by Jo Beverley
Rachel stopped her retreat and frowned at him. No one had ever called her pretty in seriousness, including this man.
Before she could frame a reply, he further disconcerted her by drifting his gaze up and down her body and adding, “No, I mistake the matter, Miss Proudfoot. You are not pretty.”
This was even more impossible to respond to, but Rachel was experiencing a strong desire to box his ears, earl or not.
“Magnificent, I think, is more the word.”
That liberated Rachel’s tongue. “My lord, pray stop this foolishness!”
“Is it foolish to call a lady magnificent? If so, all London is foolish.” He glanced around at the bleak landscape scattered with sheep. “But this assuredly is not London, Miss Proudfoot, and our company is not the glittering throng.”
Rachel knew he could be up to no good. She dropped him a stiff curtsy and turned to pick her way back across the field.
The wretched man kept pace with her, saying nothing, his horse stepping neatly behind. Rachel could not bear it. She stopped to face him. “Please, my lord, this behavior is intolerable.”
A sudden smile lit his face, making him look a great deal more like his portrait. “I have merely been waiting for an opportunity to apologize, Miss Proudfoot.”
“You could have apologized at any time, my lord.”
“Shout at a fleeing lady? I think not.” He placed a hand on his heart. “However, Miss Proudfoot, on reviewing our brief encounter I am forced to conclude that I was discourteous, and I most humbly beg your pardon.”
Rachel didn’t believe a word of it, most particularly the “humbly”, but in the face of such a superficially gracious apology, she could do nothing but say, “It is forgotten, my lord.”
He bowed with a true London air. “Thank you, dear lady. You have distressed me, you see, which naturally leads me to resent you deeply.”
“I? I have done nothing.”
“Indeed you have. You have looked at me with honest eyes and tilted that firm chin at me.”
Rachel colored, wondering if he were accusing her of boldness.
“And you blush,” he said with a sigh. “What am I supposed to do with a strong-minded woman who can still blush?”
He dropped his horse’s reins, pulled Rachel within the compass of his arms and his cloak, and kissed her.
For a crucial moment, Rachel was frozen by shock. When she tried to struggle, she found herself powerless in his strength. She also found that her struggles only served to make her far too aware of his body. His strong, hard, exciting body.
She turned instead into a statue of icy disapproval.
That, however, only pulled all her attention to his mouth. To begin with, his lips had merely captured hers; now they released her and started to play across her cheek to her ear lobe.
“My lord!” she gasped.
His open mouth swooped back to cover hers as he simultaneously swayed her stiff body off balance, so that she had to clutch at him or fall. Her mouth opened further in a scream and became joined with his without restriction.
At that, she lost control, plunged into a pit of wicked sensation, swirling ever deeper into a spicy heat unlike anything she had ever known.
And she liked it.
In the dim recesses of her mind, her well-trained conscience struggled to assert that this was wrong, was terrible, but her wanton body betrayed her. It surrendered itself to his skill. It drank in the heat and smell of him as her mouth learned from his shockingly intimate attentions.
When she was lost, entirely lost, and was willing to sink with him to the damp grass and do anything to continue this delight, he began to raise her back toward the vertical. As he did so, he released her lips gently, with many parting, flickering kisses.
Rachel realized she was returning those kisses in full measure, and stopped it, but still staring up at blue eyes dark with sin. She thought, perhaps, that her own drowning disbelief was strangely reflected there. . . .
Then the cool cynicism snapped back. “So, the vicar’s daughter knows how to kiss.”
Rachel snatched herself out of his arms. “I know no such thing!”
His lips twitched. “You do now.”
Rachel’s fist clenched to hit him, but thank heavens she stopped herself from that idiocy. She turned to march away with as much dignity as she had remaining. He did not follow, and when she reached the gig she could not help but turn back.
He was still standing where she had left him. Now he gave another of his exquisite bows, swung smoothly onto his horse, and rode away.
Rachel collapsed against the side of the vehicle and covered her face with shaking hands.
That couldn’t have happened. . . .
She shouldn’t have. She couldn’t have. . . .
But underneath it all was the honest truth that the kiss had been magic. Devil’s magic, perhaps, but magic all the same, the sort of magic that could drive a person wild. That could make a virtuous woman act wantonly, stupidly, dangerously, for the sake of kisses like that.
And to see that expression in a man’s eyes. . . .
And there was more, there was worse. The Earl of Morden was a known rake, gamester, and duelist, and the sort of man every sensible young woman avoided, but Rachel could not shake off the memory of that portrait. She could not resist the notion that somewhere inside the cynical man was that magical youth, waiting to be set free.
This was madness, madness of the sort that could ruin a woman. She had, after all, read Mr. Richardson’s Clarissa Harlowe, in which the heartless rake Lovelace had played just such games to ruin a virtuous lady. She loosed the reins, dragged herself into the seat, and set off home, praying for strength to resist her own devastating Lovelace.
Thoughts of Dymons Hill and Meggie Brewstock were lost until an insight shocked her. Had Meggie perhaps felt like this for another member of the earl’s family? Had she surrendered to the temptation to act against all sense and virtue?
And had she died for it?
When Rachel arrived back at the vicarage, she would have liked to take refuge in her room, but her father called for her to come into his study. She found him dutifully beginning a sermon for the next Sunday and glad of an excuse to pause.
“Why, my dear, you must get out in the fresh air even more. You are looking very fine with roses in your cheeks. So, have you discovered anything new about our little mystery?”
Rachel recounted her visit to the Brewstock farm. She thought her tone and manner were admirably composed until she became aware that she was pacing the room.
She froze and caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her round cheeks were unusually red and there was something wild in her eyes. Apart from that, however, she was just her ordinary, unremarkable self—too tall, too plump, brown hair, blue eyes, snub nose. . . .
Why had the earl kissed her?
Because he was a London rake amusing himself in the country, that was why. He’d have kissed a passing goose girl!
“Rachel, my dear, has something upset you?”
In the mirror, Rachel saw her father observing her with concern. She turned, gathering her wits. “Oh, not really. But I don’t like the thought that Meggie might have been burned after she was dead.”
“You’d rather she had been burned alive?”
“Of course not! But . . .”
“But there is that taint again of human sacrifice,” said the vicar, sobering. “I know.” He met her eyes very seriously. “If it was a matter of rough justice, then that is a sorry matter but long past our help. If there is evil superstition involved, then it is our God-given duty to make sure it never happens again.”
Rachel nodded.
Her father was still looking at her curiously, so Rachel claimed that she needed to change her gown and escaped his perceptive eyes.
As she took off her muddied gown, Rachel tried to exorcise the Earl of Morden and that kiss. She was horrified by her behavior, but if the earl stole a kiss again, she wasn’t
sure she could be any wiser or stronger than she had been today.
Rachel had hoped that her wisdom and willpower were not to be tested, for Lord Morden rarely stayed at his estate for long. The next day, however, she encountered him as she was walking across the footpath between the Fletcher farm and the churchyard. He reined in his horse beside her. It truly appeared that he had sought her out, and a wicked thrill tingled through her at the thought.
“A fine morning, Miss Proudfoot.”
“Indeed it is, my lord.” She eyed him warily. “May I help you in some way?”
“It is more a question of me helping you, Miss Proudfoot.”
“Yes?”
“I have discovered that there are some papers at the Abbey that concern that death on Walpurgis Night in 1668.”
Rachel’s breath caught at such a blatant ruse. “Then my father and I will be interested in them.”
“They are confidential, Miss Proudfoot.” It was a swordsman’s parry.
“We are not to be allowed to read them, my lord?” she riposted.
“I could show them to you.”
Rachel sucked in a breath. “Why?”
Foolish question, but she could hardly believe this was happening.
“For the pleasure of your company, of course.”
Rachel’s mind was spinning.
She could not believe that the earl was trying to seduce her.
Even less could she believe that she was considering going with this man—this rake—when his intentions could only be of the worst.
Most shocking of all was how much she wanted to go with him, and it had nothing to do with Meggie Brewstock’s death.
Just then, a salve for her conscience appeared in the form of young Hal Fletcher strolling back from the river with a string of fish dangling from his rod. He grinned and touched his forelock to them both.
“Good morning, Hal,” said Rachel. “Could you be so kind as to stop at the vicarage and tell my father that I have gone up to the Abbey with Lord Morden to check on some papers?”
“Right, miss,” the lad said cheerily and went on his way.
Rachel looked up triumphantly at her thwarted abductor. He seemed merely amused and held down a hand.
Rachel regarded it with alarm. “You want me to ride with you, my lord?”
“It would be tedious for me to dawdle beside you for the three miles to the Abbey doors, would it not?”
Rachel berated herself for not thinking of this and considered the size of the horse nervously. She rarely rode, and had no idea how to manage.
He swung down and presented his hands. “Foot in here and I’ll toss you up.”
“But then I’ll be up there alone!”
“Only for a moment, and Waldborg is a well-trained devil.”
Rachel had raised her foot into his waiting hands, but now she clutched his shoulders. “What?”
He tossed her up willy-nilly, almost immediately grasping her waist so that as she hit the saddle she could not fall off. She again clutched his shoulders.
“Waldborg,” he said, eyes bright with laughter. “The famous demon.” He swung up and arranged her so she was sitting in his lap. Rachel knew then with certainty that she was being most unwise. But she had known that from the first moment and rushed madly on as if possessed.
He set the horse to a canter that rocked her against his body with every stride. His right arm was tight around her waist, but instead of objecting, she clutched it to her for safety.
“Not much of a rider, are you?” he said.
“No.”
“You’ll learn.”
“Will I?”
“I’ll teach you. . . . “But he murmured it in a way designed to wear down virtue.
“Why did you call your horse Waldborg, my lord?” Rachel asked in an desperate attempt to control the conversation.
“Why not? He can be a devil. I have a Walburga, too—his daughter. Walburga was a German saint the Church tried to plaster over the old beliefs, but I fear she takes her nature more from the pre-Christian demon than from a pious nun. She reminds me of you.”
“What?”
“Which would you rather be, Rachel Proudfoot? A sainted virgin or a wild earth spirit?”
Sealed to his body by his strong arm, rocked to madness by his horse’s speed, Rachel had no reply she cared to make.
When they dismounted at the Abbey Rachel’s legs were unsteady. She told herself that it was just the novelty of riding, but she knew she lied.
What happened now?
What did she want to happen now?
The earl disconcerted her by leading her straight to the muniment room and unlocking a drawer. He took out an oilskin package and handed it to her. “The memoirs, scribbles—call them what you will—of the mad third earl.”
So he hadn’t been lying about this. Rachel was aware of a chill hollow inside her that could be acute disappointment if she were a wicked woman. She made herself be glad that his intentions were, perhaps, honorable.
She sat at the table and began to open the package. “Mad?” she asked.
“He was after Walpurgis Night, 1668.”
She looked up sharply. “What happened?”
“Why don’t you read, and then we’ll discuss it?”
He lounged in a chair across the room, watching her. Rachel did her best to put him out of her mind and concentrate. The writing was a mere scrawl, and little attention had been paid to the state of ink or pen, but she could make out most of it.
Meggie Brewstock had been the earl’s lover, if that was not too grand a term for an assistant dairymaid seduced by the master. The earl seemed to have felt something more than the casual for her, however. Rachel came across a lock of hair—dark and vibrantly curling still. There was even an attempt at a sketch, but the earl had been no artist.
As usual, the present Earl of Morden was restless, and Rachel was aware of every move he made. She noted when he rose to wander the room—and when he moved behind her. She could as well ignore him then as she could a roaring fire.
She wanted to draw him back into her field of vision, where he seemed to be less dangerous. “Are there any records here of the previous Dym’s Night? The one in 1573?”
He remained behind her. “Not that I know of.”
He came closer. He placed one hand on the left arm of her chair and leant forward over her shoulder as if to read the document, pressing lightly against her. “Do you think he loved her?” he asked softly.
“He’s grieving.”
“Or perhaps just mad. Perhaps love drives us all mad.”
Rachel turned another page, begging her hand not to tremble. A finger touched her hair and she stiffened. “My lord. . . .”
“Mark. My name is Mark. There’s no need of formality between us, Rachel.”
Rachel wanted to protest but the words faded on her lips. She focused desperately on the page in front of her. “Oh . . .” Was that sound because his fingers were traveling her shoulder, or because of what was on the page.
“Oh?” he queried in soft amusement.
“The earl mentions Dym’s Night . . . my lord . . . Mark. . . .”
“What does he say?” His hand was stroking her shoulder gently, backward and forward. Surely that was not so very wicked, and yet it seemed to be melting all her resolve.
Vicar’s daughters are not prime candidates for flirtation, never mind seduction. Some men had shown interest and taken time to talk to her, even to dance with her at local assemblies. None had been to her taste , so she’d hinted them away.
She’d never been kissed on the lips until this man had kissed her.
She had never had a man touch her as this man touched her.
“He wanted to stop it,” she said. “Dym’s Night. He thought he had stopped it.” The earl slid his hand beyond the limit of her gown to her neck—flesh against flesh. “When he realized it was still going on, he rode out . . .”
He raised and turned her chin. “. .
. he rode out to save his lover,” he murmured against her lips, “and was deprived of his senses by a blow on the head. Meg, of course, perished in the flames.”
And he brought the flames to Rachel in a kiss that melted her like sealing wax.
It was the thought of flames that saved her, though whether it was the flames of the Dym’s Night bonfire or the flames of hell she couldn’t be sure.
She pushed him away. “My lord, you must not!”
He fell to one knee. “Alas, you wound me! When you tear yourself away, you leave an open wound that only you can heal.” His eyes were bright with passion—and with laughter.
Rachel leapt to her feet and put the solid chair between them. “And you wound me, sir, with your insincerity. And your unwanted attentions!”
“Unwanted, Rachel? Oh come now, can we not have a little honesty between us?”
“Only if it starts with you. What do you want, my lord?”
He jumped lightly to his feet, smiling almost with honesty. “I want you, of course.”
Rachel’s foolish heart leapt. “Why?”
His lids lowered, making his eyes mysterious. “To see if those kisses are the extent of it, or if the fire goes deeper. . . .”
Rachel fought off the temptation to discover the same things.
“We are not, I assume, speaking of marriage, my lord.”
“No, we are not speaking of marriage.”
Rachel turned and gathered the papers together with unsteady hands. “Is it not a little foolish to be trying these tricks with a vicar’s daughter?”
“Not at all. They worked admirably with a Bishop’s daughter just a few months ago.”
She glared at him, not sure that he spoke the truth, but fearing that he did. “You, my lord, are beyond despising.” She held out the papers. “Here. Take them. I’m not so cheaply bought!”
His laughed. “I’ve not yet sunk to bribery, sweet Rachel. Take the papers with you. Perhaps they will teach you something of the mysteries of passion.”
Rachel suspected she’d be wiser to leave them, but she needed to know the rest of the story.
As she hurried out of the Abbey, she tried to shed her ridiculous temptations. He was a dangerous, worthless rake who showed no trace of shame.
