The Savage Miss Saxon (33 page)

At Sir Alexander’s confused look, Harold had interpreted. “Alix says to bing avast, old man.”

“
Cant!
” Sir Alexander had yelled. “By Jupiter, the man even spouts cant.
Nutter!
I need a drink!”

In the months that followed, Harold did not seek any revenge, the two old men content to sit in medieval splendor at Saxon Hall, drinking, playing at cards, and waiting impatiently for the Mannerings to produce a child or two for them to dandy on their knees and tell stories about the glories of another day.

Helene and her new husband had written to the Mannerings, thanking them profusely for all their help and telling them of their joy at being together at last—not to mention being shed of Helene’s mama.

As for Mrs. Anselm, it appeared that she was finally to achieve her heart’s desire, for just a week earlier Rupert’s engagement to a Miss Cissy Frobisher had appeared in the London papers. One could only wonder at the tenacity of the woman, although Nicholas had said at the time that he’d bet a monkey to a pound note that the old dragon would get short shrift from her beloved son once the knot had been tied.

Jeremy and his chums were back at school but promised to be back at Linton Hall with the newlyweds at Eastertide “without fail,” a thought that set Poole (and most of the villagers) to shaking in their boots.

“I know John Mortlock teased you about naming your first son after him, Nicholas,” Alix was saying as she emerged now from the sweat house, a breechclout her only covering against the late winter chill, “but I’d really like to name this first one Charles—after Chas, you know.”

Nicholas’s head appeared at the door to the sweat house, followed closely by the rest of his nearly bare body. Straightening, he said, “Of course, sweetings. I think it would be very fitting if—
this first one!
—Alix, do you mean—”

Nodding her towel-wrapped head up and down she told him, “It is a most natural conclusion to what we have been doing, Nicholas, so you can stop looking as if Harold was about to come after you with his hatchet.”

Barefoot, he walked slowly toward her, stopping scant inches away to lift his hands to loose the towel at her head and arrange her long black hair around her like a cloak. Their eyes met and held, their expressions suddenly intense, and he slipped his hand into hers and turned her toward the shoreline. Still looking at each other they waded into the stream—two glorious savages who knew they had somehow stumbled into Paradise.

Thank you for reading
The Savage Miss Saxon
. Please continue on for the complete novella, 
The Ninth Miss Noddenly
, another enchanting Regency romp from Kasey Michaels.

The Ninth Miss Noddenly

a Regency novella

Chapter One

J
onathan Wetherell, the fourteenth earl of Mayfield, was was not a happy man.

He was rich, almost sinfully so, and always had been; so that wasn’t his problem.

He was handsome, most definitely sinfully so, and although he never gave much thought to his extreme good looks, certainly his physical attractiveness could not be blamed for his unhappiness.

He had scores of friends both male and of the gentler persuasion, enjoyed equally London life and his time spent on his various estates, had set up a stable of admirable quality, was well respected for his ability in whatever sport he graced with his participation, and had delighted in his carefree childhood that had left him with fond memories of his deceased parents.

His mind was sound, as was his body, none of his molars pained him, he could not so much as claim a slight case of the sniffles in a dozen years; and his hoots fit admirably well as he strolled down Bond Street on this late May day.

In short, there was no earthly reason why the earl of Mayfield should feel as if he had acquired his own personal thundercloud, one which hung just over his head night and day, robbing him of his usual good humor and making him wish, generally, that he had stayed in bed rather than take on another day in London society.

No earthly reason indeed, unless one considered the fact that Jonathan Wetherell, fourteenth earl, etc., etc., was for the first time in his three and thirty years, deeply, madly, and—or so it appeared—
hopelessly
in love.

“Jonathan? I say—
Jonathan!
”

Mayfield became aware that someone was calling his name and stopped, frowning, for he did not wish to speak with anyone at the moment, or in any time soon. He was busy, damn it all anyway, busy feeling sorry for himself, and the last thing he needed was for one of his friends to greet him, say something funny, and ruin his self-pity.

“God’s teeth, Johnny, I’ve been calling after you for nearly a block. Out of breath, now, you know, for I detest running. Sets up a cursed burning in m’lungs, which can’t be good, can it? What’s the matter? Someone dear to you die? You look ready to cry.”

Sir Pitney Fox
. Mayfield paused before turning around, caught between the knowledge that the last thing Lord Fox could ever be accused of was trying to cheer someone else’s spirits and the realization that it was just that same thought that was even now bringing a smile, unbidden, to his lips.

“Pitney, old man,” he said as he turned, holding out his hand, half-afraid Lord Fox would otherwise throw himself into his arms, panting for air. “How grand to see you up and about. I could have sworn I’d heard you were at death’s door. Or was that last week?”

Lord Fox, a short-ish, thin-ish, blond-ish, bland-ish man—the most thoroughly “ish” person in all of England, in point of fact—had the further distinction of being known far and wide as the sick-
ish
creature in creation.

Always ailing, constantly doctoring, perpetually complaining of his ill health, Fox had the pale color of the invalid, the deep pockets of an only, orphaned son, the personality of a turnip, and the appetite of a full regiment of fighting men.

If Lord Fox did not soon drop dead of one of his many imagined ailments, he would most probably be the cause of several suicides within his beleaguered staff and more than a few deaths by terminal boredom of his unfortunate partners at the dinner table.

Lord Fox waved off what was surely his dear friend’s concern for his welfare, innately incapable of recognizing a joke at his own expense. “Never fear for me, Jonathan,” he pleaded, releasing Lord Mayfield’s hand and quickly wiping his fingers with a clean handkerchief—to ward off contamination, you see. “I am once more stout as a barrel, if it weren’t for this small, distressing rash I have discovered on my—”

“Please, Pitney, spare me the details,” Mayfield broke in hurriedly, no longer amused by Lord Fox’s usually distracting presence. “I am laboring under some small indisposition myself at the moment and would rather, quite frankly, be alone.”

Lord Fox prudently backed up a pace and raised the handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth. “Oh, do say you aren’t contagious, Johnny,” he pleaded earnestly from behind the crisp white linen, once more calling Lord Mayfield by that most loathed pet name from their days at Eton.

“I can’t be sure, Pitney,” Lord Mayfield replied, one side of his mouth lifting in a self-deprecating smile as Lord Fox only slowly returned his handkerchief to his pocket. “Is love catching?”

The moment he had spoken Lord Mayfield wished the words back. Clearly he was heading for a sad decline, to be so overset that he would stoop to speaking personally with Lord Fox, who was, although an acquaintance of many years, never to be considered one of his lordship’s set.

“Love, is it? You, Johnny?” Lord Fox all but chortled. “Oh, don’t tease me so, else I’ll have palpitations. You’ll never fall to Cupid’s dart—not you, Johnny. Why, I have it on good authority that our friend Wiley is in the book for a monkey, saying you’ll never wed.”

The fact that Sir Wiley Hambleton was, first-off, not a bosom chum of either Lord Mayfield or Lord Fox and was, secondly, an unreformed rake well past the age where rakes could be considered either romantic or dangerous, rankled Lord Mayfield more than he would wish Lord Fox to know.

“I hadn’t known Wiley to be so absorbed in the happenings of my life,” Lord Mayfield said, stepping back, tipping his hat, and bowing politely as Lady Hertford and her maid passed along the flagway.

“Wiley?” Lord Fox inquired, his expression revealing his disbelief that Lord Mayfield could put forth the notion that Sir Wiley Hambleton was not interested in everything to do with such a respected member of the
ton
. Indeed, the man dined out on his vast store of gossip, where his checkered youth and spotted middle age otherwise could have caused his name to be dismissed from the invitation list, especially if there was a marriageable daughter in the house. “Oh, on the contrary, Johnny. The subject of marriage is very much on Wiley’s mind these days, yours or anyone else’s, I suppose. Haven’t you heard?”

Lord Mayfield was fast regretting having not lost his hearing due to his exposure to cannon fire on the battlefields with Wellington. Would this fool never shut his mouth and let him be on his way? “No, Pitney,” he answered, sighing. “I haven’t heard. Or have I? I suppose there is nothing else to do but for you to tell me what you’ve heard, and then I shall know for certain.”