The Wedding Chase

by Rebecca Kelley

  “Billiards is not my game, my lady.” He scanned her briefly. “In the name of equality you must permit this lesson. How else will my masculine pride survive?”

  She met his eyes squarely. “I am also not your lady, as you well know, but I accept the lesson. For equality.”

  Zel laid her spectacles on the tiny corner table, in the relentlessly feminine pastel-and-lace bedchamber. She squinted at her reflection in the cheval glass. Her heavy hair was twisting out of the chignon, before the ride even began. The dark green riding habit had belonged to her Aunt Diana, and made over it felt like a second skin. She frowned, almost relieved the rest of her new wardrobe was not yet ready.

  Striding down the stairs, she tugged at the jacket, trying to pull it free from its close hold on her breasts. The house was quiet, with the female guests in the drawing room gossiping as they attended to their stitchery and the men in the far wing telling tales as they competed at billiards.

  Northcliffe would be lounging in the music room, as arranged. Zel hoped she would not shame herself with her lack of horsemanship. Good riding horses rarely lasted more than a few weeks around the Fleetwood house before they were lost in the next bout of gambling.

  As he stood to greet her, Zel couldn’t ignore his lengthy perusal of her person, but glaring at him when the inspection paused overlong at her bodice didn’t stop the heated flush from rising in her cheeks.

  “I prefer this ensemble over any I’ve seen you in yet.” The corner of his mouth quivered dangerously.

  “You are guilty of the most counterfeit flattery.” Her tone aimed at severity and missed completely. “I am certain you know this is horribly out of date.”

  “My dear, what does fashion matter when the fit is superb.” The twitch in his lips spilled over into a boyishly crooked grin. “And the color compliments your eyes.”

  Zel tossed him a warning look. He smiled wider, tucking her hand in his elbow, guiding her out the door and down the hall.

  The mare selected for her was a small even-tempered gray. Northcliffe lifted her effortlessly into the sidesaddle. When he turned to mount a chestnut stallion, she ran her palms down her sides to rid herself of the lingering feel of his hands.

  As they rode slowly away from the stables it became obvious Northcliffe held back his enormous steed.

  “If I am too slow for you, please ride ahead at your own pace.” Zel surveyed horse and rider who moved as one.

  “It won’t damage Ari to practice restraint. Besides, if I galloped off, your mare would likely attempt to follow.”

  “Ari?” She gripped the reins tighter. “Is he your horse?”

  “Yes, Aristophanes would never forgive a country outing without him.” He ran tapering fingers through the thick mane.

  “Aristophanes? Are you an admirer of Greek drama?”

  “My guilty secret.” He studied her face, as if expecting a reaction.

  “I too enjoy Greek drama and philosophy.”

  “Ah, mademoiselle is a bluestocking?” His smile spred deep enough to summon up the lone dimple.

  “I’ve been called that.” She felt herself bristle. “I find it a title of honor.”

  “I meant no offense. Women have few ways to use their minds.” Northcliffe gave her an accusing look. “I’ve offered my equestrian expertise to one who needs it little. More experience will increase your confidence. And your seat is excellent.”

  He might be a master horseman, but he could use educating on the uses of a woman’s mind. Yet the day, replete with birdsong and wildflowers, was too lovely for dissension. She held her tongue, watching his hands lightly enfold the reins. Long, slim, graceful hands contrasting with his hard masculine body.

  After a long canter past meadows and furrowed fields, they reached a narrow stream and dismounted, allowing the horses to drink. Zel pulled off a glove, stooping to dip her hand in the rocky brook. The cool water ran through her fingers, the force of its flow pressing against her palm. Cupping her hand, she lifted the liquid to her lips, swallowing what didn’t run down her chin and throat. She rose and met his eyes, challenging his pointed stare as she wiped her sleeve across her mouth.

  “I remembered where I’ve heard the name Grizelda.” Northcliffe lounged against a tree, a mischievous grin playing about his mobile mouth. “Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Griselda, the virtuous wife. She who endures all manner of testing by her husband but remains loyal, ever willing to submit to the domination of her lord and master.”

  Zel grimaced, settling on a large, flat boulder. “That horrid little story.” She bit her lip. “Unfortunately, society would not only permit but applaud the husband’s actions.”

  “Forgive me, I’ve dug too deep and uncovered a reformer.”

  She felt her color rise at the smile in his voice. “I am indeed proud to be a women’s reformer, sir.”

  “Your cause isn’t well supported by those in power.”

  She snorted. “But as an earl, you are part of that group.”

  “Touché. I’m a member of Parliament.” Northcliffe strode the short distance between them and laid a hand on her arm. “But my time and energy are consumed with tenants’ rights.”

  She leaned sideways, away from his hand, and pulled on her glove, but she couldn’t stop herself from looking at him in surprise. “You are a tenant advocate? Astonishing for a landowning peer.”

  “I’ve been a peer long enough to know my tenants are my responsibility. If they can’t feed their children, the blame is mine, by my mismanagement or greed.”

  “I am pleased to hear such views coming from one in the House of Lords.” Zel watched, mesmerized, as the bright sun reflected off the lines and planes of his face.

  “I’m not totally alone, Grizelda.” He smiled. “What does your family call you? Surely a woman so lovely must go by a prettier name than Grizelda.”

  “Zel.” She returned his smile, the compliment somehow offsetting his familiarity. “Sometimes Zelda or Zelly.”

  “Zel.” Holding her gaze, he climbed onto the boulder, scooting closer until his body connected warmly with her own.

  She twisted away abrubtly, shoving him hard with her shoulder. Unbalanced, he toppled off the rock, hitting the ground with a thud and a groan.

  “Oh, Lord! Did I hurt you?” Zel slid off the rock, kneeling at his prone form, stroking his forehead and closed eyelids with her fingertips. “Are you injured?”

  Strong fingers grasped hers. His lids popped open. “You pack quite a force in that slim frame.” Northcliffe pulled her hand to his chest. “Was I such a bad boy you had to beat me?”

  “Do not be silly. I never meant to hurt you.” She frowned at her fingers splayed over his chest. “Should I go for help?”

  He sat up, wincing, keeping her hand at his chest. “There’s nothing wrong with me your sweet touch wouldn’t cure.”

  Zel yanked her hand free, jumping to her feet, trying to hide the quaver in her voice. “If there is nothing wrong with you, then we may return and dress for dinner.”

  Northcliffe maintained a light banter as they remounted and rode back to the house. He stopped in a clump of trees just short of the stables, sliding smoothly off Ari’s back. His hands clasped her waist, lifting her from her mount. “Thank you for the splendid afternoon.” He lowered her gently to the ground, then eyes focusing on her mouth, he pulled off his glove. Raising a finger, he softly traced the curve of her lower lip.

  Zel jumped back, stung, her lip tingling from the caress, pushing against him with the hand still braced against his shoulder. He flinched and stepped back, releasing her abruptly. Her hand dropped. It felt warm, sticky. She gasped, watching a stain widen on his jacket.

  “My God! You are bleeding.”

  She thrust aside his neckcloth and jacket. Ignoring his protests, she quickly unfastened the top of his shirt to examine the wound. “My God! Did I do this?”

  “Of course not. It happened several days ago.”

  “This needs to be thoroughl
y cleaned and bandaged.” She lectured him to assuage her guilt. Despite his disclaimer she was sure the fall off the boulder had caused the bleeding. “You should be in bed. Not out riding.”

  “With all your other talents I can’t believe you’re a nurse too!” She rewarded his attempt at humor with a stern glare.

  “I will accompany you to your room and let you observe my nursing skills firsthand.” Zel signaled a groom to handle the horses and hooked Northcliffe’s arm, leading him to the house.

  “I’d normally not deny you entrance to my chambers, but I don’t need a nurse.” His smile was obviously forced. “If you insist on mending my hurts, it would be better done downstairs.”

  Zel blushed at her lack of propriety and ordered the footman at the front door to usher them into an empty salon and send for hot water and bandages.

  Pulling Northcliffe into the indicated gray-and-white room, Zel yanked off her stained gloves and helped him slip out of his jacket and waistcoat. She pushed him down on the sofa and removed his neckcloth, then unfastened the remaining buttons on his shirt so she could poke at the wound.

  “Bloody devil’s spawn!” He growled, shoving her hands away.

  “This looks like a knife cut, and it should have been stitched. Why didn’t you seek a physician?” She stopped. Lord, she was reprimanding him like a despotic schoolmistress.

  “I saw a doctor, but I told him it didn’t need stitching.” He sucked in a breath when she prodded the wound again. “It’s a flea bite. I’ve had worse.” As he tried to sit she leaned over him, a hand on his uninjured shoulder, the other on the opposite arm. His lips curled as he settled into the cushions.

  Zel released him and took a step backward. “You will stay put and allow me to clean the wound. Lady Selby’s physician was at the musicale last night and may still be here.”

  A maid entered with water and cloths. Zel took a cloth and ordered her to fetch the doctor.

  “This may hurt a little.” She wet the cloth and began scrubbing blood off the wound.

  He stiffened, hissing. “By Lucifer’s scaly skin, woman, have a little care. You’re taking off hide with the blood.”

  She pinched back a smile at his colorful language, but gentled the strokes. “Now, my lord, may I hear how a respectable gentleman came to have a knife wound at his throat?”

  “Miss Fleetwood, you’re sadly mistaken in thinking me a respectable gentleman. But if you must know about my little adventure, I was set on by footpads several nights ago outside my club.” His look oozed studied masculine insouciance. “And I’m not bragging to say they came out of the affair in much worse condition than I.”

  Zel scowled at him as she rinsed the cloth. “Violence is nothing of which to be proud.”

  “Ah.” Northcliffe raised his thick black brows. “Have I hit on another cause?”

  “Do not take the focus off yourself.” She squeezed the water from the cloth. “You undoubtably were not taking precautions to avoid the incident.” This was none of her business, but she continued to act like a guilty, meddling fool.

  “This little speech sounds well used.” He winced when she again rubbed too hard. “Your brother?”

  Warmth touched her cheeks. “Excuse me, please. I had no right to say what I did. I am certainly not your mother.”

  “Ahem.” She whirled about as Dr. Lyndon shuffled in. He slowly approached the sofa then quickly took stock of the situation, eyes bright under thick eyeglasses and grizzled brows.

  “This wound is several days old and should have been stitched, my lord.” The doctor turned to Zel, handing her a leather case. “We need to get him to his room. Could you bring this while I help him up the stairs?”

  “I’ll manage on my own.” Wolfgang rose to his feet.

  “I’m sure you can, young man, but you will take my arm all the same.” Dr. Lyndon did not wait for an argument but grabbed Northcliffe’s good arm and moved out of the room.

  When they settled Northcliffe on the massive dark wood four-poster in the incongruously lavender room, Dr. Lyndon turned to Zel. “Miss Fleetwood, you seem to have a level head and a strong stomach. Can you assist?”

  “She’d be happy to.” Northcliffe’s smoky eyes met hers. “She can hold my hand, if nothing else.”

  Zel did hold his hand and his shoulder when he stubbornly refused laudanum for the stitching, claiming he had no head for the stuff and Lady Selby would never forgive him if he slept through dinner.

  As her usefulness ended, Zel felt uncomfortably aware she was in a man’s bedchamber and the man’s state of undress was decidedly advanced. She tried to reassure herself there could be nothing wrong with Dr. Lyndon beside her, but her eyes kept returning to Northcliffe’s torso. Never had she seen so much bare skin on a man other than her father or brother, and neither of them looked much like Northcliffe. She found she had a peculiar fascination for the curly black hair powdering his firmly muscled chest. Following the dark line down over his flat stomach, she stopped suddenly at the waistband of his riding breeches. The room became too close. Too warm.

  “Everything seems under control.” She felt pleased that her voice sounded calm although she knew her color rose higher. “I need to leave to dress for dinner.”

  “I’ll see you there.” Northcliffe gave her his disarming grin. “Thank you, Nurse Fleetwood.”

  “You should rest.” Zel inwardly chided herself for even glancing at the small male nipples hiding under the dusting of hair. After all, the man had just been stitched and bandaged.

  “I’ll be down for dinner.” He caught her eyes, and she knew he was pleased to be the object of her wayward attentions. “You can lend me your shoulder and hold me up during dinner.”

  With one last scolding look she darted out the door, nearly colliding with Lady Selby’s ample purple mass in the hallway.

  “Zelda! That’s Northcliffe’s room. Why is Lyndon in there?” Lady Selby’s eye for scandal was as sharp as a hawk’s eye for a field mouse supper. “Why were you in there?”

  Zel took the puffy old hand in hers, hoping to slow the woman down. “No need to worry, Northcliffe is fine. A wound reopened and needed to be stitched. I assisted the physician.”

  “You assisted Lyndon?” Her jowls and voice quavered. “Are you sure Northcliffe is not badly injured?”

  “Several days ago he was set on by footpads and not properly attended to afterward. He swears he is well enough to come down for dinner.”

  “Oh dear, I am so pleased he is well. I would not want anyone taking ill at my home.” She clasped Zel’s arm and whispered conspiratorily. “Zelda, you shouldn’t be in his room.”

  “I was assisting the doctor,” Zel repeated firmly.

  “Zelda, this isn’t really the time—” Lady Selby hesitated, “but Northcliffe is not the type of man for you. Your aunt will never forgive me.… His reputation is dreadful. He is not accepted in the best circles.” Her voice lowered further. “He could not be truly interested in you, not in a respectable way. He usually consorts with married women. If you don’t watch out, you could end up broken-hearted and ruined.” When Zel tried to break away she held on tighter. “It is said he has vowed not to marry. And when he inherited his title less than a year ago, there were stories about his family and how he got the title.” Lady Selby looked about, whispering, “Mysterious deaths, sudden illnesses, carriage accidents.”

  “I know nothing of stories, nor do I put faith in gossip and rumor.” She looked at the door she had just exited. “If he is such a scapegrace, why did you invite him?”

  Lady Selby pulled Zel farther down the hallway. “His dear grandmother is my friend, and I would never snub her kin. He is also a close friend of the duke of Ridgemont.”

  Zel jerked her arm free and faced the woman. “And you wish to curry favor with the illustrious duke.”

  “My dear, you know I have granddaughters entering the marriage mart, and any connection with His Grace—”

  “You tolerate Northcliffe t
o cultivate Ridgemont.”

  “My dear, you are such an innocent for one of your years. Northcliffe is exciting but dangerous. You must avoid him. He is not suitable company for naive, unmarried females.”

  “As a mature woman of six and twenty, I know my own mind. If I choose to be a friend to Northcliffe, I do so on my own assessment of his character.” Zel lifted her chin. “And if I choose to have a mild flirtation with the man, it will not go beyond what I can control.”

  “What’th the man doing?” Melbourne’s whining drawl moved higher in query. “Dangling after Mith Fleetwood, and what’th thith about a knife wound?” He crossed his orange satin-covered legs, settling in the plush chair.

  Wilmington John Wilborn Hawthorne, earl of Newton, allowed a slight smile to touch his lips. “Lady Selby claims he was attacked by footpads several days back. As for Miss Fleetwood, I would never have given her a second glance.” He bent his thin form before the library window, but he barely saw the terraced garden below. “Northcliffe has singled her out, and as his taste rarely errs, I believe a second glance may be warranted.”

  “Newton, you are becoming positively shortsighted. The woman is a dowd, and as tall as a man.” Isadora’s normally smooth tones carried an unaccustomed edge. “Wolfgang must be bored to be playing with her. This country life’s too tame for his blood.” She ran her tiny fingers along a row of books, the movement too rapid to be seeking reading material.

  “If he’th bored, why ithn’t he theeking your company, Lady Horeton?” Melbourne twittered.

  “He will be.” She pulled at the top of her gown revealing more of her full white bosom. “We’ll be back on old terms.”

  “Such a dreamer.” Newton stared at her and barked out a hard-edged laugh. “Perhaps our Miss Fleetwood is a libertine. She is known to be outspoken on the rights of women, and some of that mind do not have conventional views on morality.”

  “A libertine?” Melbourne’s vacant smile matched his drawl. “I don’t think tho.”

  “We will attempt to solve this puzzle or scatter its pieces.” Newton ran his nails down the pane of glass. “A sure remedy for the ennui of a country retreat.”