The Second Seduction of a Lady (5 page)

A proposal and a kiss, most likely in that order. That was his plan.

The scent of roses and the more intoxicating perfume of a warm woman. Dry grass beneath him, scythed to the texture of moss, competing with the peachy smoothness of her cheeks. The taste of her lips sending his head spinning. And the headier discovery that his hunger was reciprocated. Speech withered, desire dominated action.

A moment’s silence in the room heightened the sound of Eleanor’s skirts shifting as she reached for her teacup, drawing him deeper into the memory of that night.

The rustle of silken gown and fine linen pushed aside were lost in the sweeter sound of Eleanor’s breathy sighs. Soft cries cheered his quest for the tenderest skin that marked the approach to heaven, her warm, wet welcoming center. Her fiery, innocent responses sent him soaring and ruined him for other women. He’d never once intended to seduce her, until the enchantment of the evening pulverized the scruples of a gentleman. Later he assuaged his guilt with the certainty that she had been as eager, as overcome with desire as he.

Now he sat in Mrs. Markham’s drawing room sending Eleanor Hardwick improper messages. Each time she blushed and avoided his eye fueled his courage and a new determination. Winning her back was more important than any race he’d ever run.

“M
iss Hardwick, Miss Brotherton! What a delightful surprise.”

Max vaulted over the stile into the field, Robert Townsend at his heels.

“I shouldn’t be astonished, but I confess I am,” Eleanor said. “How did you find us in this obscure field?”

“We saw your hats floating above the hedge and came to offer you company.”

Her hand went to the brim of the huge straw confection, impractical for such an expedition, but she did love it. She was glad she’d worn it today. Caro, who had teased her about it, exchanged grins with Robert.

“Today we are in search of early blackberries, not company,” she said.

“How extraordinary! Robert and I are on the same errand.”

“To make a tart for your supper, no doubt.”

“Just so, though I believe the cook will do the making.”

“You won’t gather many without a basket.”

Max looked around him. “I knew I’d forgotten something. Robert! Did you remember your basket?”

“Not I,” replied his ward, who was freeing Caro’s skirts from a bramble. Eleanor sighed, fearing the little minx had got herself caught on purpose, and made sure it involved the revelation of her ankles and a good measure of calf.

“Robert may share mine,” Caro said.

“And in exchange,” Robert replied, “I shall show you the place for the best berries.”

“And how would you know?” Eleanor asked, assuming her disapproving chaperone face. “A childhood memory, perhaps?”

“That, and an unerring eye for beauty.” The boy stared at Caro’s ankle for several seconds before dropping the petticoat he’d unhooked from the last thorn.

“May I go with Mr. Townsend, please Eleanor?”

“Don’t go too far, and stay in sight,” Eleanor said.

The youngsters moved off in search of the riper fruit, always a few bushes away, leaving Eleanor with Max. Although she was now accustomed to his presence, she’d always seen him in a group, never alone.

“We seem to be meeting everywhere these days,” Eleanor said.

“Inevitable when visiting a country neighborhood.”

“You and your party attended both morning service and evensong on Sunday. Impressive piety in a group of young men.”

“Mr. Walpole is a fine preacher, don’t you agree?”

“I do. Yet I had the impression their full attention was not on the sermon.” She strongly suspected the high-walled Townsend pew had sheltered some surreptitious dicing. “I was even more surprised,” she continued, “to meet you all when we called on Mrs. Coyle. A parson’s elderly widow and her spinster daughter are not generally the preferred company of handsome young men.” Miss Coyle was notorious for her good natured but inane chatter. She and Max had exchanged secret smiles during one of the lady’s particularly impressive flights of nonsense.

He grinned shamelessly. “Just doing our neighborly duty.”

“Very praiseworthy I am sure. And it was by chance that our visits coincided?”

“Pure coincidence. And a most happy one.”

She knew it was not a coincidence and couldn’t help but be pleased. The past two weeks had recalled race week at Petworth, the happy part, not the painful end. Those had been exhilarating days, a whirl of picnics and dances, all of them spent in a state of heightened awareness. She’d acquired eyes in the back of her head. Max had only to enter a room for her to know it. His proximity, at the distance of a dozen feet or two, drove the blood coursing through her veins and all rational thought out of her head. It was often two feet, for the moment he noticed her he’d make for her side, ignoring other guests to the point of discourtesy, his lazy smile only for her. She’d lived in a cloud of sensation, an ocean of feelings. Abandonment of reason had cost her dearly.

Yet it wasn’t the same. He still approached her at every opportunity. Their discourse was pleasant and impersonal, such as anyone might overhear without raising an eyebrow. Age must have lent her greater wisdom. Because they had no shared future, she could forget Max’s faults and enjoy his company—always good company—without danger to her peace of mind. Why he made a point of seeking her out scarcely mattered. She’d give him no encouragement so he couldn’t be misled.

“What are you really doing here today?” she asked, with a mock frown. “Inspecting the fences or some such fascinating thing, I suppose. Tell me the truth.”

Max was making progress. He’d swear she’d greeted his arrival with pleasure and she may have blushed beneath the ridiculous hat, adorned with a bewildering display of ribbons and whatnot that no normal man could possibly be expected to sort out. But it mattered not. Eleanor had the presence to carry off any fashion excess and still look infinitely desirable. The hat could be removed. As could the cream-colored shawl and the crisp bright gown—green today—that set off her shining dark hair
.

“Actually you’re not far wrong. Robert has been enduring a lecture on drainage.”

The creases in her forehead dissolved and the fine gray eyes grew warm with amusement. Around him the sounds of birdsong and insects faded away on the breeze. Her lips parted and he bent his head as though to inhale her moist, sweet breath. He was enthralled, ensorcelled, his mind empty of all but one thought, to kiss Eleanor Hardwick again.

She turned her head aside and stepped away, uttering an unladylike oath when a bramble pulled at her skirt. Unlike Caro, she freed herself without fuss and started picking fruit.

“You never told me you had a ward,” she said.

“A recent acquisition. My guardianship is mostly a matter of form. I attend to his estate.” Finally he had Eleanor to himself, without the neighborhood busybodies listening to every word. He didn’t want to waste it speaking of Robert.

“I’m told you are good at it.”

“Just doing my duty, and at some profit to myself. I am paid for my trouble.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’ve never pretended to be a wealthy man.”

“I know a good many gentlemen of different degrees of fortune and it has always appeared to me that the happiest are those who are busiest. Being born to a healthy independence can be a disadvantage if it leads to idleness.”

He watched her toss fruit into her basket with easy competence. “You like to be busy yourself, I think.”

“I am a practical woman. Some would say I have a managing disposition, and they don’t mean it as a compliment.”

Max recalled Sir George Ashdown’s sneers, definitely not a topic he wished to raise. “They are wrong. No one who wears a contrivance like that on her head can be entirely practical.”

She peeped at him from beneath the exaggerated brim. “Hats are my greatest weakness.”

“Your only weakness?” He waited for her answer through a long spool of silence, broken by a shriek.

Robert was running across the field being bombarded with blackberries by the hotly pursuing Caro. So much for not being interrupted.

“What an unruly pair of children they are,” he said. “Your little cousin’s gown will be stained.”

Eleanor groaned. “I had to smuggle her into the house after she fell in the river to protect her from her mother’s wrath.” She stopped her fruit picking and looked at him, scrunching up her nose. His heart lurched. He’d forgotten that look of amused puzzlement. “Elizabeth Brotherton seems to think children should be born with tastes and habits like great-grandmothers of more than usual propriety. She should never have been a mother.”

“You’re fond of the girl, aren’t you?”

“There’s such sweetness and fun in her. How she manages to remain so delightful when she’s been at odds with her parent most of her life, I don’t know. If she can get through the wild age, she will grow up to be a remarkable woman. Don’t tell the others, but Caro is perhaps my favorite of all my young cousins.”

“And how many do you have?”

“Dozens and dozens. I may have been an only child, but both my parents came from families of excessive fruitfulness.” She spoke with droll exaggeration but he caught an off-key note.

“Did you miss having brothers and sisters? I have two of each and there were times when our house seemed overly full, even without the constant comings and goings of visitors. I can’t imagine a quiet house.”

“My father’s house is isolated.”

The simple words spoke volumes. Eleanor was a warm and gregarious creature. No wonder she spent her time visiting, lavishing her affection on her young relations. He realized this was one of the most personal conversations he’d ever had with her. Their previous meetings had taken place in the hectic atmosphere of race week. They’d laughed and flirted and shared the superficial information of new acquaintances. Everything about her had enchanted him, but physical desire had been uppermost in his mind. In the end, his lack of control over his own urges had ruined things. He should have wooed her properly, as a lady, discovered more about her own feelings and concerns.

“Your father is a clergyman. They don’t usually lead quiet lives.”

“It’s a small parish.”

“I’ve never visited Lancashire. What are the people like there?”

“Much like people everywhere, I imagine.”

“Did your mother die long ago?”

“Yes.”

The shorter her answers to his probing, the more convinced he became that she was hiding something. He didn’t know what, but there had to be a reason why an intelligent and handsome woman had remained unwed, despite being ideally suited to family life. He stepped back, physically and mentally. He mustn’t rush his fences this time.

“I owe you an apology,” he said.

“Why? I mean, yes. But it’s all past now and not worth talking about.”

“I think it is, but not now. Instead I’m going to extend my deepest thanks to all the men in England for being blind idiots.”

“How so?” she asked warily.

“Because they have allowed you to remain unwed.”

“At my own wish, not theirs.” She seemed annoyed at the suggestion she’d never had an offer.

“It makes me feel better now I realize that I was just one of a legion you rejected.”

“Not so many, but one or two. And you were the only one who ever tested my resolve.” His breath caught. Such an admission was surely significant. “Anyway,” she continued briskly, as though she hadn’t just sent his heart tumbling. “Are you going to help me pick blackberries? I don’t count on Caro coming home with enough to fill a single tartlet.”

He reached over her shoulder to retrieve a particularly large specimen from a far branch. “I prefer to eat as I pick, especially when I find a beauty. Delicious.”

“Unfair! The biggest and ripest are always the farthest away.”

“That is why you should never go blackberry picking without a gentleman in attendance. How lucky for you that we happened along.”

They worked for a while, speaking idly and only of the task at hand, until the basket was full. Eleanor proved an indefatigable forager.

“Is that enough? May we rest from our labors? I see a shady spot under that oak where we can sit and talk of graves and worms and epitaphs.”

She caught his Shakespearean allusion and laughed. “What a charming invitation! Let me just pick that last bunch. I swear they are the best ones I’ve seen.”

“That’s the sixth time you’ve said that. I’ll get them. It’s too far for you to reach.” He spoke too late. She stretched across the breadth of the bramble patch and gave a little cry.

“You’ve hurt yourself!” He pushed back the ruffle that fell from the elbow-length sleeve. Tiny spots of bloods punctuated the white skin of her inner arm. With infinite care he dabbed up the blood with his handkerchief. “Are you in pain?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Here,” he said softly. “I’ll kiss it better.”

She tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let her, retaining a gentle but undeniable hold on her elbow and wrist. His lips traced the angry red line of the scratch. He took his time about it, relishing the soft skin impregnated with a subtle floral fragrance. All too soon he reached her wrist, but he had no intention of stopping. He prolonged his pleasure, lingering at the tender joint. She gasped when he let his tongue emerge to enjoy the taste of salt and blackberry, but she didn’t struggle. So he held the hand, liberally stained with purple juice, in both of his, nuzzled the palm and took the tips of her strong slender fingers, one by one, into his mouth.

“Max,” she murmured. Finally she’d used his Christian name. “My hand is dirty.”

“It tastes sweet,” he said, replacing the forefinger with the middle one.

“Here,” she said, sounding a little desperate. With her free hand she grabbed a berry from the basket. “If you must eat.”

He raised his head from her hand but otherwise made no other movement except to part his lips. He held his breath, his heart hammering wildly. The fruit glistened in the sunlight before she inserted it into his waiting mouth. Sweet and tart, just like her. Even more than the fruit he relished the avid look on her face as she watched him swallow.