“Better than mine?”
“I won’t give my judgement until they’re all completed,” Braithwaite said with mock haughtiness, turning instead to Gillie’s.
“Don’t say a word,” Gillie warned him. “I don’t want my illusions spoiled.”
Inevitably, Lord Wickenden strolled by, too. Gillie, agonizingly aware of his approach, had to force herself not to cover her painting with both arms. Especially when he halted and gazed at it. She wracked her brains to think of something witty to say, but words eluded her.
“I sense a wanderlust,” he observed unexpectedly.
She spared him a quick, surprised glance over her shoulder. “Inevitable in a girl who has spent all her life in Blackhaven.”
“Go to Spain,” Lady Crowmore suggested. “And live in your would-be stepmother’s house.”
Gillie couldn’t help her breath of laughter at that. “I’ll bear it in mind.”
“Don’t,” Wickenden advised, moving on. “Nothing Kate says should be borne in mind for longer than it takes you to finish laughing.”
“I shall just say the words pot, kettle, and black,” Lady Crowmore drawled, “and leave Miss Muir to connect them.”
From the corner of her eye, Gillie watched him examine Lady Crowmore’s painting, exchange another teasing word, and move on, at which point she lowered her eyes back to her own painting, hopefully before she’d been observed by either.
The competition was declared at an end when the servants had set up the wind shields and tables ready for luncheon. Although the day had turned unseasonably warm and sunny, and the ladies had no need of the warm cloaks they’d brought, it was still too cool to sit still comfortably for much longer. Gillie stood with the other ladies and moved around a little, as the gentleman examined all the finished paintings.
As Gillie had expected, Lady Crowmore’s showed real skill and appreciation of color. “It’s beautiful,” she said generously.
Lady Crowmore wrinkled her nose. “It’s adequate.”
Adequate to win, no doubt, Gillie thought. She was the kind of woman, beautiful, spoiled, and wealthy who won at everything from childhood on.
“Ah, there you are,” Lord Wickenden murmured coming upon her as she made her way back to her own painting. “After luncheon, you should walk with Lady Frances.”
“Should I?”
“Most definitely. I have won our wager.”
She couldn’t help the flush that seeped into her face. “Why should you imagine that.”
One of his satanic brows lifted. “Because Lady Braithwaite gave her public permission for her daughters’ carriages to stop outside your door. You would appear to be rehabilitated.” A smile lurked on his lips, though something darker and more exciting sparked in his eyes at the same time. “And I intend to collect today.”
Chapter Eight
As Gillie’s face flamed, Wickenden blandly tipped his hat and strolled on to meet Lord Braithwaite and the other men. Gillie turned her back, pretending to admire the other end of the ruin while her cheeks cooled. But there was nothing she could do about the butterflies diving and soaring in her stomach.
After a brief confab, the gentleman voted and Lord Braithwaite announced, “This is unfortunate! My sister Frances and Lady Crowmore have each received three votes! I didn’t vote for obvious reasons, and I’m now told that mine must be the casting vote. Therefore, while commending all the ladies’ work, I pronounce Lady Crowmore to be the winner.”
“Congratulations,” Gillie said to her genuinely. “You are a worthy winner.”
“Only because Braithwaite is too honorable to vote for his sister,” Lady Crowmore said dryly. “But I thank you for the sentiment. I haven’t seen your painting yet, have I?”
“You wouldn’t want to,” Gillie said hastily, but it was too late, Lady Crowley had turned the easel toward her. For a moment, her beautiful eyes scanned the paper, then she gave a quick, short laugh.
“That bad?” Gillie said without rancor.
“Oh lord, no. I was just thinking, yours has much more character than mine – which is curiously apt.” She unpinned the paper from the easel. “If you care to, I’ll exchange my painting for yours.”
Gillie blinked. “You definitely get the poorer deal there!”
“Is that a yes?”
“Of course, if you truly wish it.”
Lady Crowmore bent and placed Gillie’s painting in her drawing case, then unpinned her own and handed it to Gillie. “There. An exchange of valuable gifts. Aren’t you hungry? Thank God for luncheon.”
The al fresco luncheon turned out to be quite fun, with amusing banter between London friends and between Blackhaven inhabitants, and yet the two mixing much better than Gillie had imagined. Lord Braithwaite was kind to Catherine Winslow, and Bernard sat at Lady Crowmore’s side, apparently content to be ignored while she talked to just about everyone else. To her relief–yes, truly, it was relief–Lord Wickenden did not sit beside her, but between Lady Serena and Mrs. Hoag, the vicar’s wife, civilly dividing his attention between each, although the meal was so informal that no one stuck to the rule of never shouting across the tables.
Afterward, Lady Frances stood up and pronounced. “A brisk half hour’s walk, I think, to warm us all up, and then back to Blackhaven! For those who want to walk, that is. Feel free to sit in the carriages and the servants will bring you blankets!”
As everyone rose, discussing preferences, Frances added. “Oh Gillie, will you help me to find that tree we climbed? The one I fell out of!”
Gillie, feeling Wickenden’s gaze on her, refused to look at him. She refused to be commanded into such a thing. She said, “Oh no, I’d hate to even glance at that wretched tree again. When I think what might have happened to you – to say nothing of the mighty scold we received from everyone.”
Wickenden laughed, though whether at her or at something else going on around him wasn’t clear. But Frances didn’t even bat an eyelid. “Don’t be silly,” she said, taking Gillie’s arm with affection. “We haven’t talked properly since I’ve come home. Wickenden, you may come with us if you choose–to defend us from the lions we were convinced inhabited these woods.”
“Is that why you climbed the tree?” Wickenden inquired.
“Actually, yes,” Frances admitted.
“Then I am at your disposal, and promise to wrestle any lions to the death,” Wickenden said.
There seemed nothing for it but to give in with good grace. After all, he could hardly touch her, let alone claim his kiss, in Frances’s presence. The rest of the party were wandering off in various directions, some into the carriages before they caught a chill. Arm-in-arm with Lady Frances and with Lord Wickenden beside them, Gillie walked across the hill toward the wood.
“How did your encounter with Senora Muir this morning turn out?” Wickenden asked.
“Well, the solicitors told her she couldn’t turn us out without confirmation of the evidence. My hope is that she’ll find it all more difficult than she’d thought and vanish.” She frowned. “What I don’t understand is why she’s bothering in the first place. There is no great fortune involved here,”
“Desperate people will go to great lengths for very little.”
For some reason, she thought of the one glimpse she’d had of the woman when she hadn’t looked haughty or angry. In the street, with her arm across her belly, an expression of pain and maybe even fear on her face as she turned away. Gillie shook her head. She would not allow herself any softening toward a woman who tried to lie her way into her home…though perhaps she could go and see her and try to find out what was really going on here.
“And your other problem?” Wickenden murmured.
“No notable developments,” replied Gillie, who’d almost forgotten about them in the domestic crisis.
“I called on Colonel Fredericks,” Wickenden said, politely holding an obstructive branch out of the way to let the ladies keep on the path as they entered the wood. “But
he has a cold and is not receiving. I didn’t want to leave anything with the servant.”
“Quite right,” Gillie approved. “There’s been no more trouble. I think you must have scared those men right away.”
“It’s quite strange listening to you two converse,” Lady Frances observed. “I understand the individual words, but they don’t seem to make much sense when you connect them up.
“I’m sure Serena told you about my adventure the night of the ball,” Gillie said lightly.
“She did,” Frances admitted. “But I am sworn to secrecy and not allowed to mention it.”
“Lady Frances is one of the few women I know who can keep a secret,” Wickenden observed.
“Then you know too many of the wrong women,” Frances said tartly, but Gillie understood his meaning with a hint of panic overlaid with a most peculiar sense of anticipation.
Her suspicions were confirmed when, without any guidance whatsoever, Frances turned off the path and made straight for the tree she’d once fallen out of. Without a word, she sat on the thick branch which grew at just the right height for such a purpose, and drew a small book from her reticule.
“Five minutes, my lord,” she said calmly. “No more.”
“Or what?” Wickenden mocked.
“Or I’ll send my husband after you.”
Gillie, torn between gratitude and a sense of betrayal, hesitated beside the tree, gazing helplessly at Frances. Without looking up from her book, the lady closed one eye.
“Go on,” she murmured. “Most women of my acquaintance would give their teeth for even a five minute assignation with Wickenden. Carpe diem, Gillie.”
She glanced uncertainly at the wicked baron. He stood beside her, offering his arm, but made no effort to either take her hand or persuade her. Despite his reputation and his erratic manners, he was, intrinsically, a gentleman. She liked that about him. She liked far too many things about him.
Quietly, she laid her hand in the crook of his arm and they began to walk through the trees, away from Frances.
“How did you persuade her?” Gillie demanded.
“We have become good friends and she trusts me.”
Gillie glanced at him. “You mean you covered for her indiscretions in London?”
A flicker of a smile passed across his face. “You are very quick.”
“I’ve known her a long time.”
“They were quite innocent indiscretions,” Wickenden assured her. “But much as I like Lady Frances, I did not bring you here to talk about her.”
“It is not gentlemanly to insist on this claim of yours,” she blurted. “I never even agreed to your silly wager in the first place. Besides, your behavior now will undo everything you’ve already done to help me.”
“A decent martialing of the arguments,” he mocked. “But I brought Lady Frances to keep you safely chaperoned.”
“And abandoned her back there,” Gillie said indignantly, waving one hand at the trees now separating them from her old friend.
“Of course. I don’t like to kiss you in public.” He halted and turned her toward him.
She tried to throw up her hands to ward him off. “Then you shouldn’t kiss me at all!” One hand had got trapped in his arm, and he caught the other without effort, closing what little distance remained between them. She took a panicked step back and stumbled against a tree. He followed at once, trapping her with his large body.
“But I won,” he said softly. “Pay up.”
She stared up at him, half defiant, half desperate. He didn’t move, just gazed back at her, occasionally dipping his eyes to her lips. His nearness undid her. And he knew, damn him, he knew that she wanted to give in, whatever dull propriety was shouting in her ear.
“Don’t look so scared,” he whispered. “You’ve kissed me before.”
“In the dark.” God knew why that mattered, and it brought a flicker of a smile to his intense, too-warm eyes.
“It still counts,” he assured her. “And sometimes daylight is better. Let’s see.”
His head blocked out the dappled sunlight and quite unhurriedly, he claimed her mouth. She couldn’t seem to control it, for her trembling lips parted to the touch of his and God help her, it was sweet, intense, and powerful. Only birds’ song broke the silence. They might have been the only two people in the world, and just for an instant, she wanted to weep. The moment seemed too perfect, the happiness too overwhelming.
He released her hand and she brought it up to touch his face, to caress the faint stubble growing back on his jaw. His breath seemed to catch and then he opened her mouth wider, and his tongue caressed hers. It struck her that his every kiss was different and she wanted more, so much more. Heat spread through her whole body, weakening her, and yet it was she who pressed closer to him, feeling the exciting hardness against her abdomen.
Somewhere, she knew there was danger in this. She was playing with fire and she didn’t understand the rules of the game. Right now, it felt as though she were winning. The kiss went on and on, as if his lips would never leave hers. As if she ever wanted them to.
And then, very slowly, his mouth began to loosen. Instinctively, she clung to him, her fingers threaded in his short, crisp hair holding harder. A soft, exciting groan rumbled inside him, and for another few, blissful moments the kiss intensified again, but gradually, inexorably, he released her mouth and raised his head.
“I shall have to come up with another wager,” he said unsteadily, cupping her cheek in his hand.
“Or a dark tunnel,” she blurted, and he smiled, one of those rare, dazzling smiles of pure amusement that had undone her from the beginning. Undone? What was she thinking. She’d only kissed him. Several times now, and each time better, more shattering than the last.
Oh, God help me, I love him.
The knowledge, which should have scared her to death, caused such a fresh surge of happiness that she found herself smiling back. Her lips felt curiously tremulous.
He rubbed his thumb over her lower lip. “How did I get through thirty years of my life without knowing you?”
“Lots of people do, I believe.”
His fading smile quickened again and he hugged her to his side, spinning her around to walk back the way they’d come.
Gillie tried to drag herself out of her bemused state, guiltily smoothing her dress and touching her hair to check the pins. “Frances will know,” she said anxiously.
“I was very careful with you,” Wickenden said, “in case you didn’t notice. But we’ll walk slowly and talk of dull things. Tell me about the abbey’s history?”
“Oh that isn’t dull at all,” Gillie insisted and told him a colorful and no doubt apocryphal tale about the monks facing down Henry VIII’s men when they came to close Blackhaven Abbey.
He listened with a faintly amused smile playing on his lips, but at least Gillie began to feel a little more normal, with the mere echo of passion tingling on her lips in her lethargic body. They rediscovered Frances replacing her book in her reticule, having already risen to march in their direction.
When they emerged from the woods, most of the others were already gathered and separating into carriages. With a merely civil smile, Lord Wickenden tipped his hat to the ladies and strolled across to where his horse was tethered. Gillie tried not to watch him.
“Well?” Frances murmured impatiently, taking her arm once more as they made their way toward the carriages.
“Well what?” Gillie asked absently.
“Did he propose to you?”
Gillie’s gaze flew to her old friend in astonishment. “Of course he did not!”
“Oh,” Frances said, her face falling. “I thought that’s what his little assignation was all about.”
“I’m not exactly of his world, am I?” Gillie said reasonably, unable to understand why her heart, so happy only moments ago, had begun to ache. “We just had a silly wager, and then he wanted to talk about what happened the night of the ball.”
&
nbsp; “Couldn’t he do that in front of your aunt or me?”
“I think he prefers to tease me.”
“Hmm,” Frances said, not quite pleased. “I feel misled, though whether by him or by you is anyone’s guess!”
*
Wickenden, in fact, had difficulty keeping his thoughts on anyone or anything other than Gillie and his own raging lust. Which may have been why, as he and Braithwaite rode along beside the carriages, he paid so little attention to the rabbit holes at the side of the track. Certainly, he failed to point them out to his friend, who, riding on the outside, was in much more danger from them. Only when Braithwaite’s horse screamed and fell did he react, leaping from his own horse to help his friend.
Braithwaite’s horse heaved itself back on its feet, trembling, leaving the earl on the ground.
“Damn, are you hurt?” Wickenden asked, crouching down beside him, while Bernard Muir jumped down from the nearest carriage to grab the horses.
“Devil a bit,” Braithwaite replied with a cheerfulness that sounded forced to Wickenden. “Here, help me up.”
Wickenden clasped his elbow and began to pull, but Braithwaite couldn’t muffle his groan of agony.
“Damn and blast,” the earl said shakily. “I think I’ve broken my leg.”
Some things never left you. Wickenden straightened his friend’s leg before the true pain set in and issued curt orders for wood and bandages to make a splint. Braithwaite still tried to laugh it off, although his voice was hoarse and somewhat shaky.
Everyone ran around wringing their hands in horror or trying to be useful, according to their nature. Braithwaite’s sisters, white-faced, tried to cheer him up with insults, although their hands clung together for support. Wickenden took a flask from his pocket and poured some brandy down the earl’s throat.
“Thank God,” Braithwaite said fervently. “When you run out, there’s one in my coat, too. Is the horse hurt? What the devil happened to him?”
“Rabbit hole,” Wickenden said succinctly. “He’s limping a bit but still walking. I’ll check him out when we get back.” He broke off to take a piece of wood from young Winslow and swiftly cut it with his own knife to better suit his purpose.
Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two Page 11
