Anne Barbour (6 page)

“Now I but chide: but I should use thee worse. For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse.”
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
HI, ii.

Simon stared down, openmouthed, into wide, gray eyes which gazed back without comprehension. Without thinking, he placed his hand on her shirtfront, conscious immediately of the curving softness of her breast. To his relief, he felt a heartbeat beneath his fingers, at first febrile and fluttering, but then growing strong and steady. At the same time, the girl began to stir, first blinking up at him like some creature of the wild disturbed in its nest, and then struggling to free herself from his embrace.

“Are you all right?” asked Simon, hastily removing his hand to safer territory.

The girl drew in great, gasping lungfuls of air. “Yuh—yes— I’m fine.” She thrust herself to a sitting position, falling immediately back against Simon in a half swoon.

“Gently, now.” He laid her carefully upon the ground and hurriedly removed his coat to place beneath her head. In a moment, having caught her breath once more, she sat up again.

“That was an insane thing to do,” he said severely.

“It was not!” retorted the girl. “Talavera has taken me over that hedge a hundred times. I don’t know what happened this time. He landed a little shorter than I expected, I think.” She struggled to her feet and ran to where the horse stood a few feet away, placidly cropping at the lush grass that surrounded them. She examined the animal briefly, running expert hands over head, legs, shoulders, and flanks. “Thank God, you’re all right, old fellow.” She turned to address Simon. “At any rate, it was all my fault.”

“I daresay,” replied Simon dryly, collecting his own mount and returning to where she stood. Who the devil was she? he wondered, glancing in unwilling admiration at the lithe curves in evidence beneath the cotton shirt. Short, blond hair, so pale as to be almost silver, cupped her head like a sleek, silken cap, curling about her cheeks in feathery wisps. Her eyes were deep and luminous as mountain pools touched by moonlight, fringed with— white, scraggly lashes that clumped together unevenly.

He drew back suddenly, a horrid suspicion creeping into his mind. “Who—?” he demanded hoarsely. His gaze traveled down over her pink-tipped nose and firm little chin. “My God, you can’t be—”

He noted abstractedly the blush that started in the slender “V” of her throat, exposed by the shirt, and flooded upward until her cheeks and then her whole face matched her nose.

Simon stood abruptly. “Well, well,” he said unpleasantly. “If it isn’t ‘my cousin Jane.’ ”

Jane stared at him for a long moment, and Simon fancied he could see the thoughts scrambling behind those polished pewter eyes. She drew a long breath, and said finally, “Yes.” She continued hastily. “I thank you for coming to my rescue, Lord Simon, although it was not really necessary, after all. That is, I suffered no serious damage, and neither did Talavera.”

She flashed him a wide, brilliant smile, and turned to remount her horse.

“One moment, if you please, Miss Burch.”

Jane hesitated, with one foot in the stirrup then, sighing, she straightened and turned to face him.

“Might one ask,” began Simon, in the tone he had often used on recalcitrant ensigns, “what you are doing in—male garments, riding astride an animal that is obviously not a lady’s mount?”

The tone, which had reduced many a junior officer to stammering incoherence, had no noticeable effect on Miss Burch. She merely stiffened her shoulders and reissued the smile.

“I am forced to agree that the shirt and breeches are not acceptable,” she said, “but I was not expecting to meet anyone. One cannot ride with any degree of freedom hampered by a skirt, and I do love to gallop.”

“So I noticed.”

“If it really oversets you,” she said with a martyred air, “I promise not to do it anymore. At least,” she added ingeniously, “not when you’re likely to be about.”

“I see. And what about the neighbors?” snapped Simon. “Or the staff, for that matter?”

“Oh, I am careful to remain unobserved by anyone who might be visiting, and as for the staff, they are quite used to my oddities.”

“Which brings me to another point.”

Jane’s heart plummeted into her worn, scuffed boots. She glanced at Lord Simoit from beneath her sparse lashes and her heart gave an uncomfortable lurch. His expression was forbidding, to say the least. He looked very different from the impeccable gentleman who had made his appearance in the Selworth drawing room the day before. His mahogany-colored hair, ruffled by wind and exertion, glinted with golden highlights in the early morning sun. He had rolled up his shirt sleeves, and the expanse of tanned forearm, as well as the muscled frame visible beneath the snowy lawn, created a queer, prickly sensation in the bottom of Jane’s stomach.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked distractedly.

“We were discussing your oddities. And I must say, Miss Burch, the marked difference between your appearance this morning and that of yesterday seems extremely odd.”

Jane turned swiftly and mounted Talavera. Once seated, she faced him straightly.

“Yes,” she said in a low voice, “I suppose I do owe you an explanation. It was—

“But not now,” interrupted Simon, swinging into his own saddle. “I want my breakfast. I shall speak with you later in the study.”

Incensed at his peremptory tone of voice, the apology she had been about to utter shriveled on her lips. Tossing her head, she spurred her horse into motion. “Clod!” she murmured t» Talavera as the wind whipped tears to her eyes. “Idiot! Arrogant boor!”

Some ten minutes later, however, as she guided her mount into the stable yard, her indignation spent, cold reality seeped in to replace her anger. It was an understatement to say that she had not handled the situation well. Dismounting, she chastised herself. She should not have indulged herself by galloping off in a huff. She should have remained to explain—logically and rationally— to Lord Simon why she had chosen to present herself to him in the guise of a middle-aged spinster. She should have . . . Her shoulders slumped. What on earth could she possibly have said to assuage the man’s understandable wrath? He must think her either a complete idiot or the worst kind of schemer. Dear God, what if he sent her away? That would mean the ruin of all her grandiose plans for Jessica and Patience.

She trudged despondently into the house. She would just have to try to repair the damage when she met with Lord Simon later. In the meantime, there was breakfast to get through. Perhaps, by the time she had changed from her breeches, he might have departed the dining room.

She spent some time pacing in front of her wardrobe. Deciding to abandon her padding and tack, she chose one of her own gowns and, having completed her ensemble to her satisfaction, she paused before the mirror. After a moment of indecision, she artificially darkened her brows and lashes to their normal color, a shade of charcoal in startling variance to her silver blond hair. She applied a little salve to her raw, reddened nose, but was forced to admit that only time would heal her abused appendage.

As she entered the breakfast room, her hope that Lord Simon would have finished his breakfast was shattered. He sat at his ease among the remains of a repast of sirloin, eggs and ale, reading The Times. Feeling remarkably foolish, she snatched toast and coffee from the sideboard and slid into a place at the table as faraway from his lordship as possible. She lifted her eyes with great reluctance, to discover that he sat motionless, a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth, staring as though he had never seen her before. Which, in point of fact, she thought, he hadn’t really.

“G-good morning,” she said hesitantly, a flood of heat surging over her cheeks. When Winifred entered the room a moment later, Jane sighed with relief.

“Good morning,” caroled Winifred hurrying to the sideboard, where she helped herself to a substantial portion of eggs and York ham. “I hope no one has made any plans for the day because I want to get started on rehearsals for the play. I already have Act One, Scene One blocked out in my mind, but—oh, my goodness! Jane! You’re not—” She darted a glance at Simon. “That is—you forgot-—”

Jane cast an anguished glance at Simon, who said nothing, merely sending a sardonic glance to each of the young women before returning to his paper. Jane cleared her throat.

“Ah,” she began. Her usually quick mind, however, had deserted her and she trailed off into a despairing silence. Once more, Winifred spoke, this time, in a voice pregnant with meaning.

“Jane, dear, I wonder if I might have a word with you.” She jerked her head toward the corridor.

At this, Jane forced herself to attention.

“I have just come in from outside, Winifred,” she said, her voice brittle in her attempt to keep it steady.

A blank, “What?” was Winifred’s immediate response.

“Yes,” continued Jane, picking up momentum, “I went out for a gallop before breakfast, and I wore the—the clothes I usually wear to go out, er, galloping, and I met Lord Simon out on the greensward.”

“Oh?” said Winifred, her expression still uncomprehending. “Oh,” she said again. “O-o-oh,” she concluded, her eyes now wide with horror. She glanced at Lord Simon, who was still immersed in The Times, apparently oblivious. She lifted her brows in agonized query to Jane, who merely closed her eyes and nodded. The newspaper rustled, and both women jumped.

“Ah, good morning, Miss Timburton,” said Simon frigidly. “I wonder, would you take it amiss if I were to call you Winifred? It seems so much simpler, considering our present relationship.” Winifred nodded in numb acquiescence. “Good. As for the play, I’m afraid you will have to exclude me from your plans. I will, however, wish to speak with you later in the day regarding your future.” With a tight smile he laid The Times down on the table and moved toward the door. “I shall bid you ladies good day, then.” He bent a look of chilly propriety on Jane. “Miss Burch, I shall see you shortly.”

Without waiting for an answer, he closed the door firmly behind him. Winifred immediately swung to her cousin. “Jane!” she shrieked. “What happened? Does he Know All?”

“Of course, he knows,” replied Jane tiredly. “I all but fell into his lap, wearing my shirt and breeches.”

“Well, what are you going to do?” Winifred’s voice lowered only minimally.

“What am I going to do? I rather thought you might ask what we are going to do, since this whole charade was your idea. However”—Jane lifted a hand against Winifred’s incipient protest—”I cannot see where this is anything either one of us can do at the present. Lord Simon will, in all probability, send me packing.” She paused suddenly, an arrested expression in her eyes. “Unless—”

“Unless what? Unless what, Jane?”

“Unless I can talk him around, of course. I only hope—”

Her words were cut off by the entrance of the Viscount Stedford.

“Ah, ladies. I thought I would be first down, but I...” He trailed off uncertainly, staring at Jane, who nodded in a genteel fashion.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said demurely. “I trust you slept well.”

“Ur,” responded the viscount. “Ah. Oh, yes, very well indeed.” His eyes still on Jane, he moved unsteadily to the sideboard and paused for a long moment, still gaping, before turning to procure kippers and eggs.

“Well,” said Jane, rising, “do pray excuse me. I’m sure Winifred will keep you well entertained during your meal, my lord. Lord Simon expressed his desire to see me as soon as I finished here. There is something he wishes to discuss with me.”

“Is there, by God?” asked Marcus faintly. He sat down at the table with rather a thump, and when the door closed behind Jane, he turned to Winifred in bafflement.

“Ah, about your cousin ...” he began.

“Enter.” The voice within sounded coldly in response to Jane’s soft knock. Throwing her shoulders back and thrusting her chin forward, she did as she was bade. She had determined, on what seemed like the very long journey from the dining room to the study, that she would not stand in trembling fear before Lord Simon Talent. She had not done anything so very wrong, after all. She had not actually lied to the man, had she? She had perhaps nudged him into the wrong conclusion as to the matter of her age and general degree of respectability, but if he had asked her how many years she had on her plate, would she not have told him the truth? Of course, she would have. She moved to the desk behind which his lordship sat in rigid expectancy. Without waiting for permission, she seated herself in a comfortable chair before him. He said nothing, merely subjecting her to a scrutiny that she felt was scouring her very soul. His eyes, she decided, lightened when he was angry, for they were almost the color of cinnamon at the moment. And, suddenly, she felt herself in imminent danger of falling into them. Those golden flecks seemed to envelop her, surrounding her in a dizzying warmth.

She fastened her gaze determinedly on her fingers, which lay in her lap, clenching and unclenching.

Simon found himself unexpectedly at a loss for words. It had not taken him long to deduce the reason for Miss Burch’s absurd charade. From what Soapes had told him, Winifred had been extremely reluctant to encumber herself with an elderly companion, and inveigling a young, and equally foolish friend to play the role of one was just the sort of harebrained scheme one would expect from the little widgeon. It had already become apparent that once Winifred decided on a course of action, she tended to pursue it with the tenacity of an army mule. But the Burch female must have windmills in her head to have agreed to the girl’s mad plan. Lord, had any of the neighboring gentry been introduced to “my cousin Jane” in her cumbersome battle garb? Granted, he and Marcus had been completely fooled. Silently, he cursed himself. How could he have been so blind that he did not perceive the delicate features all but hidden by the cap, or discern the enticing curves beneath that ridiculous padding?

Seated behind the imposing desk that was the focal point of the study, he had composed a succinct but eloquent speech on the evils of impropriety in young females, and by the time he heard the faint knocking on the door, he felt he was quite prepared to deliver a stinging indictment of Miss Burch, Winifred Timburton, and their insupportable scheme.