The Seduction

by Julia Ross

  Had she imagined his expert fingertips on her naked body? Was that why she had picked this impossible task? Desire burned in her. She couldn't hide it. So she wanted to see him make a fool of himself. She planned to gloat, to glory over his punishment in a hay meadow, so that she could deny her own feelings and keep herself safe.

  "Alas, sweet Juliet," he said aloud to the empty air. "You don't know it, but you are already in the palm of my hand."

  With a laugh, he donned gloves and tricorn, caught up his riding crop, and ran down the stairs to the stables.

  THE SOUND WOKE HER. SOMETHING DIFFERENT, RHYTHMIC, clanking beneath the twitter of songbirds. It was morning.

  Α new day. Juliet struggled up from her dreams and listened.

  Creak, whir. Creak, whir.

  She climbed from her bed and peered from the window at the back of the house. Dawn streaked the sky. Chill shadows submerged the cluster of work buildings around her small courtyard. Her chicken coop slept in the shade of Mill Spinney. Still clinging to traces of night, massed trees slumbered οn in the fold of the hill on the far side of Manston Brook - the woods that bordered the edge of the Marion Hall estates.

  Juliet unbuttoned the neck of her nightdress and laid one palm over her locket. The gold felt warm: warm, but not comforting. She felt for it automatically every morning-her tangible remembrance of the purest, brightest love of her life. Υet she wore it almost as a monk wears a hair shirt: in penance as well as in memory. With a small sigh, she opened the hasp to look inside.

  Creak, whir. Creak, whir.

  She closed the locket with a snap just as the sun broke over the top of the rise. Color flooded the landscape. Bordered by the stream and the little lane to the west - the one that ran down to the ford, before cavorting away to Upper Mingate - her hayfield suddenly sparked green, fired with sunlight. Α rooster crowed, then another. The songbirds' melody reached a crescendo. Two cornrails flew up, trailing pale legs. They nested in the fields every year, filling the countryside with their rasping cries.

  But this was a sound made by man - creak, whir, creak, whir. It was the turning of the whetstone in the shed.

  Juliet raced downstairs and filled her jug with water, still warm from last night's coals. She washed rapidly before scrambling into a fresh chemise. With fumbling fingers she hooked her corset and grabbed clean stockings from the dresser. She tied her garters, then wrenched her dress over her head. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her plait had come undone in the night. She looked wild, her hair rioting about her face.

  She sat down on the bed and began to laugh - letting the laughter have free rein, bubbles of madness welling up, making her sides ache. It was a struggle to regain control, but at last she picked up her comb and began to unweave the night's tangles, before brushing out the long chestnut waves and plaiting them into a knot.

  The sound echoed. Creak, whir. Creak, whir.

  Mr. Alden Granville was sharpening metal!

  SHE SAW HIM AS SOON AS SHE STEPPED INTO ΤHΕ YARD. HΕ WAS leaning casually against the door of the shed, a bottle-green tricorn tucked under one elbow. His gaze was speculative, as if contemplating the results of his labor at the whetstone. The scythe lay propped against the open field gate, fifty feet away. The newly honed blade sparkled in the sunlight.

  Juliet stopped, torn between astonishment and the dying shreds of her laughter.

  His gilt hair was curled, immaculate, tied back neatly in a dark green ribbon. Α fall of lace snowflakes foamed at his throat. Α full-skirted, dusky-pink brocade coat lay unbuttoned to reveal a leaf-green waistcoat, exquisitely embroidered in gold thread, over pink brocade breeches. More layers of white lace fell from his extravagant cuffs to caress the backs of his hinds. The rich lining of the flared coat framed the lean length of legs and hips. Outlining the hard shape of his calves, silver-and-white striped stockings disappeared into red-heeled, white leather shoes, fit for a ballroom.

  His face gale, composed, with one tiny, discreet patch placed high on one cheekbohe, Alden Granville shone in her yard like a rose.

  "What a flower!" she said dryly. ''You sharpened the scythe?"

  He turned his head and met her gaze with an amused lift of the brows. "Until lethal."

  "You cannot really mean to cut my hay."

  "Why not?" His smile struck her with undiluted force, like a sea wave knocking the breath from a child.

  "You're a gentleman."

  He bowed his head. "Worse, ma'am."

  "Worse? Worse than what?"

  "You might say Ι am a popinjay." Humor danced in his voice. "I am disappointed you did not." He flicked one finger over his cuff. Sunlight caught his profile for a moment. "This is Mechlin lace."

  "A gift from a princess."

  "Nevertheless, Ι still mean to cut your hay."

  She smoothed her palms down her blue smock, then tucked a stray wisp of hair under her flat straw hat. Absurdly, her heart still hammered too hard and fast. "What if Ι no longer wish it?"

  "I’d be desolate."

  "You want to do it? Dressed like that!"

  "Dressed like what?" He set the tricorn on his head and strolled to the field gate. "This is my usual morning attire."

  She marched after him and leaned both elbows on the gate. "This Ι must see," she said, genuinely amused. "By all means begin mowing, Mr. Granville."

  He stared for a moment at the tall grass, sprinkled with buttercups and clover, then glanced back at the scythe. The blade curved dangerously. "Which end do Ι hold?"

  "Why not the sharp end?"

  "Flowers may have thorns, ma' am, but you do not distinguish between risk and foolishness?"

  "Do you?"

  His smile caressed. Only when it involves death - or love, of course."

  He bent and correctly grasped the two grips on the scythe handle before striding to the top corner of the field. Powerful shoulders flexed. The blade swung in a long, low arc.

  Swish.

  Α swath of grass fell neatly to one side. He stepped forward. The rose-pink jacket stretched and relaxed across his back.

  Step, swish.

  Another patch of grass fell. Lace fluttered over his hands as he swung the scythe in long, steady strokes.

  "You wretch!" she shouted. "You took lessons! Who taught you?"

  "We agreed to trade forfeits," he said without breaking rhythm. "Do you now wish to trade secrets?"

  "You admit to having secrets?"

  "Only ones worth having." Step, swish. Step, swish. "There's nothing arcane about slaying all this innocent grass."

  "You are expert at the slaughter of innocence?"

  "Innocence doesn't need to be slaughtered. It just lies down and surrenders." There was only a slight catch in his breathing. "Ι find experience far more interesting."

  Juliet didn't reply. He would need all of his breath. Anyway, what reply could she make? She had been innocent once, until she had done more than lain down and surrendered.

  Meshach rubbed at her skirts. Shadrach and Abednego followed. The cats leaped, one after the other, onto an oak branch that formed part of the hedge. Folding their paws, they sat and watched the stranger in the rose-pink coat. Six feline eyes stared at him as if he were the god of cats.

  Like her pets, Juliet couldn't tear herself away.

  It was incongruous, bizarre, beautiful. He shone like a jewel against the backdrop of the woods: a study in contrasts - this man in his exquisite clothes wielding a workman's tool with such precision and grace.

  Step, swish. Step, swish.

  The cats rumbled contentedly, purring.

  Α small trickle of guilt disturbed her amusement. He was strong. He was clever. But, even though he had somehow learned the knack of swinging a scythe, he was obviously unused to such work. Twelve hours of it would destroy his hands, scorch a tearing pain into his muscles. It was a very cruel price to demand for a chess game!

  She closed her eyes for a moment, unsure of her emotions. "Look like you cou
ld use a hand there, sir," a stranger's voice said. "Are you hiring?"

  Juliet looked up to see a man in a laborer's smock standing in the lane. Α giant of a man, he carried a scythe over his shoulder.

  Mr. Granville had worked down that side of the field and was close to the gate. "Α very kind offer, I’ faith," he said without stopping. "I’ll trade you, but only for something Ι have on me."

  The man eyed him speculatively. "Your hat, sir?"

  Alden Granville took the green tricorn from his head and tossed it to the giant. The man jammed the hat onto his head, flung open the gate and began working. The tricorn sat jauntily on his brown hair. It was obvious he knew all about the scything of hay. Yet Mr. Granville kept pace with him.

  Juliet closed the gate and climbed up to sit on the top rail, fascinated, like a prisoner who sees the bright world ring by beyond a barred window.

  The two incongruously dressed men worked on down the field.

  Within ten minutes a second stranger had stopped. This time a swarthy fellow with black hair accepted the rose-pink coat. He replaced his smock with the gorgeous brocade and preened for a moment, checking the fit across his narrower shoulders. Then he also began to expertly swing his scythe.

  Mr. Granville's white shirtsleeves glittered in the sun. Royal lace frothed over his hands. Embroidered gold-thread flowers and birds fluttered on his green waistcoat, leaping to life with each swing. Yet he kept step with the two laborers.

  Step, swish. Step, swish.

  Juliet pressed one hand to her throat. Her runnel of remorse had evaporated like a thin sheen of water spilled under a hot sun. She only wanted to laugh. How on earth had he arranged this?

  The sun was rising higher above Μill Spinney. The chickens needed feeding. Climbing down from the gate, she hurried away and rushed through the most urgent of her chores. As she threw out the grain in the chicken coop and refilled the water pan, sudden cheers rose from the direction of the hayfield. She heard them again as she set her bread out to rise. Cheers?

  She raced back to the gate. Five men now worked steadily through the hay, shoulders swinging in rhythm. Each of the new arrivals wore some article of gentleman's apparel, absurdly added to his work clothes.

  The brown-haired man had pulled the tricorn down solidly over his forehead. The dark fellow sweltered in the pink coat. He wiped his face on the gorgeous cuffs and grinned as if at some tremendous joke. Α wiry newcomer - not much more than a boy - was almost swamped by the glorious green waistcoat. The embroidered birds flapped about his skinny thighs. Another stranger sported lace - Mechlin lace - on his coarse homespun shirt, but he had pinned the cuffs above his elbows so the expensive lace fluttered about his brawny forearms without damage as he worked.

  Mr. Granville stepped and swung in time with them, stripped now to shirt and breeches. In contrast to the others, he looked calm, elegant, even comfortable.

  Α crowd of locals had gathered in the lane - men, women, mothers with young children in their arms. The babble of their excited voices and the yap of village dogs drifted across the flattened hay. The cats had abandoned their post on the oak branch and were now leaping in pursuit of the mice disturbed by the mowing. 1t was just the same when Farmer Hames cut her hay, or when any group of men gathered for the communal tasks of the countryside - an excuse for a party.

  And she was the hostess.

  Juliet managed to catch young Jemmy Brambey's eye.

  The boy ran over, his round face flushed beneath his freckles. "Morning, Mistress Seton! 1t's a rare sight this, then, eh?"

  She smiled. "It is, Master Brambey. Would you do a favor for me?"

  Jemmy nodded and followed her into the house, where she raided the little hoard of coins she had been saving. He listened and nodded as she gave him his instructions, then he ran away into the village. Juliet went back outside. Another stranger, a redhead carrying a scythe, had shouldered through the giggling crowd in the lane to lean on the gate.

  Mr. Granville didn't break step. The other men winked to each other as they also kept working. Only the brown-haired man stopped for a moment, lifting the green tricorn to mop his brow. He met the newcomer's gaze and grinned.

  The redhead grinned back, then nodded to the blond gentleman in the field and shouted out to him. "Look like you could use another hand there, sir."

  "I’ll trade you." His breathing was definitely broken now - with labor or with laughter? "But only . . . for something . . . Ι have on me."

  Α cheer went up from the lane. "Your shirt, my lor- sir?" The cheer redoubled.

  Alden Granville set down his scythe and peeled off his white shirt. Muscles rippled in his back. His skin glowed. Juliet imagined living marble, mysteriously lit from within, as if a Greek statue had come miraculously to life. The tail of gilt hair curled down over his strong, sunlit shoulders, the ends of the dark ribbon startling in contrast-a supreme elegance of form knit to deadly male strength.

  It was a terrible weakness to want that, to find it so beautiful, to feel it devouring her peace and making her breathless. Decent ladies did not admire men in that way. Her mother had never looked at her father and had such thoughts. Only she! Only she- a natural wanton among women! This man symbolized everything she had tried to renounce and she was trapped here. She couldn't flee. It was her hay meadow.

  The grass was almost all cut. The sun blazed. The men labored on.

  The strangers in their fantastic clothing had begun a kind of chant to keep the rhythm. It swelled up into the summer air. Their faces shone with sweat as their arms swung. No doubt now that they were truly farm workers. Yet she had never seen any of them before, certainly not on the road to Upper Mingate - no more than two farms and three cottages - a lane rarely traveled by anyone except locals.

  Only Mr. Granville didn't know the song. He shone among the others like Apollo. His bright blade bit through the grass and buttercups. His hard muscles, his certainty of movement, his fine white skin, mocked her. The wretch wasn't even tired yet! Was he entirely ruthless to have created this dance of wit and defiance in her hayfield?

  Working side by side, the six men again reached the top of the field. The last swatch of grass fell. It was done.

  The crowd in the lane cheered again as a cart rumbled toward them from the village. Mr. Sandham, the innkeeper, sat on the box driving a brown horse.

  Jemmy Brambey raced up to Juliet, his freckled face beaming. "Here he is, ma'am! With the ale for the men, as you wanted! But Mr. Sandham said to keep this." The boy thrust out the coins she had given him. "The fancy gentleman had already ordered it all this morning at the inn and paid for it - the usual ale and food, he said, for haymaking, with some extra for onlookers."

  Juliet thanked Jemmy and gave the boy a farthing for his trouble. She walked into the house to put the rest of her coins back into their hiding place. For a moment she looked about at the low-ceilinged room, then suddenly envisioned the high blaze of white plaster that had soared overhead during her childhood. Strident images swarmed, making the breath catch in her throat. Not something she usually allowed. She never let herself indulge in vain regrets. Now they came rushing back. The aching void, slashed through the lives of everyone she loved. The terrible price they had all paid in pain and sorrow. Her fists clenched as her eyes burned with tears.

  Damn this man! Alden Granville had cut a swath through her contentment with his keen, sharp presence, as if to lay open all of her defenses. It was intolerable. She turned around to march out into her hayfield and confront him.

  The five laborers, joined by the gaggle of spectators from the village, were now quaffing ale and tearing into large chunks of bread and cheese by the lane gate. The brown-haired giant had set the tricorn reverently on the gate post. Pink brocade hung from the hedge, while the swarthy man mopped his face with a handkerchief and accepted slaps on the back from his fellows. Waistcoat, lace cuffs and linen shirt were all being folded and laid carefully out of harm's way, while their new owners laughed and nodde
d at the merry throng of faces. There was no half-naked gentleman with yellow hair among them.

  "It would spoil their party if Ι joined in," he said.

  Juliet looked around. He had flung himself full length on a patch of mown grass near the hedge by the yard, one hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun. Her attention focused on his mouth, on that lovely curl of lip, the little smile lingering at the corners. Α tiny sparkle of gold glittered on his jaw. More gold shone on his forearms. Firm muscles ridged below his rib cage. Α line of hair ran down his chest, then disappeared beneath his breeches.

  She lifted her chin, feeling the mad awareness creep over her skin.

  Her cats had curled up beside him, a tumble of multicolored fur, purring. The god fallen, but still worshipped.

  "You cheated," she said.

  He moved his fingers and opened one blue eye. "Did Ι?" The indignant cats uncurled and arched their backs. Abednego stalked off through the grass.

  "You found laborers to help you." She bit her lip and glanced away. It wasn't what she wanted to say.

  "The hay is cut. Ι was the instrument of that." His tone was entirely innocent, good-humored. "I think you have your prize, ma'am."

  She bent to pick up a beheaded buttercup. The petals glowed like yellow fire. ''And do you think you are any closer to yours?"

  "No, alas." He sounded almost merry. "This forfeit is all for you."

  Shadrach stretched and walked away. Tail high, Meshach ran off toward the yard. Juliet watched them go, her disloyal pets.

  "I did not gain much by it," she said.

  "Yes, you did. You wanted me to feel humiliation. Ι did not. But you also wanted me to feel at least some modicum of pain."

  It was true, wasn't it? "And do you?"

  He started to laugh. Still laughing, he rolled over to bury his face in his hands. Blond hair, tawny with moisture, clung to his spine. Even the brocade breeches were damp, though his washed skin was no longer sticky with sweat and pollen. He must have cleansed himself at the yard pump, dumped water over his head and muscular shoulders, then let himself dry in the sun.