Guilty Series (14 page)

An impatient knock followed her thoughts. “Does it fit?” Elizabeth asked from the other side of the door. “Do show me.”

Daphne padded over to the door in her stockinged feet, and Elizabeth's reaction when she opened the door was all she could have hoped for. “You look lovely!” the girl declared as she entered the small room and closed the door behind her. “I knew it would suit your coloring and your figure. You are going to take it, are you not?”

“I am.”

“It does look ever so nice on you, miss,” the assistant said, coming up behind her to take the gown in a bit at her waist. “The bodice needs a gusset under each arm, for it is a bit tight there, and the waist is too loose, but with that and a few other little adjustments, it will fit as if it had been made for you.”

A voice behind Elizabeth called her name. She opened the door and looked back down the hallway to the shop. “Oh, that is Anne calling me,” she said, and came back inside the fitting room. “I suppose she and Mama are ready to return home, so I must go.”

Elizabeth grasped Daphne's hands and gave them a quick squeeze. “I cannot wait until you come to tea, and you shall tell us all about Abyssinia, and everywhere else you have been, but especially, you must tell us about the duke. He is so handsome, and so tall. Rather like a prince in a story, I think. And a duke is very nearly a prince, is he not?”

Before she could reply, Elizabeth was slipping out the door to join her sister. Daphne leaned out through the open doorway and watched her new young friend walk away down the corridor to the front of the shop. “Yes, I thought he was a prince once, too,” she murmured under her breath. “But taken all in all, he is just a man.”

She stepped back inside the dressing room and closed the door. The assistant began to unfasten the hooks down the back of the gown, but Daphne stopped her. “No, not yet. I want to wear it a minute longer.”

The assistant met her gaze in the mirror with a
knowing smile, then stepped away, and Daphne returned her attention to her reflection in the glass, savoring again that feeling of exhilaration, a sensation as heady and potent as drinking champagne. Right now, at this moment, she felt like the most beautiful woman in the world, a far more delightful thing than dreaming of a fantasy prince. Daphne hugged herself, and she couldn't stop smiling. A pretty dress was a wonderful thing.

S
ome peers were of the opinion that their rank made them gentlemen, but Anthony had always felt that being a true gentleman required honor as well as fortune of birth. He had offered to teach Miss Wade to dance in exchange for more of her time, and he had assured her that he would carry out that instruction to the best of his ability. He intended to keep strictly to his word, though she was beginning to test his honor in a very dangerous way.

He had told both her and himself he wanted that apron off of her because it was so damned ugly, but the truth was far less honorable. He wanted to look at her without it, envision again the figure he had discovered hiding beneath its stiff canvas protection that day in the rain.

He had been right about that thing. She wore it like a chastity belt, and with that body, she had good reason to need it. Standing so close to her last night, with his hands in her hair, it had taken everything he had not to lower his hands to far more intimate places. Her first dance lesson, and her tutor was imagining the oldest dance of all.

This morning, as he made his daily tour about the estate, just thinking of last night was enough to make him burn.

Anthony brought Defiance to a halt beside the lake, and the groom who rode with him paused a respectful distance away.

It was a glorious afternoon, pleasantly warm, though the chestnuts, elms, and oaks were showing the full glory of their autumn color. But he barely noticed. As his gelding took a drink, Anthony closed his eyes and allowed himself the indulgence of a bit of harmless imagining, in which a pair of long, shapely legs played a very significant role.

When he opened his eyes, Anthony found that Defiance had finished quenching his thirst. He pulled on the reins, starting to turn the horse around, intending to head toward the farm, but as he lifted his gaze above the water to the folly on top of the grass-covered knoll opposite, something caught his attention and he stopped again.

Sitting in front of the folly, shaded by a huge chestnut tree, was the woman who had been occupying his thoughts all morning. She was seated on a blanket spread across the grass, a large picnic bas
ket on one side of her, and her discarded straw bonnet on the other.

Anthony gestured to the groom to follow him and spurred Defiance to a canter around the lake and up the hill toward the folly.

Like all the other garden ornaments of the estate, the folly had been designed by Capability Brown fifty years earlier for the ninth Duke of Tremore, Anthony's grandfather. It had been given the grand name Temple of Apollo, but it was simply a small, round structure of curved limestone blocks capped with a dome and surrounded by decorative columns and faux Roman statues.

She looked up at the sound of their approach. “What a lovely place this is!” she called out as both men halted their horses about ten yards from her and dismounted.

Anthony handed the reins of his gelding over to the groom. “Wait here,” he ordered, and turned away to join Miss Wade.

“Thank you for the compliment to my estate,” he said, walking over to where she sat and coming to a halt at the edge of the blanket. He bowed to her, then clasped his hands behind his back and turned his head slightly to look at the sketchbook on her lap. On the top sheet of drawing paper was a half-completed image in charcoal of the lake, gardens, and fountains below, with Tremore Hall in the distance. “I see you have come to sketch the view.”

“Who could not?” She gestured to the basket beside her. “I also have a picnic. Would you care to join me?” She moved her hat out of the way for
him to sit down beside her. “Your cook is generous with your larder, and I have far too much for one person.”

He remained standing. “Are you certain you want me to do so? After all,” he added softly, “you do not like me. Remember?”

“If you are still waiting for that apology, you can just go away,” she answered with spirit. “If you are prepared to be nice, you may stay.”

“Thank you.” He bowed to her. “I shall endeavor to be as charming as my nature will allow.”

She looked at him with doubt. “I do not know if that is enough, your grace.”

Anthony gave a shout of laughter, but his humor vanished as she scooted over to make room for him on the blanket. The movement caused the hem of her skirt to ride up, revealing her bare feet. Very pretty feet they were, but his mind led him upward, thinking of delicate ankles, rounded calves and smooth, taut thighs.

“Are you all right?” she asked, staring up at him, her eyes wide behind the lenses of her spectacles.

All right? God, no. He was making himself insane.

Anthony drew a deep breath, feeling as if he were dragging himself out of quicksand. “Of course,” he said, and moved quickly to join her on the blanket before she could notice what was so close to her eye level, grateful that she was still looking into his face. “I am perfectly well, thank you.”

He pulled off his jacket and draped it as carelessly as he could manage across his hips as he stretched out his legs. He loosened his cravat, then
leaned his weight back on his arms, noticing her brown leather boots placed neatly at one corner of the blanket, each one holding a rolled-up white stocking. He stared at them, trying to think of something to say. He took refuge from his own lust in the only thing he could think of—teasing her.

“So this is how you decided to spend your day out,” he said, with mock disappointment. “You spurned my company for a picnic basket and a day of sketching?”

“I am afraid so,” she said, mirroring his injured demeanor with a pretense of apology in her tone. “But you would have made me work.”

“And you prefer to idle away your day in such frivolous pursuits as these?”

“It is worse than that,” she told him gravely. “I also went into the village this morning and did a bit of shopping. I bought a set of gardenia-scented soaps and a box of chocolates.”

“I had hoped you would choose to buy a new dress.”

She leaned toward him in a confidential fashion. “I did that, too.”

Surprised, Anthony glanced at the dun-colored cotton fabric of her skirt. But that made him think again of her legs, and he fixed his gaze on the lake and gardens spread out below them. “If you bought a new dress, then why in heaven's name are you not wearing it?”

She hit his shoulder with her pencil. “I bought an evening gown!” she cried, laughing. “And do not tease me about my clothes.”

“An evening gown? Miss Wade, every moment I spend with you is filled with surprises. What color? Do not tell me any shade of brown, for if you do, I shall go to Mrs. Avery myself and order you a different frock, thereby ruining your reputation for the remainder of your life.”

“It is not brown. It is pink. Rose-pink, and made of silk.” Her breath escaped on a dreamy little sigh, and he turned his head again to look at her. On her face was an expression of pure bliss.

Like men everywhere, he did not understand how something as trivial as a mere garment could engender such joy in women, but he did appreciate the effect. A woman could be as beautiful as she felt herself to be, and it seemed as though even the efficient and sensible Miss Wade was not immune to the magic of a pink silk frock to help that feeling along. But then, the woman who sat beside him was not the same Miss Wade he had known a month ago. “You have relieved my mind.”

He watched as she bent her head over her sketchbook again, and he caught the golden glint of sunlight in the intricately braided crown of her hair. “I also note that you have taken my advice.”

“Advice?”

“About your hair.”

She did not look at him, but he saw a tiny blush creep into her cheeks as she tucked a loose tendril behind her ear in a self-conscious gesture. “Ella helped me. She was a lady's maid once.”

“Ella?”

“Third housemaid. Do you not know the names of your servants?”

Anthony shook his head. “Only the upper servants. I have seven estates, most of which I only visit for one week each year to tour the park and meet with the steward. Each has its share of staff, and I do not hire any of them myself. That falls within the purview of butlers and housekeepers. I could not remember all the names of my servants if I wanted to.” He gave her a rueful look. “I suppose you are now going to reprove me and say that I should know all their names.”

“Perhaps I was,” she admitted, and gestured to the groom who was standing motionless about thirty feet away, ready and waiting to obey any command given him. “Do you know his name?”

“No, and I do not wish to,” he said, feeling almost defensive and wondering how he got that way. “It would not be appropriate. A man of my rank only speaks with upper servants unless absolutely necessary. He is a groom.”

“He is a man.”

“He is not a man, not to me. He is a groom. If I knew his name, if I knew anything about him, he would become a person to me, and that begins to narrow the gap between my rank and his. Over time, I might even begin to regard him as a friend.”

“And that would be a bad thing?”

“It is not a question of whether it is good or bad. It is not acceptable.”

“What a convenient way to prevent anyone from
getting close to you,” she murmured, and resumed her sketching. “You can always pull rank.”

“I do not think how I treat my servants is your concern.”

“No,” she shot back without looking up. “It is yours.”

“Are we quarreling again, Miss Wade?” He drew a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair. “How is it that you and I seem to be doing that so much of late?”

“Because I no longer allow you to treat me like a nameless servant, perhaps?”

“Have I been doing that?”

She looked over at him, her face as unreadable as those of the marble statues behind them. “Yes.”

She bent her head, returning her attention to the drawing in her lap and he studied her profile, wondering for the hundredth time what went on beneath that placid exterior. He wanted to know, suddenly, what she was thinking, what she was feeling, for she was a mystery he wanted to solve.

That wisp of hair had fallen forward again. He reached up, tucking it back, feeling both the hard, gold line of her spectacles and the velvety softness of her ear against his fingers. She froze to rigid stillness as he ran the tip of his finger down the column of her throat to the thin ochre braid that trimmed her plain white collar. Slowly, he moved closer, then curled his hand around the back of her neck. “I do not think of you as a servant.”

She gave a little start and leaned sideways, away
from him. “What do grooms do, exactly?” she asked, her voice almost desperate as she reverted to the safe topic of servants. “I fear I know little about horses. I am an accomplished rider when it comes to camels, but I have never ridden a horse.”

He could have continued his tantalizing explorations, but he allowed her to escape them. He lowered his hand and sat back. “Camels?”

“Yes, indeed.” She nodded several times, tightened her grip around her pencil, and continued to draw the view. “Camels are rather difficult animals. Contrary, hard to ride, and they spit.”

“I cannot imagine any camel getting the better of you, Miss Wade.” He glanced at her bare toes peeping out from beneath the hem of her skirt, and he felt desire flicker dangerously within his body. “I know I can never seem to do so.”

“Good,” she said in a prim voice. “I prefer it that way.”

“Yes, I am certain you do.” Anthony forced his gaze away from her feet. “Would you care to learn to ride?”

She continued to sketch without looking at him. “And in return for riding lessons, how much time would I have to give you?”

At this moment, time was not what he really wanted to bargain for, but something far more intriguing and not at all honorable. “A month?”

She shook her head, laughing. “Thank you, but no.”

“Riding on the Row is quite the thing to do,” he said in an attempt to intrigue her.

It worked. She looked at him. “The Row? What is that?”

“Rotten Row is a track of sand in Hyde Park where the fashionable people gather from twelve o'clock to two o'clock for riding.”

“Rotten Row. What a name!”

“Being seen riding on the Row is an excellent way for young ladies to impress country gentlemen. Riding is yet another of the season's many opportunities to meet prospective husbands. So you see, you should learn how to ride.”

She pressed her pencil against her lips, her expression wary as she considered the matter. “I do not believe a month is a fair exchange,” she finally said. “I already know how to ride a camel.”

“I am open to negotiation. What would you believe to be fair?”

“As I told you, camels are difficult animals. I shouldn't think more than a day of practice on a trained horse would be needed.”

An image flashed across his mind of Miss Wade astride a camel, her legs encased in trousers. He shoved that tantalizing image aside and made a calculated guess. “And when you rode camels, did you also master a sidesaddle?”

That got to her. She blinked behind her spectacles. “I had not thought of that.”

“I told you before, I will not lie to you.” As he said the words, he admitted to himself that some fashionable young ladies, through ignorance or preference, did not ride horseback, but he was not going to offer Miss Wade that additional piece of
information. After all, he reasoned, an omission was not a lie. “There is no question that a sidesaddle is considered de rigueur for young ladies.”

“All right, then. In exchange for riding lessons, including the proper use of a sidesaddle, I will give you two days.”

“Two days? A week.”

Those lavender-blue eyes narrowed a bit. “Two days, until December twenty-third.”

He pretended to think it over, though he knew he had no choice. “Very well,” he agreed, and moved to sit opposite her, stretching out his legs beside her hip, and gestured to the basket. “So, are you going to allow me to sample these picnic viands of yours?”