The Lady Most Likely...

by Julia Quinn

  “The rest of us?” her brother cut in. He turned on her with suspicion in his eyes. “What about you?”

  “Oh, I shall be supervising.” She waved a hand through the air as if motioning to a large canvas. “Someone must monitor all the details.”

  “That person could be me,” he pointed out.

  “When you are found,” she continued to the crowd, rather determinedly not looking at her brother, “you must return to the house and tell me which of our seekers found you. The winner shall be whoever is last to be found, with the consolation going to the more successful seeker.”

  She was met with silence.

  “You win if no one finds you,” she said briskly, “and come in second if you find more people than the other seeker.”

  This seemed to be a more effective directive, especially after Mr. Hammond-Betts asked, “Are there prizes?”

  “Of course there are prizes,” Lady Finchley exclaimed. “What good are games without prizes?” She flashed the crowd a wide smile. “I shall tell you all about the prizes just as soon as I decide what they are.”

  “Carolyn!” someone groaned.

  “Oh, call me unprepared,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’m doing my best.”

  “I’m still voting for the brandy,” the Duke of Bretton drawled.

  “Just for that,” Lady Finchley said, “you shall be one of the seekers.”

  She turned to Gwen, presumably because she was the closest female. “It means he cannot escape the game quickly by choosing an obvious location and getting himself found in the first five minutes.”

  “Very clever,” Gwen said.

  “Yes, I thought so. I would make you a seeker, too,” she said, turning to her brother, “but I think it should be a woman.” She scanned the crowd, her eyes falling first on Gwen, who gave a silent plea not to be picked. Lady Finchley must have seen the panic in her eyes because, after moving her outstretched arm through the air like a protractor, she stopped at Alec’s younger sister, and said, “Miss Darlington! You shall be our other seeker!”

  Octavia clapped her hands together in delight, cooing something at Mr. Glover that Gwen couldn’t quite hear. Gwen couldn’t imagine wanting to be the seeker in such a game. To have to roam the grounds looking for people—how awful. Gwen was already plotting how she might get her sketchbook before she went out to hide. If she found a good spot, she could win the game and have hours of blissful solitude.

  Although …

  She stole a glance at Alec, then looked away when she saw that he was stealing a glance at her. She couldn’t help but smile, though. Maybe blissful solitude wasn’t what she wanted right now. She was so used to spending parties trying to escape that it hadn’t even occurred to her that this time there might be someone she did not wish to escape from.

  This time, there might be someone she wished to escape with.

  She could feel her face grow warm, and she kept her gaze on the grass, afraid to look up with her cheeks so obviously pink. Any hope she had of remaining unnoticed, however, was dashed when she heard a warm voice in her ear say, “You’re blushing.”

  “I’m not,” she lied, but she knew that her cheeks had grown even pinker, just at the sound of Alec’s voice.

  “Liar,” he murmured. “Whatever can you be thinking about?”

  Gwen raised her head to reply, but before she could speak, Octavia Darlington joined them. “Do your best, brother,” she said with a grin at Alec. “I’ll find you.”

  “Please do,” he replied. “I’m looking forward to savoring my brandy while Bretton slogs through the mud.”

  “It’s not that muddy,” Gwen said.

  “It will be with those shoes,” Alec replied, nodding toward his sister’s slippers.

  “Oh, these old things?” Octavia said. “They are quite well-worn. I was nearly ready to dispose of them.”

  “Is it any wonder my bills are so high?” Alec murmured.

  Gwen bit back a laugh, then quickly sobered her face when Octavia shot her a scowl.

  “Your sister doesn’t like me,” she said, once Octavia had departed.

  “Right now I don’t much like my sister,” Alec replied tightly.

  Gwen didn’t know how to reply to that. She was probably supposed to be all sweetness and light and cry out something like, “Oh, don’t say that!” But Octavia Darlington had been scowling at her for four months now, and Gwen was frankly sick of it.

  “She’s just jealous,” Alec said. He let out a tired sigh, then quickly buried the unpleasantness with a shake of his head. He turned to her with a smile, and said, “She has always wanted titian hair.”

  Gwen rolled her eyes.

  “It’s true,” he insisted. “Green eyes, too.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh very well, I lied about the eyes, but I know I’ve heard her moan about her hair.”

  “She probably wants more curl,” Gwen said. Most young ladies did.

  He looked mystified by the entire conversation. “Whatever it is she wants, it isn’t what she has.”

  “Your sister is lovely,” Gwen said. It was true. Octavia had gorgeous thick hair and very fine gray eyes. Rather like Alec’s, which Gwen had recently become quite partial to.

  “Not as lovely as you,” Alec said quietly, “and I’m afraid she knows it.”

  Their eyes met, and Gwen almost allowed herself to sway toward him. The moment seemed to call for a kiss, and as she gazed up—

  “Stop,” he said in a strangled voice.

  “Stop what?”

  “Looking at me like that.”

  Gwen swallowed nervously and stepped back, hastily looking about to see if anyone had noticed her staring at him like a lovesick cow. Lady Finchley was looking their way, but Gwen couldn’t be sure if she was watching them or the Duke of Bretton, who was leaning against a tree, counting aloud with a great show of exaggerated patience.

  “Thirty-four … thirty-five … One hundred, you say?”

  “One thousand,” Lady Finchley said with a wicked grin.

  “Shall we hide?” Alec whispered.

  Gwen looked at him in shock. “Together?”

  “There is nothing in the rules saying we can’t.”

  “I seem to recall failing in maths at Eton,” the duke said. “Something about triple-digit numbers.”

  “It’s a difficult concept,” Lady Finchley said, “but I’m sure you’ll catch on.”

  Gwen laughed at the sight of England’s most eligible bachelor, slouched against a tree, counting like a schoolboy.

  “I don’t know what he was thinking,” Alec said, shaking his head. “He should know better than to try to outwit Carolyn Finchley.”

  “You’ve tried, then?” Gwen asked.

  “Oh, many many times,” Alec said, as they wandered off behind the house. “I have known her since she was in pinafores. Her brother is one of my closest friends.”

  “Lord Briarly seems like a very nice man,” she said.

  Alec looked at her sharply. “You’re not to marry him.”

  Gwen very nearly choked on her own tongue. “Excuse me?”

  “He’s looking for a wife. I am not sure what has brought it on with such urgency, but …” Alec paused, then said, “Can you keep a secret?”

  “I can,” Gwen confirmed.

  “He has made a list. Or rather, his sisters have done so. Of prospective brides.”

  Suddenly, many of the previous day’s events began to make sense. “Am I on it?” Gwen asked with a frown.

  “Of course,” Alec replied. He was rather matter-of-fact about it, so much so that Gwen found herself nonplussed. He turned to her with surprise. “Did you think you wouldn’t be?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “It does not matter. If he asks, under no circumstances should you accept.”

  Gwen could not help but wonder if he might have alternate plans in mind, but before she could even lament her lack of boldness (she could ne
ver bring herself to ask, never), Alec shook his head and said, “You would be miserable.”

  “I would?” And then some devil within her made her ask, “Why?”

  He gave her a very stern look. “Hugh lives and breathes horses. He’ll not have time for any wife who does not share his passions.”

  “Some women would find appeal in such an arrangement.”

  Alec looked at her intently. “Would you?”

  Gwen swallowed. “I suppose it would depend upon my husband.”

  They had reached the edge of the clearing and were now stepping into the woods. A shadow fell across her skin, and she shivered.

  But she wasn’t so sure it was because of the cold. Alec had stopped walking, and one of his hands had found hers. Their fingers entwined, and he tugged her toward him. She looked up at him, and her breath caught. He was watching her with such intensity; surely, she thought, he could see straight down to her soul.

  “What if I were your husband?” he asked softly. “Would you want such an arrangement?”

  Silently, she shook her head.

  “Nor I,” he murmured, bringing her fingers to her lips. “A husband and wife should share their passions, I think.”

  Gwen smiled. She felt feminine. She felt bold. “We’re not talking about horses any longer, are we?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Books? My father is passionate about his library.”

  “Some books,” Alec said, his voice so seductive that Gwen could only wonder what books he was thinking of.

  “Embroidery?” she teased. “My mother is very passionate about her embroidery.”

  “I am only passionate about embroidery as pertains to what may be worn on your body.”

  Her cheeks burned, and yet the rest of her felt rather anxious. Anxious and delicious.

  He leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth. “I am more passionate about embroidery as pertains to what may be removed from your body.”

  “Oh my,” she whispered. “I don’t think we’re nearly far enough into the woods.”

  He let out a huge peal of laughter, then grabbed her hand and pulled. She ran after him, her legs having to add a hop to her run, just to keep up with his longer stride. She was laughing all the way, blissful and breathless, leaping over tree roots, and ducking under branches.

  “Stop!” she pleaded, just barely dodging a bramble that was jutting out onto the path. “I can’t—oh!”

  He’d stopped.

  She slammed into him, their bodies meeting with sudden, thorough force, then—It couldn’t be stopped. He didn’t say a word, and she didn’t want him to. His arms were around her, and her hands were in his hair, and whatever they’d done earlier that morning, it was nothing like this.

  Gwen did not know what had come over her, could not have even dreamed that she might feel such a sense of urgency. But when she crashed into him, her body pressing up against the hard length of his, something inside of her had broken free. She wanted—no she needed—to feel him, to kiss him, to show him that she was not just shy little Gwendolyn Passmore. She was a woman, a woman with passions. And she wanted him.

  She moaned his name, pulling him more tightly against her. She felt powerful. She felt fierce. She wanted to take charge of her life. Of this moment.

  Of the world!

  She laughed. She threw her head back and laughed.

  “What is it?” he asked, panting.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, barely catching her own breath. “I’m just so happy. I feel like … I feel …”

  He pulled her back to him, but he didn’t kiss her again. He just held her close, gazing down into her eyes.

  “I feel free,” she whispered.

  Chapter 8

  Alec had not meant to kiss her.

  Very well, that wasn’t true. He had meant to kiss her. He just hadn’t meant to kiss her like this. But now …

  He couldn’t have stopped if the king himself arrived on the scene and ordered it. For the first time in his life he was moved by something beyond desire, beyond even need. She was his. He had to make her his. He had to show her …

  Hell, he didn’t know what he had to show her. He just knew that he had to …

  That was it. He didn’t know anything. He didn’t know anything except her and him and this moment and this kiss and the wind and leaves and scent of wet earth and—

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. He had to say it. He had to.

  “I feel beautiful,” she said softly. “You make me feel beautiful.”

  He touched her hair, the red-gold strands sliding along his fingers. She’d worn it up, but their run through the woods had sent her coiffure tumbling around her shoulders. “How does it know how to do this?” he murmured.

  “Do what?”

  He lifted a lock, watching the curl bounce gently in the air, then slid his finger inside the hollow core. “How do all the strands know how to gather together to make a curl?”

  She looked as if she might laugh. “I have very intelligent hair.”

  “Just your hair?”

  “My toes are quite clever.”

  Alec was suddenly consumed by a desire to see her feet. “This grows interesting.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me?” He pretended to give the question serious thought. “I have very knowledgeable hands.”

  She took one and brought it to her mouth. “I like your hands.”

  He didn’t say anything, did not trust himself to speak. He could barely draw breath, barely remember his name as she kissed each knuckle in turn.

  “They are kind hands,” she said softly. “And very capable.”

  “Oh my God,” he moaned. “Gwen.”

  But she did not stop. She turned it over and looked at his palm. “Do you see this?” she said, touching the sensitive ridge just below the base of his fingers. “Calluses. How does a pampered earl get calluses?”

  “I like working with my hands,” he said hoarsely.

  She nodded. “I do, too.”

  “I like taking long walks,” he said.

  She kissed his palm. “I do, too.”

  And then, because it seemed to fit the moment, he blurted out, “I like green.”

  She looked up at him, with those amazing green eyes. He hadn’t even been thinking of her eyes when he’d spoken. Or had he?

  “Is it your favorite color?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  And she smiled. “It is mine, too.”

  He watched her, wondering when it had become so fascinating simply to see another human being blink. But on her, on Gwen, it was a ballet. He could have stood there all afternoon, watching her lashes sweep up and down. The precise color of them against her cheek, the way she seemed to smile every time her eyes closed …

  He was growing fanciful.

  He was growing foolish.

  He didn’t care.

  “My second favorite color is purple,” she said, smiling up at him.

  He almost said, “Mine, too,” except it wasn’t. And so he grinned back, and said, “I like orange.”

  “I like oranges.”

  He leaned down, letting his forehead rest on hers. “I like plums.”

  Her lips found his, but only fleetingly. “I like strawberries,” she said.

  He paused. “What has that to do with anything?”

  She shrugged helplessly and let out a little laugh. “I don’t know.”

  He touched her chin, then let his fingers trail along the edge of her jaw to her neck. “Do you have any idea how much I want to kiss you right now?”

  “Some,” she whispered.

  “I have never felt like this before,” he told her. Because he had to. She had to know that he was not inexperienced. He’d been with women. He’d rarely been without women. But he needed her to know that with her it was all new.

  “Neither have I,” she said, then admitted, “I don’t understand it.”

  He kissed her
again, nipping lightly on her lower lip. “I don’t think you have to understand it.” He moved to her throat, growling with desire as she let her head fall back, allowing him unfettered access to her warm, soft skin.

  He turned her until her back was against a tree, and then he leaned her against the trunk, his mouth finding the base of her throat again, moving down, down the hollow above her collarbone, down to the swell of her breast, peeking above the edge of her frock.

  “Alec,” she moaned, but he heard nothing in her voice that wanted him to stop, and so he moved even lower, daringly so, running his tongue under the frilly lace edge. His hands were on her shoulders, and before he knew it, he was nudging one side of her bodice down.

  He kissed her shoulder, then the soft flesh of her arm, then her breast, and then slowly, achingly, he took the tip in his mouth and gently nipped at it, growling with pleasure when he heard her soft moan of surprise.

  Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he knew he had to stop. She was innocent, for God’s sake, and he was making love to her against a tree. In the midst of a game of hide-and-seek. But he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Not just yet, not when she was sweet and passionate in his arms. Not when she was making those sounds, indescribable and endlessly seductive, from the back of her throat.

  “That thing I said before,” he gasped, pressing his arousal against her even though he knew it would only make him feel more frustrated, “about if I were your husband …”

  She made a noise. He thought it might have been, “Yes?”

  “It was a proposal.” He pulled away, just far enough so that he might actually breathe. “Clumsy, I know, but—” He tried to sink to one knee but found he hadn’t the balance, so instead he just kind of leaned funny. “Will you marry me?”

  She did not say anything right away, which might have worried him except that she was so clearly trying to catch her breath. Finally, she looked up, and said, “Really?”

  He nodded.

  She nodded.

  And thus Alec Darlington, the seventh Earl of Charters, and Miss Gwendolyn Passmore, daughter of Lord and Lady Stillworth, became engaged.

  It was not the story they would share with their children. That version had rose petals, a diamond engagement ring, and (this was a last-minute addition to the narrative) a catapult.