by Candace Camp
His eyebrows soared. “Are you feeling quite right?”
Mary gave him a quelling look. “Don’t spoil it. I am attempting to be more proper. Our new chaperone told me twice yesterday that I didn’t act in a proper manner.”
“No! I can scarcely credit it.”
“There is no need to be sarcastic.”
“Lily regaled me with her opinion of your new chaperone. If she is indeed as Lily described her, I tremble at the thought of the days ahead.”
Mary sighed. “I do as well. Perhaps Miss Dalrymple will improve upon further acquaintance. She may have been trying to impress the earl with her competence.”
“Perhaps.”
Mary glanced at him. “I wish I could believe that.”
“You could speak to Oliver,” he suggested.
“No. I fear it would only confirm his opinion that we are difficult and unruly. In truth, I have not yet given her a fair trial. Besides, we have to learn those things. I quite see that we cannot live here and remain the way we are. We would be an embarrassment to the earl.”
“I am sure he would not wish you to be … hounded or changed into something other than you are.”
She sent him a glinting look. “Really? I had quite the opposite impression. At any rate, I rather doubt that Miss Dalrymple will be able to run roughshod over us.”
“No. I foresee battles.”
“At least you will not have to witness them.” Mary forced a smile.
“I expect to be quite close to the front lines. Indeed, I may get hit by a stray ball.”
“What?” Mary looked at him, puzzled. “What are you talking about? We are going to be at the earl’s house in the country.”
“Willowmere. Yes, I will be too. I am escorting you there.”
“What?” Mary clamped her lips together to hold back a smile. “You—I thought that you would be staying here.”
“I have brought you thus far. Surely you don’t think I would abandon you now.” He continued in a more practical vein, “Oliver has business to finish in the city. I, on the other hand, am quite free.”
“But we don’t need anyone at all.” The very fact that his presence among them lightened her spirits perversely compelled Mary to argue against his coming. “We have a companion, and we will be in Stewkesbury’s coach.”
“It is always easier to have a gentleman along to arrange things,” Royce countered.
“We are quite capable of arranging things on our own.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Hoping to get rid of me?”
“No,” Mary answered honestly. “No, of course not.”
“For I find that I am quite looking forward to being with you.” He took a step forward, reaching up to brush back a strand of her hair.
Mary flushed, embarrassingly aware of the way her heart sped up at his touch. She wished that she could think of some tart rejoinder to disguise her physical reaction to him.
“Your new bonnet is very attractive.”
“What? Oh. Thank you. Cousin Charlotte and Lady Vivian took us shopping yesterday.” Mary cursed inwardly at her prosaic response. Why was it impossible to think when Royce stood so close to her?
“It has come a trifle askew, however.” Royce reached out and, before Mary could move, deftly untied the wide ribbons and pulled it from her head. He started to reposition it, then stopped, gazing down into her eyes.
Mary’s heart slammed against her rib cage.
“There is only one problem with it,” he murmured as he leaned closer. His voice was almost a whisper. “It makes it far too difficult to kiss you.”
She knew she should turn, should run away. Instead she went up on tiptoe, meeting his lips as they settled on hers. Sensations flooded through her, warming and arousing her. Every inch of her skin was suddenly, breathtakingly aware. She could feel the soft fabric of her dress against it, the tantalizing brush of a breeze, the heat that poured from his body so close to hers.
Royce’s mouth was soft and warm upon hers, his lips searching, opening her mouth to his questing tongue. Mary trembled, her hands going up to clutch his lapels, holding on to the only sure thing in her suddenly tilting world. His arms went around her, pressing her into him. She could feel the hard length of his body all the way up and down hers, pressing into her softness. She slid her hands up and around his neck.
She realized that she was kissing him back, her lips moving against his, her tongue meeting his in a sensual dance. Desire twisted through her, curling down into her abdomen, setting her whole body tingling in a way she had never known before.
He tore his lips from hers, moving down her throat, and she let her head fall back. His lips were like velvet on the tender skin of her neck, and she shivered, lost in a wash of unaccustomed hunger, the world around her fading into nothingness.
Royce froze, then straightened, his arms falling away from her. Mary staggered and looked up at him in surprise and confusion. In the distance, she heard Camellia’s voice calling her name, and her brain cleared in an instant. She had been standing here in a public place kissing Royce like a wanton! Like a common lightskirt!
She jerked her hat out of his hand and shoved it onto her head, hastily tying the bow beneath her chin. Her fingers went to her lips, pressing against the tender flesh. She hoped the others could not tell from the look of them exactly what she had been doing. Whirling around, she rushed out of the alcove. Her sisters and Fitz were standing at the end of the grassy strip, fortunately facing away from her. Mary started toward them.
“There you are! I’m so glad to see you!” she cried. “I seem to have gotten lost.” Hurrying up to them, she linked her arm through Rose’s. “I’m sorry. Have you been looking for me?”
“Yes. Royce set off to look for you,” Fitz explained. “And now he appears to have disappeared as well.”
“I am certain he will turn up sooner or later,” Mary said cheerfully, walking away and pulling Rose with her. “Why don’t we go to the menagerie? No doubt when Sir Royce can’t find me, he will join us there.”
“No doubt.” Fitz’s eyes lingered on her face for a moment; then he turned. “On to the lions and tigers, ladies.”
“Mary! Slow down,” her sister said, half laughing. “You are practically dragging me.”
“Oh.” Mary glanced at Rose and obediently slowed down. “I’m sorry.”
“Is something the matter?” Rose asked in a low voice. “You seem … shaken.”
“What? No. I …” She considered for a fleeting moment telling her sister what had happened with Royce, but quickly discarded the idea. She had always told Rose everything, but this was too fresh, too raw. Mary glanced behind them. They were several feet ahead of Camellia and Lily, with Fitz strolling along in the rear. Turning back, she whispered, “I thought I saw Cosmo.”
“What!” Rose looked at her in alarm, her face turning a deathly white. “Here? Are you sure?”
“No. He was so far away, I couldn’t be sure. I went after him to get a better look, but …” She shrugged. “I lost him.”
“You think he followed us here?” Rose gripped Mary’s arm so tightly it hurt.
“It seems absurd. Why would he? And if he had, why wouldn’t he make his presence known? He wouldn’t be content with following us about, going to the Tower and such. Besides, how would he know where we were?”
“He might have known the earl’s name,” Rose pointed out. “Mama could have told him at some point. If he tracked us down to Philadelphia and found out what ship we sailed on, he would have known we were bound for England—probably for Mama’s relatives. Why else would we come here? Even if he didn’t know the earl’s name, if he came as far as London, he could have picked up our trail again. I feel sure they would have remembered us at the inn—even more so because the Earl of Stewkesbury sent his servants to collect our trunks.”
Mary frowned. She had successfully concealed the reason for her agitation, but she was beginning to wish she had not brought up the other matte
r. “But to have followed us so quickly?”
“If you will remember, our ship was delayed by storms in the Atlantic. He could have left several days later and gotten here when we did. He might even have arrived before us.”
“But why? What could he hope to accomplish?”
“He wants me to marry Mr. Suttersby.”
“He cannot make you. He can’t even make you go back to Pennsylvania. We are free women and of age.”
“Not Camellia and Lily.”
“He’s not their guardian.” Mary thought with relief of Fitz’s words to her the other day. “The earl is. And the earl would not allow Cosmo to take them. I am certain of that. None of them would—not Stewkesbury nor Sir Royce nor Fitz.” She smiled. “Just think, Rose, we are not alone now. We have family who will help us.”
Rose’s brow unfurrowed, and she offered Mary a weak smile. “Yes, I suppose you are right.”
“I’m certain I am. It probably was not even Cosmo I saw, just someone with a fleeting resemblance. And if he does show up at the earl’s door, he will receive a welcome that’s even less warm than the one I got.” Mary chuckled at the thought and squeezed her sister’s arm. “That is as far as he’ll get. We won’t even see it, for tomorrow we’re leaving for Willowmere. We shall be miles and miles away. Cosmo won’t have the slightest idea where we are.”
Rose relaxed, her arm falling away from Mary’s. “Yes, of course.” She smiled, more naturally this time. “We will be far away and quite safe.”
“Exactly. Quite safe,” Mary repeated. Behind her she heard Royce call Fitz’s name, and she turned to look back casually. Royce was striding toward them, tall and relaxed, moving with easy grace.
She might be safe from Cosmo Glass at Willowmere, she thought, but how was she going to avoid the danger that was Sir Royce Winslow?
The party set off from Stewkesbury House right after breakfast the next morning. It was a relief to Mary to find that Sir Royce would be riding his horse. She had spent much of the previous evening wondering how she would act naturally, confined in the carriage with him, when every time she looked at him she was reminded of the soul-stirring kisses they had shared the afternoon before.
The earl walked out of the house to hand them up personally into the carriage and bid them good-bye. Pirate trotted along beside him and sat down alertly at his feet, watching with interest as the girls climbed one by one into the carriage, but he made not the slightest effort to jump up after them.
“Pirate?” Camellia leaned out of the carriage. “Are you not coming with us?”
Beside her, Lily let out an inelegant snort. “Don’t be daft, Camellia. It’s clear he’s adopted cousin Oliver.”
The dog tilted his head, regarding them with bright interest, but he made no move. The earl looked down at him, then up at the girls. “I, ah, think that perhaps Pirate is a city dog, not meant for the country.”
Pirate let out a sharp bark, his rear end wriggling as he wagged his stump of a tail, and the girls all had to laugh. A footman jumped forward to close the door, and Stewkesbury gestured to the coachman. With a call and a slap of the reins, the carriage lurched into motion, Sir Royce riding alongside. Mary glanced back at the house they had just left. The earl was standing on the front steps watching them, the scruffy dog nestled in the crook of his arm.
Mary’s eyes went to Royce, and she could not help but admit that he cut a fine figure on horseback. His tall, broad-shouldered frame showed off well atop the dark bay, and he moved with the instinctive grace of one who had been riding almost from birth. It was a pleasure to watch him.
With an inner sigh, she pulled her eyes away. It was foolish to spend her time this way. Better by far to be thinking about how to deal with the feelings that bubbled up inside her whenever he was around—or, even better, how to stop feeling anything at all.
“Young ladies do not lean out of carriage windows,” Miss Dalrymple said, reaching over to rap Lily sharply on the knee.
“But how can I see anything?” Lily protested.
“There’s nothing out there a young lady needs to see.” Leaving Lily gaping at her, she turned her attention to
Camellia. “And pray do not point, Miss Camellia. Only the vulgar point.”
Without pause, Miss Dalrymple went on to remind Rose that a lady did not slump, even in a carriage, and to admonish Mary for not addressing the earl properly as they said good-bye. She then closed the curtains and lectured the girls on the behavior expected of young ladies. Fortunately, before long Miss Dalrymple stopped talking and began to nod, and within a few moments she was napping.
After that, the journey was more entertaining. The girls reopened the curtains and watched the scenery pass by, chatting in low voices so as not to awaken their chaperone.
They stopped at an inn along the way for a late luncheon and to rest the horses. Royce opened the carriage door and gave each of the women a hand to help them down. Mary’s stomach quivered a little, and she wished there were some way to avoid putting her hand in his, but she knew that there was not. Steeling herself, she laid her hand on his palm, and his fingers closed around hers, hard and strong. She looked down into his face. He was gazing back at her, his expression relaxed and polite. There was nothing in his face to indicate that anything had happened between them the day before.
Surely, Mary thought, she could be as unconcerned as he was. She suspected that he had had a great deal more experience at it than she, but Mary had no desire to let him see that. Her smile to him was polite and perfunctory, and she felt rather pleased with herself. But as she walked into the inn, she could not help but notice that her fingers still tingled from the contact. And she could not pretend to herself that being around him left her unaffected.
It was wonderful to be out of the carriage. No matter how well-sprung it was or how comfortably cushioned its seats, rolling along over the road for hours left them all cramped and stiff. The girls also welcomed the cold collation laid out for them in the inn’s private dining room. However, it was rendered far less pleasant by Miss Dalrymple’s admonitions on correct table manners and proper conversation.
Mary, forcibly quelling her temper as she worked through the meal on her plate, raised her head to find Sir Royce’s gaze on her. His eyes danced with amusement as Miss Dalrymple, having covered such social solecisms as speaking too loudly or out of turn or at too great a length—a taboo Miss Dalrymple herself obviously felt no compunction about breaking—was now droning on about what one should discuss.
“No one wants to hear a young girl talking about herself,” she announced. “Nor should she choose matters that are intellectual. One does not wish to acquire a reputation as a bluestocking, after all. Weather is always a pleasant topic, and an inquiry about another’s health rarely goes amiss. And, of course, you must always remember to compliment the decoration of the table and the quality of the meal.”
“The weather?” Mary raised an eyebrow at the woman. “We are supposed to talk of nothing but the table, the weather, and everyone’s health?”
The older woman turned a disapproving eye on Mary, but before she could speak, Rose jumped in. “It sounds a trifle dull.”
“Better to sound dull than to appear forward or inappropriate.” Miss Dalrymple pursed her mouth primly.
“But, surely, Miss Dalrymple,” Royce said, casting a glinting look in Mary’s direction, “there must be some occasion when an intelligent conversation is warranted.”
Miss Dalrymple’s dour face broke into an almost coy smile. “Now, Sir Royce, everyone knows that in order to keep up an intelligent conversation with a gentleman, a girl need only follow his lead.”
The Bascombes all gazed at their chaperone blankly. Finally Camellia asked, “You mean, let him do all the talking?”
“Oh, no, you must offer a few words of pleasant agreement now and then in order to convey that you are listening.”
“Well, if that isn’t the stupidest thing I ever heard!”
Came
llia exclaimed.
Miss Dalrymple’s brows drew together ominously, but before she could say anything, Sir Royce turned to her with not even a quiver of expression to betray that he had heard Camellia’s words and said, “I believe I once met a gentleman named Dalrymple in Exeter. Are you by any chance related to him? Gerald Dalrymple, I believe his name was. A banker.”
“Oh, my, no. I come from a long line of clergymen and scholars, Sir Royce.” Miss Dalrymple practically preened under Royce’s attention. “My father held a living at Warnham, near the Shelley estate. Poor man—such a trial of a son.”
Mary finished her food rapidly and shot Rose a significant look, nodding toward the door. Rose stood up from the table as Mary did. “Pray excuse us. Rose and I want to take a walk before we get back on the road.”
“Wait for us,” Camellia cried, and she and Lily crammed a last bite in their mouths, then jumped up to follow their sisters.
Miss Dalrymple looked as if she would protest, but with a glance at Sir Royce, she smiled instead and settled down to finish the meal with him. The sisters hurried down the hall and out the rear entrance of the inn, tying on their bonnets as they went. Behind the inn a narrow path led off toward the right, and Mary started along it, her sisters trailing after her.
“That woman will drive me mad!” Camellia ground her teeth in frustration.
“Perhaps it will not be as bad once we are at Willowmere. Here we are stuck with her every second, but there, surely, we will be able to escape now and then,” Rose reasoned.
“I’m not sure one could escape her long or often enough to make it bearable,” Mary grumbled. “Lord, what a tyrant that woman is. If we have to behave exactly as she wishes, I fear we will never manage to be ladylike.”
“Thank heaven we have Sir Royce with us.” Lily giggled. “Have you seen how she looks at him? He is quite clever at drawing her ire away.”
The girls continued to chatter as they walked. Mary, however, was uncharacteristically silent. Something was wrong, she thought. She had an odd, uneasy feeling, a vaguely vulnerable sensation across her back. She stopped, glancing around her. There was no one in sight, either in the garden or along the path. Her gaze went to the inn. She could see no one at any window. Yet she felt as if someone was watching her.
