by Brooklyn Ann
Clenching his teeth, Vincent realized he wasn’t the only one upset by his ward’s arrival. Although he had hired Miss Fiddock, she would not have lost her position in the first place if it were not for Lydia. Miss Hobson would not have come here if not for the sum he offered…and she would have done a better job of keeping track of her charge if he hadn’t doused her in brandy the night before. His servants were in a state of bewilderment, since they were unaccustomed to long-term guests.
By the time Vincent crested the west hill, he was infuriated. It would be all well and good to blame Lydia, but she was innocent. Lady Morley was a far likelier target…yet even then she was only the catalyst. He had only himself to blame, and though if he could go back and refuse the dowager’s plea to honor the alliance, he knew he wouldn’t. He should have planned better, enacted further preparations.
The chaos in his household was solely his fault. The fact only increased his temper.
“What do you think you’re about?” he demanded.
Lydia turned from packing away her paints, tawny eyes wide as a doe’s. “My lord!” She managed an awkward curtsy despite her heavy canvas apron.
Vincent frowned. The cumbersome apron made her resemble a drudge. Were things more lax in America? “A lady is not safe alone outside, especially after dark.”
“I was perfectly safe.” With a jaunty grin, Lydia removed her hand from beneath the apron. A flintlock pistol was in her grip. “I am not a fool. My father told me I shouldn’t be alone without some means of protection. I’ve had it pointed at you since you startled me.”
Shock and admiration warred within, until all he could manage was a burst of laughter. His ward had spirit. Lydia glared at him like the wrath of hellfire even as the moonlight glistened on her hair like an angel’s nimbus.
Catching his breath, he managed to gasp, “I am not laughing at you, Lydia. I am laughing because you had the upper hand all along.” He regained his composure. “I am unused to being surprised.”
She released the hammer on the gun with delicate precision before tucking it back into the massive pocket in the apron. “I shall endeavor to do so more often, for your reaction was quite diverting.”
Not knowing what to say to that, Vincent approached the canvas propped up on an easel. His eyes widened at her skill. “You’ve rendered the castle well.”
“That is only the preliminary outline,” she said demurely as she finished packing her supplies into a worn leather case. “Besides, how can you tell? I had to stop because I couldn’t see the end of my brush.”
“I can see well at night, due to my nocturnal schedule.” With his heightened vision, even the tips of her eyelashes stood out in vivid detail. “Allow me to escort you back to the castle. It is time for supper.” He reached for the painting.
“Be careful, the paint is still wet.” She gingerly snatched the canvas before he could take it. “You may carry my easel.”
Vincent folded the contraption and picked up her case. Lydia strode down the hill in brisk strides. As he matched her pace, the scent of gardenias rose over the acrid odor of turpentine.
The moment they entered the castle, Lydia was swept away by Emma and Miss Hobson, for one to primp and the other to scold. However, in a surprisingly short time she arrived in the dining room no worse for wear and radiant in a black taffeta evening dress.
“You look fetching this evening, Miss Price,” he said, pulling out her chair.
Her cheeks flushed an entrancing pink. “Thank you, my lord. I know it is a bit much for a country supper. Unfortunately, I do not have many gowns.”
“Oh?” He raised a brow as the soup was served. “You brought many trunks.”
She tasted her chowder and dabbed her lush mouth with the napkin. “One contains my paints, charcoals, canvases, and sculpting clay. Two hold my paintings. Another, my books.”
“And the rest?” He stirred his soup, wishing he could eat more than a miniscule amount.
“Well, one contains my fishing rods and tackle, and the last holds my gun collection.” An impish smile teased the corners of her lips.
“Gun collection?” Vincent was thankful he did not have a mouthful of soup, or else he would have sprayed the table. “So, one is not enough?”
Miss Hobson’s face turned an alarming crimson as she choked on her dinner roll. Lydia gave her a hearty thump on the back. “Most were my father’s, but three are mine. He enjoyed taking me shooting.”
Vincent grinned. “It appears you are a lady of many talents.”
Miss Hobson interrupted with a brisk cough. “I have discussed Miss Price’s, ah, unconventional proclivities with her, and I assure you they will not be revealed to others.”
Lydia nodded, expressionless, but Vincent could feel her sudden sadness. He suppressed the urge to glare at the chaperone, despite the fact that she was likely correct.
He forced a bright tone as the next course was served. “All the same, that should not prohibit her from enjoying herself here until we go to London. With my forests and lake, I’m certain you will be able to indulge your passion for the fresh air.”
“You have a lake?” she nearly squealed in delight.
“Well, it is more like a very large pond,” he joked, happy to bring back her spirit. “But the fish are plentiful, I assure you.”
To his surprise, Miss Hobson smiled in what appeared to be relief. He realized she must have feared his disapproval of Lydia’s hobbies.
As the next course was served, Lydia’s cheer dissipated as Miss Hobson attempted to engage her in the practice of polite conversation.
“You must strive to do better in hiding your boredom,” Vincent said after the topic of the weather had been exhausted.
Lydia hid her pained frown behind her napkin. “Yes, my lord.”
Sympathy for her welled within. “I know these things can be tedious, but you must master them before the Season begins. However, I think you’ve endured enough for the evening. Let us speak more freely. Tell me about New Orleans. Did your father own a plantation?”
Lydia brightened at the change in subject. “No, we lived in the city, although we enjoyed frequent visits to the bayous. My father made his income from lucrative investments. He did not believe in slavery.”
Vincent chuckled at her vehement tone. Slavery was a practice he disapproved of as well. “So all of your servants were white?”
“No, but all were free and were paid wages. Gens de couleur libre, they are called. ‘Free people of color.’” She sighed. “I hope someday all Americans will be free.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.” Vincent eyed her as he sampled his custard. A gentle heart and a revolutionary spirit could be a tragic combination.
They embarked on a spirited debate of the complex issues involved, with Lydia stubbornly maintaining that slavery could be abolished without an outbreak of civil war.
Vincent smiled at her naive passion. “All the same, the labor costs money, while slaves do not. American landowners save much coin that way.” Pressing his point, he continued. “Never underestimate the power and depth of human greed, Miss Price.”
She considered his words as the dishes were carried away. “I believe you are correct, my lord, though it saddens me.” She managed a wan smile. “I must say, this was a much more stimulating conversation than the last.”
Miss Hobson sniffed. “It was a distasteful subject, not at all suitable for Polite Society.”
Vincent and Lydia exchanged glances, both fighting back laughter at the chaperone’s pious disapproval.
As dinner concluded, Lydia glanced at him with concern. “Are you well, my lord? You have scarcely eaten.”
Before he could fabricate an excuse, Miss Hobson changed the subject. “Will you be adjourning to have a cigar and port? I have a matter to discuss with Miss Price.”
No doubt to scold her fo
r being so forward. “I do not smoke, so I feel no need to excuse myself.” Pleased at thwarting her, he added, “However, we may all depart to the game room, and I would be delighted if you joined me once more for a glass of brandy.”
The chaperone’s lip curled at the jab, but her eyes glittered with amusement…and respect. “I do not suppose you have anything less potent?”
“Certainly,” he said. “I have the finest champagne, imported from France.”
“No doubt smuggled,” Miss Hobson muttered.
“Quite so,” Vincent said agreeably. “This is Cornwall, after all.”
Five
“Check,” Lydia declared with a triumphant grin.
Lord Deveril merely blinked at her before slowly moving his rook. “Mate.”
“Damn! I walked right into that, didn’t I?” She ignored Miss Hobson’s disapproving cough at her language and looked at the remaining chess pieces with awe as his strategy became clear. “That was brilliant, my lord! May we play again?”
The earl gave her a quizzical look that made her feel as if he was peering into her soul. “You are not bothered that I trounced you so?”
She shook her head and smiled. “I enjoyed myself thoroughly. I hope to learn more and win the next round.”
As he set up the board with graceful, long fingers, she asked, “Tell me about smugglers. Are they like pirates?”
Deveril chuckled. “I have never encountered a pirate, so I couldn’t say. Though I assume they’d taste—” His brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “Er, I assume their tastes are coarser than the usual smuggler, who is a combination of unscrupulous businessman and skilled sailor.”
Lydia concealed a giggle behind her hand and took another sip of her delicious champagne, relishing the tickle of the bubbles on her tongue. As they played, she asked more questions about Cornwall’s smugglers, in hope of distracting him.
“Most of what is smuggled here are luxury items from France, such as Brussels lace, brandy, champagne, tea, and spices,” he explained, taking her queen. “And smuggling likely accounts for a larger portion of Cornwall’s income than fishing and mining combined.”
Lydia attempted to take his knight with her bishop. “But isn’t there a death sentence if one is caught?”
“Yes, but one must feed one’s family.” He seized her knight with a pawn. “Besides, why should the Crown reap all of the profits?”
Lydia mulled this over as she brought her pawn to the end of the board, winning back her queen. Alas, it was too late, for Deveril had her king trapped. She again lost the game, but at least she earned an education. Her guardian was extremely intelligent, a quality she’d always admired in a man. She could never tire of conversing with him.
The earl’s admiring smile made her loss worthwhile. “You nearly had me a few times, you know. When I’m finished with you, you will be quite a formidable player.”
Lydia flushed at the compliment. “May we play billiards next?” Her father played, but Lydia had never tried her hand at it.
Miss Hobson cleared her throat, doubtless to decry the request as unladylike. “It is getting late, Miss Price. Perhaps you should retire.”
Deveril held up a hand. “Actually, I believe we should adapt ourselves to city hours, in preparation for the Season. It would not do to have Miss Price wilting from exhaustion shortly after her first ball begins.”
Lydia’s heart surged. It appeared the earl was an ally.
Miss Hobson’s eyes widened a moment as myriad expressions played across her stern face. At last, she dipped her head with a hint of a smile. “A capital idea, my lord.”
The earl arranged the balls near one end of the antique, yet newly clothed, table. Lydia selected a cue from the oak rack, admiring the carved lions’ heads adorning the rack’s edges.
“Would you care to break, Miss Price?” Deveril invited.
She frowned. “Break?”
His brow arched. “Is it called something else in America?” He pointed his stick at the ivory cue ball and the triangle of colored balls.
Lydia gathered she was supposed to knock them apart. “I apologize. It has been some time.”
Gritting her teeth, she approached the table and leaned over, positioning the cue in what she hoped was the correct manner. She took aim, drew it back, thrust it forward…and the dratted thing merely skimmed the cue ball. The white sphere rolled toward the triangle with agonizing slowness. It struck the first ball with a barely audible click, and the mass remained still.
“You’ve never played before, have you?” Deveril chuckled. Though his voice was amused, she could detect no trace of mockery.
Lydia returned his laughter. “No, for some reason Papa never taught me. He said darts were sufficient.” A memory had her frowning in confusion. “He played with mother, though.”
“Darts?” That quizzical glint returned to his gaze, making his eyes shift to a light blue, like the sea on a clear day. “How proficient are you at that game?”
She beamed. “Very.”
He gestured to a mahogany cabinet at the far end of the room. “I have a board. Shall we play that instead?”
“Not tonight,” Lydia replied. “I’ve always wanted to learn billiards…and piquet, tennis, and cricket.”
Deveril sighed and started to say something but stopped and shook his head, opting instead for another draught of brandy. “Very well. We shall begin with the break.”
With fluid grace, he bent and poised his cue, striking the white ball with the tip in a solid clink. The colored balls scattered across the table, faster than her eye could track. But she could hear them. Three flew into the corner pockets with resounding thumps.
Beautiful. The word echoed in her mind, and Lydia longed to match such skill, but knew if she failed, she’d be content merely to watch him…and the strong shape of his backside beneath his buff trousers.
She took the cue and made her shot. This time, the white ball bounced off the table.
“You need to put more effort in your balance to better make the proper angle,” Deveril said before handily knocking in another ball.
He gave her the same advice after she sent the ball careening across the green, ricocheting off the corners, only to sink into the left pocket.
Deveril moved to make his shot and missed as a loud snore erupted behind him.
“I see I have further reason for us to grow accustomed to London hours,” he said as the cue ball meandered lazily into the right pocket.
Miss Hobson rested her head on her shoulder, embroidery askew on her lap. She appeared to be sound asleep.
“May we please continue the game?” Lydia whispered, grateful to be away from the chaperone’s scrutiny. “We can wake her afterward.”
“Enjoying respite from the dragon, are you?” Deveril teased in his musical voice. “Surely it cannot be because you hope to win, although you have earned a penalty shot.”
“You surmise correctly, my lord,” she replied, fetching the white ball.
“Wait,” Deveril said before she took her shot. “Would you like me to show you how it’s done?”
Lydia grinned, eager to master the skill. “Please do.”
For some reason, his features darkened. He took a breath, and his countenance settled, though his eyes remained stormy. She froze as he stepped toward her. “To do this, I will have to stand behind you and guide your hands.”
“Yes,” she whispered in answer to his unspoken question.
Tension charged the air as Deveril approached. A few locks of hair had escaped its binding and framed his face, making him appear rakish and predatory.
Her breath caught as he moved behind her. Though only his hands touched her, one on her shoulder and the other on her wrist, Lydia felt him against her, as if his presence transcended his body.
“Though you must lean over the ta
ble, you need to straighten your spine and bring up your shoulder.” His breath tickled her neck and ear.
“Then you need to hold your arm level, like this.” Those long fingers pressed against her flesh with suppressed strength as he gently moved her arm to the correct position.
Lydia’s knees felt like custard, and her hips quivered in instinct to melt against him. It took all of her will to process his words. “All right.”
“Now focus on that ball at a point just to the right of the center. Are you ready?” His hair brushed her cheek like a silken feather.
“Yes,” she gasped, struggling to focus on the game.
With his hands guiding her, the cue moved back. Lydia felt his firm, warm chest against her back…then the cue struck. For an instant, her hips bucked against him, and something hot and primal rose up in her lower body.
Deveril moved away quickly as if burned. They watched the white ball strike its target.
The blue sphere fell into the pocket, along with another, and Lydia whooped in triumph. “I am catching up now, yes?”
Deveril shook his head. “I’m afraid not. You pocketed the black, which means the game is forfeit to me.”
Her eyes narrowed in irritation. “You did that on purpose!”
“I did no such thing,” he countered in such a stern manner that it could only be the truth. He sighed and smoothed his hair from his face. “It was a mistake. A great mistake for which I humbly apologize.”
Lydia suspected he wasn’t talking only about the game, and shivered at the memory of his touch. “All right. May we play again?”
“No. It is time for my walk.” His eyes were luminous, hypnotic.
“May I accompany you?” she asked, not yet ready to relinquish his company. To walk with him in the moonlight…
“No!” he said hoarsely.
Lydia jumped at his sudden harshness. Had she angered him?
Deveril gave her an apologetic look and returned to his earlier formal tone. “It would not be appropriate, Miss Price. Thank you for an enjoyable evening.”
Without a backward glance, he left the room, crossing the plush rug with long strides.
