When a Rake Falls (11 page)

He ignored her and smiled. “Perhaps not, but kisses are too much fun.” Recalling her earlier desperation, he realized his selfishness. “Right, out of the woods it is.”

“We'll need a clear and well-thought plan.”

“I devised a plan this morning and soon discovered it would not work. I thought hounds would be just the ticket. Find you by smell—beg pardon—in no time. So I asked Lydia where to find a dog, but it seems the only one available for miles is a greyhound. A sight hound is no use in a forest where you cannot see. So a well-thought plan was not responsible for your rescue. You owe your recovery to emotional fortitude and pure strength, my desire to find you and the shrub-crushing physical strength of this Sussex beast here, not logic and planning.”

He mounted the dun then helped her up to sit in front of him.

While she adjusted her skirt and he held her tight to stop her from falling off, the horse started forward in a direction of its own choosing, the loose reins trailing through the shrubbery.

She settled sideways in his arms, to address him directly. “It sounds as though, when you chose this strong animal, you planned to forge through the bracken.”

He hesitated, staring at the sable waves of her tousled hair. She was right, of course. Only he had not chosen the animal; the groom's brains were responsible for the choice of beast. But since he belonged to the society of males, he had no intention of voluntarily admitting his failings.

The horse turned right to avoid a large guelder rose shrub covered in red berries.

She searched his expression, then chuckled. “I see. You did not choose the horse. The groom must have suspected the type of animal needed for woods and used logic to make
his
choice.”

He withheld a reply, needing to think carefully to win the argument that greater success was achieved by using emotion instead of logic.

The horse continued to plod forward.

He glanced ahead, formulating the words for his defense and avoiding the beckoning, luscious pout. “Ahem. Maybe the groom had a tragic, emotional experience with painful shrubs and, as a consequence, used his heart to choose the beast.” Flawless reasoning, without a doubt. He then realized the irony of using reason to bolster his side—the emotional side—of the argument.
Best
not
to
mention
the
irony
. “Old Brutus here will use his giant heart to lead us out in no time.”

“The horse will use feelings to lead us out of the woods?”

“Of course. Trust him. He is such a great hulking brute. He'll use his emotions to propel his mighty strength forward. With that fortitude, he'll lead us out of here and into the clear blue sky.”

“That sounds more like logic than emotion to me. Except it will be night soon, and we'll not be able to see the broken branches to retrace Brutus's path. I really do not relish spending the night curled up next to a tree trunk.”

“Don't be so daft. I'm nothing like a tree trunk.” He rocked her within his arms.

She laughed and shook her head.

“Much better, my pretty miss. I love to hear your laugh. How about a song? I don't know any ‘Help, I'm lost in the woodlands' songs, but a nice fireside song should make us feel warmer. Yes, yes, let me sing—”

“Shh. Do you hear that? We must be getting close. Can you see anything?” She pointed to the right, her arm level with his shoulder. “Look.”

On his right, a small oval of a gold field, framed by dark trees, shone in the distance. Minutes later, the brush and trees began to thin. He could see the top half of two men apparently walking along a path.

“See?” he said. “Brutus used his big heart to bring us to safety.”

“No, you're wrong. Now that I think about it, Brutus used logic—the location of his feed bag—to bring us out of the trees.”

He caught her glance and held it. In unison, they broke out in laughter. However, he still needed to hold up the male side of the argument. “It's a universal truth that males consider hunger one of the primary emotions.”

Hearing their laughter, the men stopped and peered into the woods. As the giant Sussex stepped from the undergrowth onto the path along the field, the men doffed their hats.

“Hallo. Hallo,” Boyce called. It suddenly hit him that Eve's rescue would count as a service to a lady. He couldn't wait to tell everyone at the priory of this achievement, but then guilt assaulted his conscience. He patted Brutus's neck. “Good boy.” The horse had provided the service to them both.

The servants approached, and Eve and Boyce learned the two men were from the priory, one an under-gardener and the other a groom. After pleasantries were exchanged, followed by a description of their ordeal, Boyce discovered they were part of the group sent out by Lydia to search the woodland. Before he headed Brutus in the direction of the priory, he casually attempted to confirm his suspicions. “Did you find anything of value, fellows?”

Both men just smiled.

Midmorning the next day, Boyce headed into the stables to inspect the balloon. The brown wicker basket rested off to the side in the main stables, next to the tack wall. Humming an upbeat tune, he watched as a shaft of sunlight illuminated the folded silk balloon, causing it to shimmer silver and blue. It seemed unbelievable that the beautiful pile of cloth in front of him had taken him halfway across Britain.

“You are not hiding from me, are you, dear Boyce?” Lydia gingerly stepped into the stables. “I expected you to remain in bed.”

“I've had enough rest. Pluck to the backbone this morning.”

Lifting her dainty, pointed shoes an inch off the dirt floor, she slowly moved forward, the placement of each step carefully planned. “Oh, I am glad to hear you are well.”

Boyce smiled at her delicate dance as she approached. Her repeated desire for his company endeared her instantly. “Come, look at this pretty balloon. I'm sure you will admire it too.” Lydia and his best friend, George Drexel, had discreetly shared a bed for a year after her first husband died. She had tired of Drexel's company after he had made it known that he would not be formally giving her his addresses. Searching for her next great love, she found solace in the arms of another beau. Boyce had been genuinely happy when he learned she had married Buxton, an honorable man and a favorite school friend of one of his older brothers.

She stared at the straw beneath her feet. “Oh, I forgot how dirty it is in the stables.” Holding her skirt up ever so slightly, she gingerly took another wide step forward. “I forgot the repulsive smells too. Almost as foul as the streets of London.”

After catching a glimpse of her well-shaped ankles, he remembered Drexel extolling her prettiest parts—not surprising since his engineering friend had a habit of remembering his females to the inch, like every structural detail in his iron bridges. Boyce swallowed and forced himself to look up at her pretty face instead. “Now, what is a fine lady like you doing out here amongst all this muck?”

“Searching for you.”

“I suppose you want to hear my story. I mean the story of my adventures in the balloon, don't you? Let me tell you about the scientific experiments I helped to complete. Did you hear about the great discovery I made? I mean, well, Miss—”

“Dear Boyce, in this short time we have known each other, I have learned to enjoy your company so—so humorous, so lively.” After another dainty step forward, she laid her hand softly upon his chest.

He covered her small hand with his to lift both off his chest. “I have not had a chance to properly congratulate you on your marriage. What has it been, three months? I wish you both happy. Nice fellow, Buxton, by the way. You could not have chosen a better man for a husband.”

“Dearest Buxton, I love him so much that I sacrificed everything, you understand. It is a great injustice he sent me down here to rusticate with his mother. I'm to be punished, and it is not as if I was ever unfaithful to him. Once we met, I never thought of anyone else. We were so happy. Then he made all sorts of wild accusations after he found my name—I mean, my initials—in dear George's field guide. Such an ungentlemanly act for our mutual friend to pen a book like that.”

Boyce lowered his head to gaze directly into her eyes, and pursed his lips in a friendly smile. “To find your wife's initials between the pages might have been a shock to a newly married husband, now you must admit.”

She paused, a dainty scowl spoiling her flawless features. “I had always been honest with dear Buxton before our marriage, about everything too. Perhaps he didn't believe me and thought I exaggerated. Anyhow, for some reason, he took the presence of my initials under the column ‘Happy Goers' rather badly.”

“I can understand his reaction entirely. What I can't understand is the number of women pleading with Drexel to elevate their status
to
‘Happy Goers.'”

She gave him a sideways glance. “I can.” Then a sigh escaped. “Seeing my initials made dear Buxton so cross.”

“Is that why he sent you, the toast of London, down here to rusticate in an old priory? He does not mean to abandon you here, does he?”

“He must be.” Glancing up and around the stables, she shuddered. Then her eyes widened, revealing a flash of blue eyes between dark lashes. “You published Drexel's field guide, that's why I'm cross with you. I'm going to hold you partially responsible for my woes. You owe me then, dear Boyce.” After a giggle and toss of perfect curls, she regained her smile.

“Yes, yes, but if you are not happy here, why don't you return to your many friends in London?”

“Because he has forbidden me. And as his wife, I truly desire to make dear Buxton a good one. After all, I gave up everything for him. Oh, the injustice. Evidently, he needs privacy or calm or something to write legislation. He says he cannot write and worry about me at the same time. It is very sweet of him to worry about me, don't you think so?”

“I am sure many a gentleman worries about you, Lydia.”

“Ha, ha, so sweet. All gentlemen are so very kind. I…” She paused at the sound of an approaching horse.

A footman led a chestnut gelding into the stables a mere thirty feet away.

Once the footman disappeared deep into the far stalls, Boyce stepped forward and offered his arm to lead her back toward the priory. “Yes, I understand why Buxton worries. Let's go inside, shall we? Someone might come to the wrong conclusion if they find us alone together in the stables.”

“Oh, but I've sent all of the stable hands, except that one—my most trusted servant—to help refurbish Lady Buxton's favorite carriage. I can assure you, we will not be disturbed.”

“We will not be disturbed because we are returning to the priory. Miss Mountfloy must be awake and ready to discuss her plans to recover her father's
Results
book.”

“This book is important to you, isn't it?”

The slight rise in the intonation of her voice, coupled with her reticent servants the previous day, deepened his suspicion that she knew the whereabouts of the book. “Sweetheart, tell me: Have you found it? If so, you must return it immediately to its rightful owner, Miss Mountfloy. You're right, the book is important, and she is distressed by its loss.”

She uttered a halfhearted titter. “Oh, I am just merely testing your dedication to leaving us. I mean, if I did have this book, would your gratitude include staying here to keep dear Lady Buxton and me amused awhile longer?”

His suspicion grew to the point where he could not leave the stables without knowing the truth. “You must not play games with me.”

“Naughty, naughty.” She stepped closer, her smile coy. “You haven't said anything about my new gown.” Grabbing the ends of her shawl, she held them out to expose quite an impressive décolletage covered by an ivory silk bodice held together by two buttons in the center.

He involuntarily made a sound, something between a gulp and a choke.

Still holding her shawl out, she stepped forward until his waistcoat came in contact with her—chest. Then she did the most remarkable thing. Lydia caught his glance before slowly looking down at her own bosom. She even arched her back, which seemed to shove her chest upward.

Two buttons—did that surprise him? No. Two buttons were irresistible to all men with a pulse, because of their ease in popping them open. Ten buttons could be a problem, but one or two buttons only begged to be released. Moreover, it was common knowledge that men, even the most pure gentlemen, had a hard time turning their gaze away when presented with such a womanly feast, so it came as no surprise that his throat dried. “Yes, yes, my apologies. It's a pretty gown, but not nearly as pretty as your smile.” He stepped backward a foot.

“Ha, ha, you always say the most charming things.” Yet she made no movement to restore the shawl.

“It's a fine gown, and the lady in it delightful too. But that lady is married, and there are rules.”

After a fleeting purse of her lips, she began to stroke his cheek. “It thrills me when you are so direct, so forceful, so good. But you have broken the rules with other ladies before.”

“Now, Lydia…” He imprisoned her hand within his own. “Your husband is a friend. As far as I am concerned, married ladies are forbidden.”

She pulled her hand free and slid both arms around his waist, just under his jacket. “Dear George and I had such fun. Did he ever tell you about me? We could have fun too.”

All he seemed capable of at the moment was to stare at the roof's heavy beams. He then managed to grab her forearms and pull them away from his backside. “I do not wish to be a scoundrel of the worst sort. Buxton is—”

“Dear Boyce.” She maneuvered her hands until she held his palms in a firm grasp. Then she placed his hands directly upon her hips.

He gasped. “Lydia, I—”

“Dear, dear Boyce.”

He removed his hands, grabbed the ends of her shawl, and wrapped it over her gown. “Sweetheart, tell me the truth: you would never be unfaithful to Buxton, admit it.”

She paused, eyes wide. “At least, I never believed that I could do something like that before he abandoned me.” A sound escaped her that could only be described as a soft moan. “Now I don't know. Do you believe dear Buxton would do the same and be faithful to me? He's been away for such a long time, months and months, leaving me alone down here in the wilderness.”

“Buxton is not the type of gentleman who would ever be unfaithful. You know that in your heart.” He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Courage, sweetheart. When he returns, he'll realize his mistake in leaving you alone and without company. Believe me, all will be well.”

“Lord Boyce Parker,” Eve said.

He stepped away from Lydia and turned to discover his aeronaut, her father, and the young man with the drab coat standing before him.

Eve's flushed cheeks revealed she must have witnessed the last minute or two. Mr. Mountfloy narrowed his eyes while the slim man couldn't tear his glance away from Lydia.

Eve cleared her throat, seemingly hesitant to speak. “Lord Boyce Parker, you have previously met my father at the ascension, but let me introduce my father's assistant, Mr. Charles Henry.”

“Yes, yes, a pleasure, sir.” He stepped forward to shake Mr. Henry's hand, then he provided introductions all around.

“Mrs. Buxton,” Eve said, formally addressing their hostess. “Please, from what little I overheard, I must know. Do you have my father's
Results
book? If so—”

“What's this?” Mr. Mountfloy turned to face the two ladies. “Mrs. Buxton, is this true? Please hand it over immediately. I cannot stress enough the importance of its recovery.”

Lydia appeared unconcerned, intent only upon a thorough perusal of Mr. Henry. A few long seconds later, she turned to Mr. Mountfloy and sighed. “Seems I need to look for this book then. Now please, everyone, follow me to the priory. Tut will see to refreshments for us, I'm sure.”

Mr. Mountfloy stood fixed and failed to join the others as they started back. “Mrs. Buxton,” he said with a raised voice, “you must—”

“Father, perhaps another time,” Eve said, smiling at Lydia.

Lydia ignored him and ran forward to slide her arm into the crook of Eve's.

Boyce decided the two women shared confidences or some secret, since they whispered as they strolled out of the stables.

* * *

Since Lydia had requested a private conversation, Eve stepped into her sunny, large bedroom on the priory's first floor. A broadside of duck's egg–blue satin, trimmed with gold tassels, festooned the walls and curtains. In contrast, each item of furniture—chair, mirror, and bed—gleamed from the rich, dark brown of the finest mahogany.

While the room could only be described as the pinnacle of femininity, Eve considered it unsettling. All of the furniture, several lamps, and the wash basin were ornamented with a medallion of Wedgwood's blue-and-white jasperware. Everywhere you looked, the blue room seemed crowded with little white cherubs, like a tiny built-in audience.

“There you are,” Mrs. Buxton said, waving to the housemaid to place several jewel-colored gowns on the bed. “Dear Eve, aren't these lovely? I went to great trouble to choose gowns that would complement that lovely dark hair you have.”

Years ago, Eve's mother had said almost the exact words. As the dutiful parent of a daughter, she had trained Eve in all of the skills necessary for a young lady to make an advantageous match, hiring tutors for singing, pianoforte, and watercolor, since the expected future any gentleman's daughter had a right to expect was wedlock. Then after Tom died, Eve volunteered to help her father. He accepted her assistance but warned her against any ambition relating to scientific discovery. He told her that women lacked the rigor of mind necessary for science.

Once those words had escaped his lips, Eve vowed to prove her father wrong. She'd learned from his example and strove to make a great discovery for the betterment of mankind. Now, after her fright in the woods, she was beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of that pledge. If she did not change, her future would become like that stone lodged deep inside a pyramid—not a lady in a jewel-colored gown admiring the pyramid in the company of her loving husband. She wondered if someday in the future, women could fulfill both dreams. “I want to thank you again for your hospitality, Mrs. Buxton. I—”

“My dear, please call me Lydia, remember? We'll become the best of friends, I can tell.” She stepped forward and clasped both of Eve's hands. “I cannot describe the joy of having another female in the house. Oh, Lady Buxton is pleasant enough, of course, but she is old. I don't think we have ever discussed a gown once. Imagine that. Last week, I joined Mama in a whist party at our neighbor's, and not one woman took the bother to dress impressively. Not a single lady wore a tiara or a trembler.”