By the time he reached the shelter of the rhododendron hedge by the folly, he was in such a lather, his shirt stuck to his back as he attempted to wrench it off. His boots and damnably tight breeches quickly followed and then he plunged into the blessedly cool waters of the lake and struck out to the far side.
Nicholas was half-way through his third rigorous lap when he decided the best and fairest course of action to take was to send Miss Abigail Adams to Brighton, just like he should have done in the first place. And as soon as he’d completed his business here, he’d return to the capital. And swive himself stupid.
Maybe then he’d feel sane again.
* * *
Abigail gnawed at her bottom lip in the wake of Sir Nicholas’s swift exit from the library. He’d looked so stern and indifferent as he’d given her a curt nod on his way out. She wondered if someone or something had displeased him, but she had no idea who or what that might be. She was fairly certain it had nothing to do with her. How could it?
She placed Rousseau’s Julie; or The New Heloise onto the appropriate pile and pushed a loose strand of hair away from her perspiration-beaded forehead. For the last few hours she had diligently gone about the task Sir Nicholas had assigned her, removing books from the shelves and trying to organize them into broad but logical categories by subject matter: classical literature, history, the sciences, mathematics, geography, art, philosophy, agriculture, and animal husbandry. And then there was the large collection of novels that Lady Barsby purchased from Hatchards. It was a monotonous, laborious undertaking to be sure, particularly given the library was as stifling as an oven, but Abigail didn’t feel like she was wilting. No, not at all.
Not with Sir Nicholas in the very next room.
All morning, the air around her seemed heavy, not only with humidity, but with pulsating awareness. Sexual awareness. The kind of awareness that made Abigail’s lower belly ache with longing. The dampness between her thighs had nothing to do with the heat.
Every so often, when she had glanced over to Mr. Cruikshank’s cramped, stuffy study, she had caught Sir Nicholas watching her, his gaze heavy-lidded and more than a little speculative. At one point, he’d arched a dark eyebrow—as if inviting her to do something wicked—and she’d blushed so hotly, she had immediately looked away.
Curse the man and curse her vulnerability. Why did he have to be so sinfully attractive? And why couldn’t she be as dry and dusty and as unresponsive as the ancient, leather-bound tomes she’d been handling?
But she wasn’t. Even now, Sir Nicholas’s tantalizing scent—a potent mix of sandalwood and pleasant male muskiness—wrapped around her, teasing her, taunting her. Making her want things no young woman in her position, or her right mind, should want.
“Miss Adams, where would you like me to put these?” The young footman Sir Nicholas had assigned to assist her with retrieving any out-of-reach or heavy books, was balancing a teetering stack of Shakespeare’s plays in his arms. The man was sweating profusely—sweat stained the underarms of his butter yellow tailcoat and a drop trickled from beneath his periwig. He must be melting in his livery, poor man.
“Ah, just add it to the English literature pile, thank you, Colin.” Abigail wiped her damp palms down her skirts and glanced at the longcase clock beside the door to the study. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this room for the moment. It’s almost noon and I think we deserve some fresh air before our dinner hour. Let’s say we meet back here in an hour and a half.”
Colin placed the books where she’d indicated and flashed her a grin as he straightened. “I couldn’t agree with you more, Miss Adams. But I expect Mr. Lawson will want me for one thing or another.”
Abigail smiled back. Colin was a good-natured young fellow and she quite liked him. “Well, be sure to pass by the kitchen and have a small beer. I’m sure Mr. Lawson wouldn’t begrudge you that.”
Abigail was in no mood for small beer or even food for that matter; it was too hot to eat. Tea would be lovely but she’d best wait until it was time to go to the servants’ hall lest she incur the wrath of Mrs. Graham yet again. A walk by the lake and a rest in the cool marbled shade of the Doric temple was just the tonic she needed.
Ten minutes later, her new bonnet in place and Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility in hand, Abigail braved the midday sun and crossed the lawn toward the lakeside path leading to the folly. The relentless heat beat down upon her like a hammer upon a blacksmith’s anvil and she worried that the bare skin upon her arms might burn. By the time she reached the shaded section of the path by the willow copse, she was panting and sticky with sweat. She couldn’t even bear wearing her bonnet so she tugged at the ivory silk ribbons and pulled it off.
She had just begun to traverse the section of path that ran beside the rhododendron hedge when she heard a splash—a very loud splash—and she stumbled to a halt, frozen.
Oh, good Lord. Could it be...? Why hadn’t she even thought...?
Abigail’s heart skittered then took off at a gallop as she realized Sir Nicholas was probably but a few yards away. Bathing.
Naked.
She should turn around and go straight back to the Hall. How appalling to think she had almost invaded her employer’s privacy.
A few more moments passed and aside from the thundering of her heart in her ears, all Abigail could hear was the melodious warble of a blackbird in the leafy oak canopy above her head. From where she stood, she could see the temple steps and the grassy bank leading down to the water, but there wasn’t anything to suggest a human presence in the area. Perhaps she had been mistaken. Perhaps she had only heard a mallard duck as it entered the water or the splash of a leaping fish. Or even a mute swan.
She couldn’t be certain it was Sir Nicholas she’d heard. She’d walked all this way in the heat of the day; surely it couldn’t hurt to investigate. Take a small peek.
What is the worst thing that could happen?
Of course, she might catch a glimpse of Sir Nicholas in the water. Shocking, yes, but hadn’t she already seen him in a flagrant state of undress on more than one occasion? A gentleman wearing only his shirtsleeves was definitely guilty of breaching the dictates of sartorial etiquette and Sir Nicholas hadn’t seemed to give a fig about that.
Besides, what did it matter if she did see him dishabille? He’d already seen her in a vulnerable state of undress. Had blatantly ogled her naked legs and Lord knew what other parts of her person.
Abigail raised her chin and squared her shoulders. It served Sir Nicholas right if she did catch him out. Indeed, she’d only found out by pure accident that the man possessed such a singular habit. Who on earth swam sans garments during the day when others might be about? Only a fool or a reprobate of the first order.
Yes, Sir Nicholas only had himself to blame if she came upon him without clothes on. And surely she could claim ignorance as a defense if she absolutely had to...
If she was quick enough and used the rhododendron bushes as a shield, he wouldn’t even notice her if he did happen to be swimming nearby.
Ignoring the prick of her conscience, Abigail stepped off the gravel path and tiptoed along the grass, following the line of the hedge. The dense green foliage obscured her view of the lake but aside from the quiet lap of water against the nearby bank and the fleeting buzz of a dragonfly by her ear, she could hear nothing else. At the end of the hedge, she stopped. Clutching her bonnet and book against her chest, she took a few more moments to listen for any sound that might indicate the presence of another person, but all was still and silent.
Barely daring to breath, her stomach aswarm with butterflies, Abigail inched around the edge of the clipped bushes. More of the lake came into her line of sight; she could see clear across the glassy surface to the eastern side but there was still no sign of Sir Nicholas. Aside from another dragonfly skimming across the water, nothing stirred, not even a breath of air.
Her heart in her mouth, she leaned forward a little more to peer
around the corner to the section of the lake hidden from view...
And there was Sir Nicholas Barsby is all his naked glory.
Oh, dear God. Abigail dropped her bonnet and book as her hands flew to her mouth to smother a gasp—whether it was with shock or pleasure or both she had no idea.
Only a few yards away, thigh deep in the water, Sir Nicholas stood with his back to Abigail. Even though she knew what she did was wrong, her gaze greedily drank in everything about him—his sleek black hair, the droplets of water gleaming on his smooth bare skin, his wide shoulders and well-muscled back tapering to lean hips, the taut cheeks of his buttocks. The tops of his powerful thighs...
At first glance he appeared quite motionless; his head was tipped back, his face raised to the sun while one hand rested low on his hip. And that’s when Abigail noticed his right arm was moving; the corded muscles were flexed and even though his hand was hidden from view it appeared to be at groin level, sliding back-and-forth, back-and-forth, the movement a rapid, rhythmic pulse. It reminded Abigail of the time her former lover, Harry, had shown her how to—
The realization hit her like a bolt from above. Sir Nicholas was pleasuring himself.
Outside. In broad daylight.
Dear Lord, the man was wicked to his very bones. Brazen. Depraved.
And absolutely mesmerizing.
She wondered who he was thinking about. Was it her? And of all the things they could do together...
Leave, Abigail. Go.
But she didn’t. Couldn’t. It seemed she was stricken with some strange fever that rendered her incapable of movement. Arousal shimmered over her skin like a heat haze and her nipples tightened, the sensitive nubs chafing against her cotton shift and suddenly too-tight stays. Liquid heat pooled low in her belly and her folds grew slick. Heavy.
She wanted, she wanted, she wanted...
God, how she wanted.
Without thinking, Abigail slid a hand to the juncture of her thighs and cupped her throbbing mound through the fabric of her skirts. The pace of Sir Nicholas’s pumping grew faster, more frantic, his hips rocked, the muscles of his backside bunched. He was almost there, she could feel it in her own blood as she pressed a finger against her most sensitive spot and rubbed herself through the muslin.
Yes, yes, yes. Sweet fire licked its way along her nerves. Dark desire swept over her, through her, spinning her higher and higher. A moan rose in her throat and before she could think to bite her lip to contain it, it spilled forth into the silence. Breathy and low, yet oh, so loud.
And that’s when Sir Nicholas turned his head and looked over his shoulder. Straight at her.
Oh, good Lord, no...
Reality crashed into Abigail with sickening ferocity. In her extremity, she’d taken a step away from her hiding place, exposing herself and her own depravity. She’d never be able to feign an accidental encounter, not when it was blatantly clear she’d been taking pleasure in watching him.
She dropped her hand away from her quim. Her stomach had already dropped to the grass at her feet.
She’d expected Sir Nicholas’s face to register shock, or blistering anger. But with the cock of one black eyebrow, all she saw was sardonic amusement. At her expense.
She’d lost her position. How could she not? Someone like her was not fit to teach children.
She was such a reckless fool. And wicked. No better than a common whore.
Her face burning with shame and her vision blurred by a flood of stinging tears, Abigail picked up her skirts and fled.
Chapter 6
Abigail managed to reach her bedchamber without encountering a single soul. A panting, sweating mess, she collapsed on her bed and gave into the overwhelming urge to sob her heart out. A toxic combination of bitter self-recrimination, marrow-deep humiliation and heart crushing despair churned around inside her. If the ground beneath her split wide open and swallowed her whole, she would welcome it.
How could she ever face Sir Nicholas again?
Oh, she couldn’t bear it.
But she must. At least until she left Hartfield Hall.
When her weeping at last subsided, she rose from the bed and installed herself in the window seat. A faint breeze wafted through the open window and dried the tears on her cheeks. A bank of black and angry storm clouds had gathered on the horizon and thunder grumbled in the distance. Would Sir Nicholas be just as thunderous when she faced him? Or would he flay her with cold derision?
Her breath shuddered out of her chest.
At some stage she imagined Sir Nicholas would summon her to account for her sinful behavior. So she had best prepare for the painful interview. And naturally, her imminent dismissal.
Her movements as wooden and jerky as a marionette’s, she somehow managed to wash her sticky, tear-stained face and repair her disheveled chignon. The looking glass above the washstand also revealed how puffy and red her eyes were, but there wasn’t much she could do about that. Despite the heat, she couldn’t stand wearing her white muslin gown any more; she felt like a fraud wearing something so pure and virginal looking. With only a limited number of gowns to choose from, she settled for a nondescript calico dress in an unremarkable shade of green.
Abigail was half-way through packing her traveling trunk when there came a knock at the door. Even though she’d anticipated it, to her it sounded like a death knell. When she called, “come in,” she was relieved to see it was the housemaid, Bessie, rather than Mrs. Graham.
The girl frowned when her gaze fell upon the trunk. Nevertheless, she didn’t remark upon it and delivered the message Abigail had been expecting. “Sir Nicholas would like to see you in the drawing room, miss. As soon as you are able.”
Abigail nodded. “Thank you. I shall be down directly.”
“And, Sir Nicholas asked that these be returned to you.” Bessie, who had been standing in the doorway with her hands behind her back, extended her arm, offering Abigail her new bonnet and her copy of Sense and Sensibility.
Abigail bit her quivering bottom lip as she took the items and placed them on the bed. There was no way she could deny that she’d been at the lake now.
“Miss Adams, it’s probably not my place to ask, but are you... Is there anything wrong?”
“No, nothing at all,” said Abigail with a false smile but she wasn’t able to hide the wobble in her voice.
Concern flickered across Bessie’s face, however, she simply curtsied and took her leave.
By the time Abigail reached the drawing room, she was a mass of quivering nerves. Her hand trembled as she placed it on the smooth oak panel of the door; it was ajar but she hesitated to push it open.
Courage, Abigail Adams. You will go and live with Aunt Meredith and Aunt Euphemia for a while. You will find another situation. This is not the end of the world.
So why did it feel like it?
Lifting her chin and drawing in a steadying breath, Abigail entered the room. Sir Nicholas stood by one of the enormous mullion-paned casement windows that afforded a view of the lake; his hands behind his back, he appeared to be contemplating the scene below. His charcoal grey tailcoat emphasized rather than disguised the taut line of his wide shoulders. His face, in profile, was tight with tension. A muscle ticked in his lean jaw.
He looked aloof. Forbidding. Not at all like the rampantly beautiful man who’d been lost to passion only a short time ago.
Despite her agitated state, Abigail blushed at the memory. Of him. And of what she had done.
Her gaze flitted to the arrangement of lavishly upholstered chairs before the fireplace. A tea service, silver coffee pot, and several plates of food—small pastries, sandwiches and cakes—had been set up on a low, intricately carved oak table in the center. She frowned. How odd...
“Ah, Miss Adams. There you are.”
Abigail started then dropped into a sedate curtsy, her head bowed. Unable to meet Sir Nicholas’s gaze, she focused on a knot in the wooden floorboard at her feet. Her mouth as dry as the Sah
ara, she had to swallow and clear her throat before she could speak. “You wanted to see me, sir.”
“Yes... After you’ve shut the door, I want you to take a seat. There are certain matters we need to discuss. Private matters.”
“Yes, sir.” Private was an understatement. Even though she was confused by her employer’s conciliatory manner—she’d hardly expected an invitation to sit—Abigail fulfilled his first request and closed the door.
When she approached the chairs, Sir Nicholas further surprised her by asking if she would like some tea or coffee, or something to eat. “I suspect you missed the servants’ dining hour,” he said. Whilst his statement was matter-of-fact, his voice was also laced with something else softer, gentler. Perhaps he had noticed that she had been crying. But she dare not think he felt the slightest bit of concern for her.
His query—whilst unexpected—also reminded Abigail of why she’d missed her last meal and her face flamed with mortification yet again. “I d-did,” she stammered, “but I... I don’t really want... Thank you, but no.” Her knees felt as insubstantial as water and she sank onto the nearest shepherdess chair. She couldn’t stomach anything right at this moment but she didn’t want to sound ungracious so she added, “I would be happy to serve you, sir.”
Sir Nicholas took a leather wingback chair opposite her. “If you’d be so kind. I prefer coffee. Black, no sugar.”
“Of course.” With shaking hands, Abigail reached for the coffee pot. This situation was truly bizarre and not at all what she’d anticipated. When she chanced a glance at Sir Nicholas from beneath her eyelashes, he didn’t seem as perturbed or angry as she’d initially thought. He sat easily enough in his chair. Indeed he almost lounged in it. One long finger stroked his temple as he watched her, his expression pensive.
Abigail gulped. What on earth was he thinking? Waiting for the proverbial axe to fall was pure torture.
Somehow she poured Sir Nicholas’s coffee without spilling any. He received it with a murmured thanks, took one sip, then another before placing the cup and saucer on the elegant occasional table beside his chair with a decided click. And then he pinned her with a long, penetrating stare.
An Improper Governess: An Improper Liaisons Novella, Book 2 Page 5
