Anne Barbour (11 page)

“I don’t think it sounds foolish at all,” Simon said softly. “I have been to all those places and more, and I only wish they had brought me as much pleasure as you find in thinking about them.”

As he spoke, he drew her down beside him on a settee that stood close to the long windows that overlooked a rose garden in full bloom. A tentative smile curved her lips as she lifted her eyes to his. The heavy scent of roses drifted in to envelop them and Simon found himself falling helplessly into the velvet abyss of her eyes. Without volition, his head bent to hers.

“Come, sir thee down upon this flow'ry bed. While I thy amiable cheeks do coy....”
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
IV, i.

It must be the scent of the roses that was making her feel so very peculiar, thought Jane dazedly. A soft languor crept over her, and she felt mesmerized by Simon’s brandy-colored gaze. The dancing flecks of gold in his eyes enveloped her in a mounting heat that had nothing to do with the summer morning. She seemed incapable of movement—or even coherent thought, and she held her breath as Simon’s head bent closer.

“Simon! Are you in there, old man?” A booming masculine voice and a thunderous knocking on the door sounded through the room like a rifle volley. Jane jumped spasmodically, nearly slipping to the floor in her frantic effort to distance herself from Simon.

Simon, in turn, sprang to his feet, where he stood for a moment staring blankly at Jane. Abruptly, he turned toward the door.

“Yes, come in, Marcus.”

The viscount strode into the room. “Ha! Thought I’d find you here. Tell you what, Simon, you’ve been working too hard, crouched in this wretched study like a troll in a cave.” He waved airily to Jane. “Do you not agree, Miss Burch?”

Jane managed a shaky smile and a convulsive nod, but she was unable to speak.

“Come along, old man,” continued the viscount. “We have just time for a game of billiards before luncheon.” With a beckoning gesture, he started for the door. Simon hesitated, darting a bemused glance at Jane, who returned it for a brief instant, flushing rosily.

“Do go along, my lord.” The words emerged in a strangled gasp. “I have one or two matters to see to before I go downstairs.” She dropped her eyes and bolted from the room in a craven rush, hurtling up the stairs and down the corridor until she had reached the haven of her chambers.

She flung herself on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. For heaven’s sake, she chastised herself, what was she in such a pelter about? Nothing had happened there in the sunlit intimacy of Simon’s study. Nothing at all. Yet, she felt hot and itchy all over, and her heart was pounding as though she had been running a steeplechase. Her gaze fell to her arm, and it seemed as though she could still feel the imprint of his fingers where he had leaned close to touch her.

She flung her arms over her head, waiting for her breathing to return to normal. She was being perfectly ridiculous. Lord Simon Talent was but a tool in her machinations on behalf of her sisters. And, he had made it more than clear that he found her a thorn in his side. He had spoken of finding a comfortable wife. Well, if that’s what he wanted, he certainly would not look in her direction. As for herself, she had no desire to marry at all. The thought of bending her independent spirit to the will of another had always been repugnant to her.

She sat up. Why, Simon Talent was a veritable tyrant, arranging the lives of those around him to his liking. Once he got an idea in his head, it was fixed there and no amount of calm reasoning could dislodge it. Married to a man like that, a woman’s life would be a constant battle to maintain her identity. No, he was welcome to his biddable wife, and she wished him joy of her.

Fixing these laudable thoughts firmly in her mind, she rose from the bed and moved to the pitcher and basin on a commode near her bed.

Downstairs, Simon found he was having difficulty concentrating on his game. When he missed a cannon that he would ordinarily have made with ease, causing the ball to carom off the cushion and onto the floor, he gave up with a self-deprecating laugh and handed the stick to Gerard, who had kept up a steady stream of advice.

“Go to it, my boy,” he said, falling back into the position of observer. Marcus shot him a speculative glance as he made his own play, and the game continued with much good-natured banter.

After a few moments, Simon’s mind slipped back to the scene that had just taken place in his study. He could not believe his reaction to the nearness of Jane Burch. He had behaved like the veriest moonling, almost losing control of himself over a pair of magical gray eyes. If Marc had not announced his presence at the door, he would have gathered that little witch into his arms and kissed her till her eyes crossed. If, that is, she had not slapped his face for his trouble.

Yet, she had not drawn back when he bent his head over hers. Would she have allowed an embrace? A kiss? He closed his eyes, and once again he felt the warmth of her body so close to his. Her nearness had filled his senses. The thought flicked through his mind that he would never again breathe in the scent of roses without thinking of “my cousin Jane.” What would it have been like to press his mouth to hers? He had kissed many women. Surely her lips would taste no different from those of any other. A shock of excitement raced through him at the thought of her slenderness pressed against him, her soft mouth crushed beneath his.

He shook himself. This would not do. Dalliance with a wood sprite formed no part of his plans at Selworth. Not that Miss Burch was the type of female one could dally with. Beneath that ethereal exterior, she was a dedicated meddler and a thruster of spokes into wheels. In short, she was precisely the sort of woman he had always gone to great lengths to avoid, and he would do so again now.

He rubbed the back of his neck irritably. Why was he wasting effort plumbing the depths of Jane Burch’s character? He had more important demands on his time and mental capability. With a renewed surge of desperation, he reviewed his plan for getting Winifred wed with all possible speed.

He listened with half an ear to the desultory conversation around him, coming to attention at the words “... to London to become an actress.” He jerked around to face Gerard, who was speaking with enthusiasm.

“I think it’s a perfectly smashing idea. I wish I had her gumption. And I’ll wager she’ll make a go of it, too. I know squads of fellows who would put down their three shillings to watch Winifred spout Shakespeare.”

“Those squads of fellows are unlikely to get their chance,” said Simon sharply. “For, Winifred is not going to go to London.”

“But.. .” interposed Harry.

“Now see here, Simon,” interrupted Marcus. “If the girl wants to be an actress, I do not see how you are going to stop her. This is something she really wishes to do, and I, for one, think she should be allowed her chance.”

“What chance?” said Simon with a snort. “Just what do you think her reception would be in any theater manager’s office. Why, she’d be shown the door—or the manager’s bed—before she had time to untie her bonnet,” he concluded.

This undeniably accurate assessment was greeted with silence. Gerard exchanged a glance with Harry before speaking up. “Well,” he said slowly, “I don’t suppose it would be a good idea for her to go there by herself.”

“The thing to do,” interposed Marc, “would be to find her a sponsor. Someone who could—”

“No, Marc,” rasped Simon. “The thing to do is to stop encouraging her in this lunacy. She is a gently bred female, and as such will find fulfillment in a good husband and a good home. I wish to hear no more on the subject.”

Three voices were raised in immediate dispute, only to be silenced by the sound of the luncheon gong. Simon moved away from the table and ushered the gentlemen out of the room, satisfied that he had nipped in the bud any incipient support for Winifred and her ruinous plans.

He did not notice that, as they moved along the corridor, Gerard and Harry whispered together at some length and in a most serious vein.

It was a merry group that set out for a far corner of the Selworth estate after luncheon. Since the route consisted of a barely worn path through overgrown fields, it was decided that everyone should be bundled into one of the farm wagons. Old clothes were donned and, with much laughter, the guests gathered in front of the house.

Simon sprang into action the moment the wagon trundled into sight.

“Here you go, Charlie,” he said, assisting the earl in clambering into the vehicle. Once Charles was in place, Simon turned to Winifred. “You’re next, m’dear.” Carefully, he handed her up into Charles’s waiting arms and watched with a smile as Winifred nestled into the straw that lined the vehicle, and Charles settled beside her. Gerard and Harry were next, and they, in turn, assisted Jane into a place near them. Simon and Marcus brought up the rear. Simon’s satisfaction increased as, with the bumping of the wagon over the rutted path, Charles found it necessary to place his arm about Winifred’s shoulder to prevent her from tumbling about.

Jane’s mood was far different as she watched Winifred turn her dazzling smile on the earl. Good lord, look at them, she thought in disgust. If he bends any lower over her bodice, he’s going to fall right in. One would think that Winifred would behave with a little more decorum. She was always more than appreciative of masculine admiration, and now she was all but issuing an open invitation for the earl to plunder her charms at will.

Jane supposed she needn’t worry. In a cart full of people, the earl would not be able to accomplish much in the way of amatory exploration.

Had she been privy to the conversation taking place between Winifred and Charles, she would not have been so sanguine.

“You do have a London town house, my lord?” asked Winifred, her violet eyes wide.

“Yes, indeed,” murmured the earl, allowing his arm to tighten ever so slightly. “Perhaps you will come to visit me there someday.”

“Oh, I would like that above all things,” she cooed. “Will you be going there when you leave here?”

“Why, as it happens, that is my intention,” returned Charles, who had intended no such thing. London was rather full of peril for him at the moment. It would not do for it to become known that he was in residence. But, now, come to think of it, London would be very thin of company at this time of year, and most people would be at their country residences. He allowed his fingers to trace the delectable curve of Winifred’s shoulder. What a toothsome morsel, she was. Of course, if she did come to London, she would probably have a dragon in tow. Simon might overlook the lack of a proper chaperon here in the wilderness, but once in London, his little treasure was sure to be well-guarded.

He sighed and withdrew his arm slightly. He must have rats in his attic to consider dalliance with such a one. She might be unfurling all sorts of delightful petals in invitation, but she was an innocent for all that. She was gently bred, with all the hedges that the term brought with it. At his first attempt to lift her skirt, he would undoubtedly find himself either leg-shackled or on the business end of a horsewhip.

The earl lifted his eyes to encounter a glare from Jane Burch. Now, that one promised a little sport. Simon might spout propriety where she was concerned, but he had his hands full with the nubile Winifred. The Burch filly did not appear to have taken to him immediately, but he liked a challenge. He smiled into her disapproving gaze.

He behaved to Winifred with rigid decorum during the remainder of the journey, and when they reached the Roman villa, he attached himself at once to Jane.

“How fascinating, to be sure,” he murmured, placing an arm about her waist to assist her in stepping over what was left of a stone wall. “To think of one’s lands being overrun by Roman chaps hundreds of years ago.”

“That would be more like a thousand years—and more, my lord,” returned Jane, adroitly sidestepping his grasp. “And in all likelihood, the people who lived here were Britons—Romanized, and subjects of the emperor, but English nonetheless.”

“You don’t say,” said Charles, with an air of profound disinterest. “At any rate, they didn’t leave much, did they?”

Jane glanced around at the scattered stones that formed only the faintest outline of chambers, corridors, and outer walls. “No, they left little but the proof of their existence, but I find that quite enough to set my imagination stirring.”

Charles’s brows lifted slightly. “Really?” he drawled. “For me, I find present company quite enough to stir my blood.” His pale eyes glistened, making them look remarkably like peeled onions, as his gaze fell suggestively to the lacy curve of muslin covering her breast.

A withering set-down formed on Jane’s lips, but after a moment’s reflection, she swallowed it. The only purpose to be served in turning away his lordship’s amorous advances would be to send him back to prey on Winifred. She smiled brightly. “Whoever they were, they chose a beautiful setting for their home.” She waved her arm toward the distant downs, green and lush and garlanded with flourishing hedgerows.

“It is indeed lovely here,” said a voice at Jane’s elbow. She turned to find it was Simon, who had approached so quietly that she jumped at the sound of his voice.

“Yes,” said Jane a little breathlessly. She glanced from Simon to Charles, marveling at the difference between the two men. It was odd, she thought, that while a gentleman’s clothing covered all but a few inches of his person, they were remarkably revealing of character and personality. Lord Wye’s fashionable garb merely made him look, in her eyes, slightly ridiculous, while Simon’s conservative clothing, superb in its elegantly tailored simplicity, proclaimed his authority and his maleness with a careless grace. She found herself staring in unbecoming fascination at his muscled thighs, outlined in superbly tailored fawn breeches. Flushing, she jerked her gaze back to the ruins.

“I wander here often looking for artifacts, but I have found very little.” Jane was having difficulty talking past the pounding pulse in her throat.

Charles, whose interest in antiquities was obviously minimal at best, yawned and strolled over to where Gerard and Harry were engaged in a game of catch. Winifred, Jane was pleased to note, was deep in conversation with Lord Stedford. Simon appeared to take note of them in the same instant, for he straightened suddenly and strode over to them. Jane followed.