Nothing But a Rakehell (A Series of Unconventional Courtships Book 2)

by Deb Marlowe

  “Mr. Lycett? Or the horse?”

  “I meant the horse,” she laughed up at him. “But Mr. Lycett may be a prime goer, as well. I have no idea.”

  They walked down to where her mare waited, already saddled.

  “Confident, were you?” he asked wryly.

  “Hopeful,” she corrected. Glancing up at him through her lashes, she said sweetly, “I’ll show you one of my favorite spots on the estate, if you’ll agree to come out.”

  The zing of interest that started at the base of his spine and spread up and out had him glancing around for an attendant. “Shouldn’t we take a groom with us?”

  Her look turned pitying. “Well, I’ve no need of one, but if you require someone to help you mount or hold your horse or fetch your hat when it blows off . . .”

  He rolled his eyes. “I was thinking of the propriety of it all. Perhaps we can catch Mr. Lycett before he sets off for home.”

  “Oh, we’ll see plenty of him soon enough. The place will be overrun with people within a day or so. Let’s enjoy the quiet while we can.” She laughed. “I solemnly swear not to assault your virtue, my lord. Now, shall we go?”

  He hesitated a moment longer. Was this just a more innocent-seeming scheme to get him into a compromising position? Was she playing Miss Vernon’s game—only better?

  He looked at her, at her bright smile and slightly wistful gaze—and he could not believe it. He shrugged and nodded.

  “I had the footman bring your hat and gloves.”

  “Confident, as I suspected.” He took the articles from the man and asked him to inform Lord Tensford of their whereabouts, when the earl returned. Outside, they walked the horses to the stables, and had the chestnut saddled. Once they were ready, he lifted the minx into the saddle and mounted up, following her behind the stables and to an unfamiliar part of the estate.

  They entered the woods after a short while. The path was wide enough for them to ride abreast. Fallen leaves and needles lined the way and they made their way in a strange silence.

  He had to break it before it became too comfortable.

  “You know, it was your reputation that made me ask about a chaperone,” he told her. “I’m sure everyone here knows my history. You won’t want them connecting you with me.”

  “Everyone knows the stories about you. They also know of your interest in Betsy at the Crown and Cock.”

  He scowled. “Listening to servant’s gossip again?”

  “It’s the only way I learn anything interesting. No one tells me anything. They all think of me as a little girl.”

  “I’m sure they all think of you as the terror that you are—they just won’t say so to your face.”

  She laughed. “In any case, no one is going to think you are interested in me when you have Betsy waiting.” She lifted a shoulder. “Besides, everyone knows I carry this.” She gestured to the whip coiled and attached to her uniquely configured saddle. “And they know I know how to use it.”

  “You never use that on Poppy!” he exclaimed.

  “Of course not,” she answered, all indignation. “But this one is custom made for my height and reach and I have developed a certain skill with it. I can flick a fly off of your ear without touching the skin—or not, as I so choose.”

  “A wise strategy,” he said. If she was going to ride out alone, at least she had one means to defend herself.

  “You know, I truly am sorry if I caused offense.” She sighed. “Hiding was not my best notion.”

  “You couldn’t have carried on much longer, in any case, surely.”

  “Couldn’t have? Of course I could have. But I was already miserable.”

  “There’s that stubborn streak again.”

  She shrugged. “Ever present. But I was only thinking of my own feelings and didn’t consider how it might insult you.”

  “Perhaps I overreacted.” He knew he had, suddenly.

  “My mother would be disappointed in me, could she see me now,” she went on. “She always insisted that I should just allow my lameness to show and let people and their thoughts about it fall where they may.”

  He scarcely heard her. He had overreacted. He should have been glad that his reputation had spread ahead of him and cleared the way of entanglements or expectations. Why then, did he continue to shy away from the idea of this amber-eyed sprite of a girl thinking badly of him?

  It didn’t matter why. It wouldn’t do.

  “You are suddenly wearing a most particular expression. What is it?”

  He shook his head. “I was just thinking that my mother would be disappointed in me, as well.” And she would have. She would have seen the pain behind Lady Glory’s maneuverings and treated her gently. He sighed. “It would hardly be a novel sensation. I think she must be used to looking down and frowning at me from heaven, by now.”

  “I’m sorry. You lost your mother, too?”

  “Long ago.” The trail began to narrow and he urged his mount ahead of her instead of letting her pursue that conversation.

  “Keep your eyes peeled,” she called. “We are going to take a path to the right, just ahead.”

  He couldn’t see anything except for forest and a carpet of thick ferns. Straining, he saw a small break that might perhaps be a faint game trail. He hesitated.

  “Yes. There. That’s it. Take it now,” she called.

  “So bossy!” he called back, but he obeyed and the chestnut left the lighter thoroughfare behind, pushing through a belly-high sea of waving fronds and emerging into a dimmer section of forest. The dense canopy overhead blocked all but small dapples of sunlight. The trees were large and many grew at odd angles. Some of the thick trunks were covered with moss, others bore shelves and ridges of fungi. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  “I know. It scarcely seems real, does it?” She and Poppy kept close behind and they followed the faint path as it led along a limestone ridge.

  “It’s like another world back here.” The thought jarred him. “Wait. You are not taking me to the riverbank where Tensford hunts for fossils, are you? I promised him I would go when he makes an outing of it, with the rest of the house party.

  “No!” She sounded shocked. “I would never steal Tensford’s thunder in such a fashion. He loves to show off his collection—and the spots where he finds them.” He looked back to see her nod in encouragement. “This will be as diverting, though, I promise.”

  “More diverting than a bunch of oddly shaped rocks? I should hope so.”

  “Don’t let Tensford hear you talk like that!”

  He realized they couldn’t be going to the river as the path began to climb. Like the path they had followed to the coal pit, it wended its way around and back and forth a bit as the way grew steeper. The dense canopy overhead kept the light dim, though, even as they climbed, and random outcroppings of rock added to the alien feel of the place. But it was quiet, and he drank in the peace and the strange beauty until the path ended at a large tumble of rocks.

  “Turn right and climb,” Lady Glory directed.

  A path of crushed undergrowth led over a crest, down into a dip and then angled over another high spot. When he crested the second hill, Keswick pulled the chestnut to a stop.

  “Ohh.”

  A small glen spread out before them, surrounded by dense growth and backed by a huge tower of rock. A boulder, bigger than a house, lay at the bottom. Some time in the past, something cataclysmic had knocked away a section, leaving a flat ledge, almost like a stage, carved out of the rock. Trees arched gracefully around it and here the sun broke through a bit more. Three large, moss covered logs sat before it, almost as if they’d been placed there for the purpose of seating an audience.

  Lady Glory rode up beside him and then swung down. “Tether your mount here,” she instructed. “It’s safer.”

  “Safer?”

  “You shall see.” With that, she fed her mount and his each a carrot from her pocket, then wa
lked down the slope to the stage. Carefully sitting, she swung her legs and mounted the stage. A hand on the boulder helped her climb to her feet and she moved to the center. Standing there, she grinned and raised her arms. “Isn’t it amazing?”

  “Yes.” But he was looking at her, so slim and straight, full of spirit and pleased with herself. She was bespeckled with sunlight and her amber eyes glowed. With her fawn colored habit, she looked as if she’d been born in this glade. He couldn’t imagine her hiding away in her rooms, and he suddenly grasped the steely determination—and the depth of fear—that had kept her there.

  “It’s a veritable fairy theatre,” he said, approaching. “Are you going to sing?”

  “Heavens, no. And you’ll eventually learn what a kindness that is.”

  He rotated, taking in the entirety of the place. “Surely this has been used. You can see where clearings have been made, in the past. But for what?” He frowned. “Luddites? Revolutionaries?”

  “Perhaps they were children.”

  “So far into Tensford’s lands? I doubt it. Does he know about it?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t wanted to ask. Certainly I’ve seen no sign of anyone coming here, except for me.” She walked the edge of the stage-like span of rock. “Perhaps it was a secret society. How thrilling. I wonder if they wore disguises? Masks and cloaks?”

  “Masons, perhaps,” he mused.

  “Come up and try it,” she beckoned.

  He hopped up and stood beside her. It was indeed a heady feeling, as if all the forest waited, breath baited, to see what he would offer up.

  She felt it too, for she nudged him. “Come on, then, give us something.”

  He struck a pose.

  “There was a young lady from Saul,

  whose bottom stretched broad as a wall—”

  “No!” She covered her ears, laughing. “Stop! That doesn’t fit the feeling of the place, at all.”

  “That is the extent of my repertoire, I’m afraid. Limericks and bawdy tavern songs are all I’ve got. It’s up to you, then.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t even have limericks and drinking songs.”

  “What? I can scarcely believe it. I know your governesses must have forced a speaking piece upon you. Especially if you do not sing. Don’t all young ladies have something at the ready, with which to entertain the masses?”

  She pulled a face. “You are entirely too perceptive. Yes, I have one. But no, I will not show you.”

  He cocked his head and threw her own words back at her. “Come on, then, give us something!”

  Her expression grew bleak. “I’m sorry. I cannot. I won’t ever be so foolish as to perform that piece again.” She went to sit on the edge, her skirts dangling over the edge. “Perhaps I’ll write a limerick for you, though.”

  “Now, that would be worth waiting for.” Chuckling, he joined her.

  “A fairy theatre, I like that,” she mused. “My piece was from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” She glanced over at him. “Do you believe in fairies?” she asked suddenly.

  The question caught him by surprise. “I don’t know. My mother did, certainly.”

  That caught her interest. “Did she?”

  “Every good Irish girl does. At least, that’s what she would tell me when she left out offerings of milk or bread on the window ledge.”

  “Did you ever see one?”

  He shook his head. “No. I only ever saw my father’s fury if he caught her at it. He forbade such fancy and could not abide superstitious nonsense.”

  She sighed. “Perhaps it is nonsense. But part of me wants to believe.”

  “The world needs a bit of magic, I think.”

  ‘Yes, but the world makes it difficult to accept that it exists.”

  “These are the places that make it easier, though.”

  “There’s more,” she said. “Help me down.”

  He slid down and turned to find her holding her arms out in expectation like a child. She was no child, though. He could feel her curves as he lifted her down and set her before him—perhaps closer than was strictly necessary.

  Definitely closer.

  She smelled of lavender. Tensford’s countess was a lover of sachets, he’d discovered. Likely Lady Glory’s bureau drawers and wardrobes were full of sachets stuffed with lavender—just as his contained bundles of bay leaves and cloves.

  She had a cravat tied around her neck, as was usual with a military styled habit, and it ended with a flounce of lace upon her bosom—although she was in no need of enhancement there, as he could tell, because he still had not let her go.

  He was going to. He was going to withdraw his hands from her and stop the press of his fingers along the underside of her more-than-respectable breasts. Right after he’d done examining the small stickpin she wore, tucked in amongst the lace.

  “Lady Glory, is that, by chance, an insect?”

  “Where?” She raised a hand to brush away an aerial assault.

  “In your stickpin.”

  “Oh, yes.” She hadn’t withdrawn from him. Her breathing had quickened, though, and her gaze finally broke away to look down. “It’s trapped inside a bead of amber.”

  He tilted his head. “Other ladies wear sapphires or rubies. You wear a bug.”

  Now she stepped away. “Tensford gave it to me,” she said defensively. “He found the amber here, at Greystone. I thought it was fascinating—frozen forever like that. He had the stickpin made for me.”

  “I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he told her. “It’s just another interesting bit about you. I must apologize for my comments yesterday. You are, in fact, different from the girls I’ve met in London.”

  “Yes. That’s me.” She moved further away, her limp slowing her. “Different.” Crossing to the copse on the far side of the glen, she held a thick branch back and looked over her shoulder at him. “Step carefully and go slowly.”

  She ducked into the underbrush and disappeared.

  He followed. Branches grabbed at him as he pushed through the bracken—and then stepped out into a clear spot.

  And stopped, struck speechless.

  The whole, towering hill, up which they’d just wound their way—it fell away before him. Just a few feet ahead a ledge crumbled, leaving thin air and an incredible vista. The forest stretched out first, then came the house and main estate buildings of Greystone Park. Beyond lay the fields and the river, more forest, and in the far distance, the rooftops of the village.

  Keswick sighed in awe, then glanced back the way they’d come. To go from dim, enclosed mystery to this glorious, brightly lit scene . . .

  “The contrast is amazing, is it not?” Lady Glory clearly relished his surprise.

  “It is. It’s . . .” He waved a hand.

  “I know.” She edged a bit further out, but did approach the edge. “It’s so beautiful.” They gazed in silence for a moment. “It all looks so peaceful from up here.” She laughed. “I much prefer this vantage.”

  He thought about her sitting up here alone, gazing down upon her world from a safe spot—and felt a surprising twinge of empathy.

  “Lady Glory,” he said suddenly. “You do know that Mr. Lycett was being nice to you this morning?”

  She glanced back at him, frowning. “Of course. He is a nice man.” She moved and took a seat on an outcropping of rock. She looked up abruptly, a look of horror crossing her face. “Are you saying I was not? Did I say something wrong? I was sure I thanked him—”

  He held up a hand to stop her. “No. You were polite. But he was trying to be more than polite. He was trying to . . . make up to you.”

  “I think you are mistaken.”

  “No. I am not.” He crossed over and sat near her feet, looking up at her. “Believe me, I know what it looks like.” He preened a little. “I’m something of an expert.”

  “Well, I do hate to level a blow at your towering pride, but in this case, you are wrong. Utterly.”

  “I’m n
ot.”

  “You are. Why you would even think such a thing is beyond me.”

  “Why you didn’t see what was right before your eyes is beyond me.”

  She stared at him while a myriad of emotions flowed over face. Scorn won. “Why in the world would Mr. Lycett flirt with me?”

  “Why not? You are a lovely young lady of marriageable age.”

  “Everyone in this countryside thinks of me as an overblown school girl. A spinster in waiting. They don’t see me as marriageable.”

  He held up a hand and started ticking items off with his fingers. “Young. Pretty. More than acceptable bloodlines—good heavens, you are sister to one earl and sister-in-law to another. That alone would put you at the head of the pack in the minds of all the local bachelors.” He raised a brow. “I assume you have a decent dowry?”

  She flushed.

  He nodded. “Right. So, in reality, instead of being incredulous at the thought of Mr. Lycett’s flirtation, you should be considering him and deciding that he is not good enough for you.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Not good enough for me?” She laughed. “For me? The girl with a permanent, pronounced limp? Who cannot dance or climb stairs easily or even take a stroll in the garden or a walk in the park and keep apace? The one who is as clumsy in her manners as in her stride? I cannot flirt. I’m a horror at managing small talk and social niceties.” She sighed. “They start to drone on about their health or their relatives whom I’ve never met and I find them deadly dull—and it invariably shows on my face.”

  He laughed. “You do have an expressive face. I find it a joy to watch.”

  “So glad I can amuse you,” she said bitterly. “Also, my chin is too pointy and my eyes are a strange color.”

  “Your eyes are stunning. Your conversation is lively and interesting—when you are not insulting me.”

  “I notice you did not defend my chin.”

  He shook his head, charmed and exasperated in equal parts. With a sigh he climbed to his feet and nudged her aside, forcing her to make room for him on the rock.

  “Your chin is just pointy enough.” It was true. She was a bit of a beauty, especially when she was arguing with him. “Listen, please. The majority of us are naturally inclined to pair up, to choose someone to put our faith into and settle down. I am not one of them, but you are.”