a tight line.
What vexes him so?
She took another few steps and he must have heard her soft tread, for he looked up at her. The frown faded as he swept her with his gaze. A frank glow of masculine approval emanated from him.
“Miss Symon, you’re so radiant the sun will surely refuse to shine from pure jealousy.”
“Thank you, milord, but as near as we are to Scotland, the sun rarely puts in an appearance in any case. I fear you’re trying to shine me on with such extravagant praise.”
“Never think it.” He bowed over her offered hand. This time she’d been careful to wear gloves, but his penetrating gaze made her insides dance as drunkenly as his kiss on her hand had yesterday. “I’ll never lie to you…” and since no one was about, he added almost shyly, “Olivia.”
She smiled. It was a game, this little secret familiarity of theirs. Even the wager with its hidden stakes added a fizz of excitement. “If you won’t lie, then tell me. Why were you frowning…Rhys?”
“Was I?” He helped her don her spencer, then led her out the doors with her hand tucked securely into the crook of his elbow. Rhys might not lie, but the sun in the eastern sky did. It promised heat but lent no warmth to the crisp, cold day. Frost crunched underfoot as they strolled around the manor toward the stables.
“When I was coming down the stairs, you were a veritable storm cloud,” Olivia said, her breath puffing into the air. “What troubles you?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just that project of mine I mentioned yesterday.”
“The one you likened to my gardening?”
He nodded, his smile hardening a bit. “Toiling now to gather blossoms later.”
“It’s not going well?”
“No, on the contrary, it’s going quite well,” he said. “The problem is that my valet thinks I’m not sure I want it to.”
He was being cryptic enough she didn’t feel their fledgling friendship permitted further prying. “Now you have me completely confused.”
“That makes two of us.”
When they arrived at the stable, Rhys’s mount was waiting for him where he’d left it, with a blanket draped across its withers against the cold. After the ride from town, the horse was already warmed up. The bay gelding stood sixteen hands high with a deep chest and such knowing brown eyes Olivia felt it must surely possess a soul.
“Oh, what a lovely fellow!” She held out her palm and let him sniff it before she stroked his soft nose.
“Duncan’s a good lad.” Rhys patted the beast’s strong neck. “I’d say he has the manners of a prince, but I’ve known too many princes and wouldn’t want to insult him.”
“Is that your way of trying to put me off the Duke of Clarence?”
“Not at all. Just an observation about princes in general,” he said.
Olivia really didn’t want to talk about princes, in general or otherwise. The Duke of Clarence was a dissolute stranger in his early fifties. Everything she’d heard about him made her less anxious to learn more. Horses seemed a safe topic.
“I’ve read that the cavalry favors Thoroughbreds. Did Duncan go to war with you?”
“No, I took his brother, Dougal.”
“And now I suppose he’s retired from the military too.”
A shadow passed over Rhys’s face and his jaw tightened. “I left him on a battlefield in France.”
Olivia bit her lower lip. She should have stuck with princes. After so many English lads bled to see Napoleon defeated, did one offer condolences for a fallen horse?
Rhys’s strained expression made her wish she could.
The head groom, Mr. Thatcher, came to her rescue, leading her dapple gray mare out
of the stall. Molly was already saddled and ready to go, but with a dainty sidesaddle instead of the sturdy regular one Olivia preferred.
“Mr. Thatcher, where is my other saddle?” she whispered while Lord Rhys was occupied with checking Duncan’s hooves for stones.
The groom grimaced in apology as he bent his back and offered his laced fingers, inviting her to step into them to mount. “Mrs. Symon sent word that you were to use this one today.”
Olivia fumed in silence. It wasn’t as if she were going to be trotting down London’s Rotten Row to see and be seen. Granted, she was an accomplished rider no matter which style of saddle she used, but she always rode astride on her father’s land.
And it always irked her mother. Beatrice Symon thought riding astride mannish and unrefined, but her father was amused by it and encouraged Olivia whenever he was in residence. When he was not, it was a small point of rebellion for Olivia to do it in any case. However, to insist on a change of saddle now would only make her appear hoydenish before Rhys Warrington.
Drat Mother and her interfering ways. It would almost be worth marrying an aging royal duke in order to get out from under her domineering thumb.
Olivia slipped her foot into Mr. Thatcher’s waiting palms and allowed him to heft her up. Then she hooked her right thigh over the horn and settled her left foot into the single slipper stirrup.
“Thank you, Mr. Thatcher.” It wasn’t the groom’s fault that her mother thought she needed to be hemmed about at every turn. “That’ll do.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, but I’ll be accompanying you and the gentleman this morning as well,” he said softly. “Your mother’s orders.”
“As you will, Mr. Thatcher,” she said as she tucked her riding crop under her arm. “But I trust you won’t fall afoul of Mother.”
“Why would I be doing that, miss?”
“Her order presumes you can catch us!”
Chapter 6
Olivia Symon wheeled her mare around and dug her heel into the horse’s side. With a surprisingly loud “hi-up!” she bolted past Rhys and clattered out of the stable yard, making for the open, frost-kissed meadow beyond.
