No other response was possible to that tiny, knowing, superior, evil smile tugging at his lips.
She'd been wrong. So very, very wrong. Even as she'd been oh-so-very right.
Another touch, inside her other wrist. "So very…"
Impossible to move, much less escape. She might not be certain this was what she wanted. But her body hadn't the slightest doubt, all her awareness arrested upon the sensitive skin just ahead of his gravitating touch, and her body refused to permit her feet to shift even an inch. Because it felt delicious. That heat within her intensified, a tiny flame feeding on his fuel and exploding into a raging fire. Her breath rasped, her back curled like a cat around a blissful scratch, and her head fell back; she had to look a fool, and she couldn't even force herself to close her mouth.
Or her eyes. As that feral, hungry, horrifying smile grew.
"…very…"
And still that succulent, torturous touch trailed up her arms. Across her shoulders, across her collarbones, down — but only a finger's length, then up, both of his hands gliding up her neck. The yearning, aching skin not touched quivered, begging for his attention, even as the nerves beneath his fingertips crooned their appreciative release. The fog crept closer, wrapped about her like a blanket, and her eyes surrendered, drifting down.
Pressure built within her, a nameless hunger so powerful she couldn't ignore it, as his fingertips crept higher. She'd give anything, anything at all, for him to end her torture. So long as he ended it the right way.
A sound — no, a distant shout, from outside the hovering fog. Her eyes snapped open.
"…oh yes, so very tempting." His touch firmed, cupped her face. That evil smile was gone, scrubbed from his expression as if it had never existed, and the fog cleared, from the glade around them and from her beclouded thoughts. Tricksey stamped one forefoot, flattened her ears, and Sassenach, undeterred, nuzzled her neck again.
Another shout, this time discernible as a word. Her name. Fitz, calling for her through the city.
Like an idiot. Letting everyone know she was missing.
He even interrupted her seduction.
And he'd argue about it. He would.
She'd kill him.
A gentle thumb brushed across her lips. Even the force of nature was gone, leaving behind the gracious suitor who'd danced with her at the assembly. Only a quiet glint of challenge lingered in his hooded eyes.
"We both felt your response. If you can do this with me, then why can't you do it with the man who's really on your thoughts?"
She froze, suddenly cold. Rain trickled down her neck, into her sodden morning gown, and the chill followed, spreading from that narrow path along her spine to the rest of her. She hadn't changed to a riding habit, hadn't even changed her slippers for boots, and her feet felt as if they were wrapped in soaking ice. Worse, she'd led this man on, lied to him with her behavior — well, yes and no, she'd never promised him anything—
Was this how a rabbit felt under the gunsights?
He gripped her shoulders, his eyes gentle as a baby's breath. "Because we both know who that is. It's not me, no matter what you'd like me to believe. And we also both know I'd never be satisfied with only the unengaged bits of you." His stare never left hers, but he lifted his chin as he raised his voice to a controlled shout. "Turn at the oak."
A pause in the distant racket. A clatter of hoofbeats, then silence, the fog again enshrouding them. It could only be Rounder, and Fitz had reined him off the pavement into the park. Soon enough, she'd hear the heavier, deeper thuds of hoofs in the sodden turf. Then Fitz would arrive.
And all her yearning hopes crashed to the mud about her. She couldn't even get herself seduced. Beryl sighed. "Not even one kiss?"
He chuckled, an earthy, delighted sound, his eyes lighting with appreciative mischief, and he released her. Only the warmth of his hands on her shoulders had kept the last of the chill at bay, and without his touch, Beryl shivered all over. And she'd thought him kind.
"Oh, I don't think that's a good idea at all." He stepped back, away to a proper distance, leaving a cold, yearning vacuum behind.
And there, Rounder's hoofbeats approaching. Their interlude was over and her rescue was at hand. Whether she wanted it or not.
Bringing her ruin with it.
Because she'd been compromised, in the fog and the soaking Hyde Park glade, with Fitz yelling her name at the top of his lungs as he rode through Mayfair. Everyone was going to figure that situation out.
She rolled her lips together, anger and depression fighting the cold. Rain misted on her forehead, one larger drop splashing into her eye, making her blink, and spilling down her cheek like a tear. Thud-thud-thud-thud, Rounder's ground-covering walk coming closer.
"Well…" One long stride, barely seen through the blinking, and again he crowded her close, even closer, the hard wall of his chest pressing gently against her. The heat returned, more fiery than ever, and her heart pounded a rhythm louder than the approaching hoofbeats. "Maybe just one."
Closer, his mischievous pale eyes all she could see, his warm hands on her waist and sliding around to her back, the drenched muslin bunching and deliciously chafing. Closer still, his lips barely parted, a droplet of rain trickling down and glistening there, her head tilting back whether she willed it or no. Yet closer, and she closed her eyes.
Soft, firming, exploring. Fire where he touched, waist, back, and lips, scalding her with blistering rain. One gasping breath, all she could haul in, and it wasn't enough, her lungs burned with need, or mayhap that was her burning, the fire of his touch flaming into her every hidden nook. Excruciating and wonderful; her body blazed and shuddered, as if he'd mesmerized or bewitched her, and all she knew was his touch. Altogether too much for her overloaded nerves to withstand. Beryl gasped again and stepped back into a wall of wet horseflesh, and Tricksey's long bony head pushed between them, the mare curving her neck into a protecting barrier about Beryl's body. The fog fell away, opening the glade around her, and somehow she knew it would be for the last time.
The last time with this man, at least.
His Grace stepped back, as well, one hand snaking out and snagging Sassenach's reins, tugging the unwilling stallion away just as Rounder's nose appeared between the trees. Liquid eyes, neat inquisitive ears, gliding forelegs, and glossy neck and shoulders; by the time Rounder's rider was visible, His Grace and the stallion stood halfway across the glade, as if nothing could possibly have happened between them.
And the rider…
Fitz.
Camel-colored cape across his shoulders, trailing atop Rounder's red-brown croup, the wet hemline hanging heavily and swaying with each stride. He'd grabbed his hat this time, hiding his eyes as the hunter pushed through the undergrowth, but beneath the shadow his jaw was tight, his mouth twisted. He had to suspect her — but no, the bushes opened up, Rounder pushed through into the clear, and the dreary light, such as it was, reached Fitz's eyes.
Those beautiful, beloved eyes.
Her traitorous heart lurched and her attention fastened on him without any permission from her. Another fog advanced in her mind, a different, softer, warmer one, without effort shutting everything else out.
And everyone.
She wanted to be angry. After all, she'd ordered Fitz out of her life. But obedience had never been his strongest suit. And perhaps good sense would never be hers. Here he was back again, like a bad penny, one she'd sworn to dispose of. And just the sight of his face, scrunched up with worry, green eyes glittering, chestnut hair darkened by the rain and plastered against his forehead beneath his hat's brim — just the sight of him brought her heart hammering from her chest and into her soul.
Even if his breeches were a disaster.
Yes, she'd done her utmost to shove Fitz out of her life.
Too bad, something inside her whispered, too bad you'll never succeed.
No matter what other man she used to tempt herself.
Chapter Eight
/> Wednesday, March 17, 1813 continued
There was something different about her.
Fitz felt her stare through his thoughts. Something had changed in Beryl's face, maybe in the air around her, even though he couldn't quite put his finger on the difference. Her eyes seemed to be all pupils, dark and deep, like an underwater current sucking him in, and she'd fastened that stare on him from the moment the brush had opened between them. No, sooner, for she'd already been staring at the spot where he'd broken through; there'd been no turning of her head or eyes. She'd been awaiting his arrival. Though why that thought should start his pulse hammering, he'd no idea. Of course she'd be looking for him; she had to have heard his approach and known he'd be there soon to rescue her—
But that something different affected him as well and his pulse hammered on, harder and harder, until he couldn't breathe for the strength of it. It was as if the lass before him was no longer Beryl, his childhood friend, but a woman. A real one. And a beauty. Wet, bedraggled, and shivering, a minx cat dumped into a chilly pool, but a beauty just the same and staring at him like a soul-sucking succubus. Considering her company, more like a woman abused. But that wasn't quite right, either. She seemed not ravished…
…but ravishing. And when she'd turned that smoldering gaze on him, his answering flame had come from some primeval, feral level, ancient and feudal and demanding.
And male. Definitely male.
So said the less delicate bits of his anatomy. With gusto.
He'd been blind.
Fitz slid from Rounder to the sloppy grass beside her; his breeches could be no more ruined than he'd already managed, nor his stockings, nor his shoes. The smolder flickered behind her eyes.
And started to cool.
With glittering fire driving it out.
On the far side of the glade, the big warhorse circled, stopped, stamped, and Cumberland gathered the reins. It took a massive effort even to remember the villain was there, much less notice him. Granted, if he'd kept himself away from Beryl, wet and vulnerable and upsettingly delectable as she was, then perhaps he wasn't the villain others claimed him to be. No, Fitz had seen the brute in action. Villain it was, no matter whether he'd pressed his attentions or no.
"Excellent," Cumberland said, "you're here." Finally, that august tone implied, but left the additional word unsaid. "Miss Beryl is quite safe and she assures me dismounting was her idea, not the mare's. However, at this point I think it's better…" He toed the stirrup, bounced, and mounted, Sassenach sidling sideways beneath him and curveting.
She was safe. Unhurt. Silent and still and appealing. Since he and Rounder had entered the glade, her stare hadn't budged from him. But most of the smolder had flickered to ashes, leaving the glare of her temper behind. Along with a wet gown, soaked shoes, and dripping, lifeless curls. Not only his clothing had been destroyed by this little outing.
And still a dryad, a Venus, a vision, the single most amazing sight he'd ever sighted. He'd not seen what even Caird had noticed. That Beryl, his childhood friend, had left childhood behind. Far, far behind.
Not only had he been blind. He'd been stupid, as well.
Despite the bitterness flavoring her anger, she stunned him.
Behind him, heavy hoofs thudded, pranced, finally trotted away. As another, lighter set approached, and within seconds, Paul entered the glade and drew his stolid bay cob to a halt with an exaggerated, relieved sigh.
Beryl's lips thinned. "I will not be some sort of consolation prize." Her whisper, not meant for anyone else's ears, held viciousness, too. Despite the raindrops trickling down her cheeks. Her cheeks, his cheeks, the horses, and everything else in the wide, wet park. Or perhaps because of them.
She would be difficult, of course she would. Fitz grimaced. Well, that was his Beryl, and he'd not ask for her to be any other way. "Of course not." With one hand he unclasped the cloak, shrugged, and let it slide down across his back; then he draped it about her. Heart hammering, he eased closer, not daring to look up from fastening the clasp beneath her slender, enticing throat. If her eyes held hatred, well, he'd rather not see it.
Because he had every intention of winning her back.
Besides, if he looked at her delectable lips now, he'd surely kiss her silly. And the moment didn't seem the most appropriate time.
****
"I never asked you to chase after me." She'd not look at the man riding beside her, hadn't looked at him all the way back along Park Lane and Piccadilly. Beryl almost wished Tricksey would misbehave or argue with Rounder, so she wouldn't have to ride so close to him. But the mare sauntered along happily enough, with Rounder beside her and Paul's cob trailing behind. Treasonous beast.
The dreary sweep of Albemarle stretched before them. Even the columns of the Royal Institution looked miserable in this weather. Water dripped everywhere, heavy and depressing, and the puddles had widened as if reaching for each other across the pavement. Halfway up the street, the ironmonger's old cart horse scrabbled along, nostrils flared and hooves reaching for purchase, the heavy cart rumbling behind in slow fits and starts. It seemed an appropriate symbol, sad and desperate.
"Ask me to chase you?" His voice was mildness itself. "That you didn't."
Perplexing. No, more than that: bizarre. "And I told you to leave me be."
From her eye's corner, Fitz's profile nodded. "That you did."
Had he done himself an injury, riding through the slop in her wake? Or had he caught some dreadful illness, something that weighted his spirits in tune with the drizzling damps? A prickle of unease ruffled Beryl's determined coolness. She shouldn't even speak with him, truth be told, and no matter what happened, no matter what he spewed forth, she would not argue with him.
But for Fitz to be so pliant and amiable… Something had to be ailing him. This wasn't right.
And much as she'd longed for just such amiability, she couldn't say she liked it.
It simply wasn't Fitz.
He cleared his throat. "I've been thinking—"
And ahead, the old cart horse lost his grip in the muck and crashed to his knees on the pavement.
Horror swamped Beryl, driving out everything else, and she kicked Tricksey hard. Tricksey snorted, half-reared, and surged forward. Hooves clattered behind. The old horse crouched where he'd fallen, on his knees with his hindquarters quivering and slowly folding beneath his weight, nose resting on the pavement, ears drooping, the cart's shafts angled down and twisting the harness about him. He looked as if he prayed for mercy. The drover set his whip aside and clambered reluctantly down.
Rounder galloped up beside her. "Wait, Beryl, wait, lass. Don't startle the poor beast."
She slowed, finishing her approach at a crawl, then reined Tricksey up at the cart's rear wheels. Still the old horse didn't fight for his feet. A first trickle of red crept from beneath his trembling, surely raw left knee. His hindquarters shook, trying to let his body settle to the pavement, but the shafts and harness kept his barrel above the road. He had to rest, but the wagon wouldn't allow it, and he couldn't hold that position for long. Beryl's horror twisted to pity, and she turned on Fitz. "Do something."
For a moment he paused, astonishment flashing from his eyes. Then he swept from the saddle and handed her Rounder's reins. Heedless of his already-ruined clothing, he fell to his knees beside the old horse's head, hat tumbling off behind him, one hand stroking the drooping neck, his voice a gentle, rhythmic murmur. "Let's have a look at you now, lad, and it's a fine beast you are, to be in such a pickle."
Carefully he reached for the near-side trace and tugged at the leather, strong fingers releasing the pressure. Finally some movement from the poor trapped beast; one grey-flecked ear twisted toward Fitz. The soothing voice never paused. "And perhaps we can ask this fine gentleman drover to unhitch your other side, the wonder and the pity of it." More stroking, in tune with the words, as the drover willingly complied.
"A good horse he's been, old Pigeon, even if his toes turn i
n." The drover grunted, yanked, and leather whispered and unwound.
The horse's hind legs gave way; only the harness and shafts had kept him even halfway standing, and with the two separated he collapsed on his belly to the pavement, legs curling beneath him. Fitz sprawled down beside him, sitting in the puddle that already held his hat, still murmuring, still stroking. Willing hands pushed the cart back; she hadn't noticed the crowd gathering, but the Royal Institution's workmen, several gentlemen residents, and even two of the jewelers from across the street clustered around them, with more men hurrying near. Benson stood in the Wentworth doorway, slowly shaking his head, and Germaine, the senior groom, appeared from the mews.
Fitz kept stroking, his fingers retracing the same path each time, and he kept murmuring. "The work's been getting beyond you for some time now, but good lad that you are, you never stopped trying."
"Aye, that's true," the drover said. "Don't like putting him to the cart, not when it's heavy like today, but the goods must be delivered and Harrowby can't afford a replacement for him." He scratched his head. "Not sure what to do now. Can't ask old Pigeon to do more, he's finished, but…"
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Beryl felt the rhythm, gentling her anguish, as surely as the horse did. Pigeon lay fully on the pavement now, still making no move to rise, but his breathing had steadied to the same constant rhythm and his ear curved toward Fitz's every word.
Germaine rested a hand on Tricksey's shoulder. "Come away, Miss Beryl. There's no sense in you seeing what must come next. No, nor the mare."
No. No. Beryl's chest clenched. Of course that's what happened to old horses; surely every day, somewhere in England, somewhere in the world, at least one was helped to that long dark sleep by an owner the horse could no longer serve. But not this one, not today. Everything within her screamed out against it.
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