Ripe for Pleasure (19 page)

The gypsy’s nut-brown face crinkled with a smile as he nodded and led the mare away. The man called out something to his fellows
in his own tongue, and one of them raced up to take the horse from him.

“Come. Watch the duck racing.” De Moulines waved him over. “It is outrageous. Only the English would do something so ridiculous.”

Beside him, Devere shook his head, raising his eyes briefly heavenward. “What? Are you trying to tell me the French have no
country traditions?”

“Bah.” With a flourish, de Moulines took a snuffbox from his pocket and carefully raised a pinch to one nostril. “You can
eat French traditions: cheese, wine, pâté. Only the English enjoy being made sport of for their fellows. It is a mystery.”
He shrugged and slipped the enamel box back into his pocket.

“Oh, do shut up, my fine frog.” Sandison poked de Moulines in the ribs with his crop and then gave him a comical
sa-sa,
wielding it as though it were a sword.

The Frenchman made a face, idly brushing a speck of snuff from his coat sleeve. “An appropriate enough weapon for you, Sandison.”

The Englishman burst into laughter. “Given your talent with a blade, I’m not likely to attack your person with anything more
serious. Now do come along, both of you. There’s a filly on the far side I think Vaughn should see. Got a rump that will lift
her over a hedge like she has wings.”

De Moulines waved them off and wandered away with Devere to watch the duck races. Sandison smiled at Leo and tucked his crop
smartly under his arm. “Do you think that showy chestnut is up to Beau’s weight?”

“He isn’t for my sister.”

Sandison raised one brow and stared him down. “So you’re buying Mrs. Whedon a horse? Because that delicate creature certainly
isn’t going to be carrying you.”

Leo felt the first hint of embarrassment burning up his neck. He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding against one another till
he thought he might crack a molar. Down by the river, a cheer went up as a sopping man emerged, holding a madly flapping duck
aloft. A nearby horse
tossed its head in protest, and there was a sudden scuffle as its groom was dragged a few feet before regaining control.

“Don’t you think she’d rather have something a little more…” Sandison paused, hand circling about dramatically as he hunted
for the right word. “Pawnable? Or at least more traditionally lover-like?”

“I think it’s none of your bloody business,” Leo ground out. Sandison continued to stare at him, a woeful, supercilious expression
on his face. Leo flexed his hand, allowing himself the indulgence of at least imagining the satisfaction of sending Sandison
sprawling across the grass.

His friend shook his head and heaved a heavyhearted sigh. “What do you think’s going to happen when she finds out just why
you seduced your way into her life and her bed? Do you even remember that you set this all in motion with a purpose? That
you’re not really her protector? Good God, man—”

Leo spun about on his heel and strode off in the opposite direction.

“She’ll shoot that chestnut, that’s what!” Sandison yelled after him.

Leo yanked his hat from his head and swiped his hand over his forehead, rubbing away the itch where the straw had sat too
long against the skin. He squinted as the sun slid out from behind a cloud, gilding everything in shimmering heat. If Viola
found out what he’d done—why he’d done it—he’d be lucky if she didn’t shoot him.

CHAPTER 21

V
iola turned the massive brass-and-leather dog collar over in her hands. Leo smiled as she studied it. The brass had been stamped
with
Strayed from Dyrham.
He’d been inspired at the horse fair when he’d seen the men selling them. He’d present her with the gelding later.

Her expression went from bland to confused. Her straight brows pinched in, causing a furrow over the bridge of her nose. She
looked up at him, blinking rapidly, as though searching for something she couldn’t quite grasp.

“In case she goes wandering.” Leo took a step toward her. “I thought she’d be safer if—”

“But we—she—I…” Her shoulders slumped, her eyes clouded with disquiet. “I don’t live at Dyrham.”

The floor creaked, and the door banged shut behind him. Leo turned to find his friends had fled. Wise of them. The Dauphin’s
nails clicked across the floor as he circled back to join Pen on the rug. He whined softly, and the mastiff laid her giant
head on his flank.

“I was hoping you’d stay for the summer.” Leo plucked
the collar from Viola’s unresisting hands and turned to buckle it about Pen’s neck. The dog licked his hand, and he ruffled
her ears.

“Oh.”

Leo swallowed hard and kept his face turned toward the dogs. There was an entire conversation in that simple word. Regret,
trepidation, sorrow, fear. He could sense them all swirling around her, much like the starlings at Kirby Muxloe: dark, menacing,
and unwelcome. He’d made a mistake, but for the life of him he couldn’t fathom what it was.

“I’ve nearly finished my manuscript, and I was thinking of returning to town next week. Once I’ve handed it over to Mr. Nesbit,
there should be no reason for Sir Hugo to continue his harassment, should there?” She turned her face away, hands fiddling
with her skirt, pleating up the fabric.

Leo let every conflicting emotion flood through him, run its course, and then drain away. His hands clenched, the knuckles
popping.

“No, no, you’re quite right. Returning should be safe enough.” Assuming that he could convince his cousin that there really
was no treasure. “So if that’s your wish,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “my coach awaits your orders. But I’d be
happy to deliver your manuscript myself, if you’d trust me with the undertaking.”

Viola bit her lip, choking down a sudden desperate sob. It would be so easy to stay. So easy to fall into the illusion that
this was her home, that she really was the chatelaine of Dyrham. It was bad enough to want a man
as much as she wanted Lord Leonidas, but it was infinitely worse to realize that she wanted a great deal more.

If she could just get back to London, back to her own house, back to a semblance of normalcy, she might survive it. If she
stayed here, every day Leo and Dyrham would work their way a little farther under her skin until she couldn’t live without
them.

And she’d have to, one day. His entreaty for her to stay held enough of an icy splash of reality to steel her.
For the summer.
He’d hoped she would stay until she had to be sent away to make room for his family. He couldn’t possibly keep her under
the same roof as his beloved, horse-mad sister and brother with the tragically mundane names.

“I find I’m missing London. Lady Ligonier writes that there’s to be a grand masquerade at Vauxhall and a balloon ascension
in Hyde Park… Besides, we’ve torn so many of my gowns that I’ll soon be as naked as Eve if I don’t pay a visit to my modiste.”

Her reasons sounded lame even to her own ears, but she could hardly blurt out the truth: that she had to leave before she
fell hopelessly in love with him and Dyrham both.

Leo continued to kneel beside the dogs, one hand on each, fingers making swirling patterns in their fur. His coat buckled
stiffly across his shoulders, looking as uncomfortable as she felt.

“I’ve no objection to you naked as Eve in Eden, but I’ll admit it might be a tad problematic when there are guests.” He stood.
Pen gave a protesting whooing bay and pawed at his boot. “I can escort you back on Monday if that’s acceptable.”

Viola nodded, forcing a smile that felt like the grinning rictus on a puppet’s face. The urge to touch him overwhelmed her,
and she put out a hand to draw him near. He helped her up, hand engulfing hers, gripping it, hard.

“Don’t look so stricken, my dear. You’ve every right to order your life as you please, and if it’s London you want, then so
be it, though I admit I prefer life here.”

Viola squeezed his hand back and wished his green eye didn’t look so defeated. She preferred it here, too. That was the problem.

The steps of the carriage fell with the sound of a death knell, a series of jarring metallic clanks that ended with an ominous
clang. She was home.

Sunlight reflected off the pale stone of her house, blinding her momentarily. She missed her footing and stumbled as Lord
Leonidas handed her out. Beads of sweat glistened on his brow and lip. He dabbed them away with his handkerchief, then rubbed
at his face to clear the fine layer of dust that seemed to coat everything. She could feel it on her own skin like a mask.

At the door he paused, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll leave you now, ma’am.”

Viola tightened her grip on his arm, and beneath her hand, the muscle spasmed. She clung harder as her stomach twisted. He
was about to give her her
congé.
“Will you be returning tonight?”

The tense lines about his eyes faded a bit. “If I’m welcome, yes.”

Viola let her breath out in a rush, a laugh catching the
tail end. “You’re not just welcome, my lord.” She pressed close, hands spread over his chest, lips finding his for a brief
moment. “You’re expected. I’ll tell Mrs. Draper to have dinner prepared at eight, if that suits you.”

Leo nodded, brushed his lips over the back of her hand, then turned and ran lightly down the stairs. Pen whined and nudged
her hand with her head until Viola responded and scratched her ear.

Panic subsiding, she stood on her stoop and watched until he, Meteor, and the coach all disappeared around a corner with a
final flick of the gelding’s long black tail. Pen turned to investigate the entrance hall, and Mrs. Draper practically seethed
with disapproval.

“His lordship’s man fetched me home this morning, ma’am. I’ve done the shopping, but if you want anything particular for supper,
you’d best tell me now so I can send Mary back out for it.” She eyed the dog again and stiffened her spine. “I shall have
to send her out anyway, given that no one informed me about your new pet, and I’m certainly not feeding her the prime beef
I bought for your table.”

“It doesn’t matter, Mrs. Draper. I’m sure whatever you intend to serve will be fine. As for Pen, she’s happy with scraps.”

Mrs. Draper escaped to the kitchen, her mumbled, incoherent protest following her down the corridor. Viola swept up the stairs,
wiping her fingers over the dusty railing. She brushed her hands clean on her skirts.

Odd that. There was a layer of fine dust over the entire house: the paneling in the corridor, the rug on the floor, even the
knobs to the doors.

Viola fretted and plotted as the hours passed. Finally, she collapsed into a chair before her nerves caused her to worry a
hole in the Turkey carpet in her parlor. Her maid was moping below stairs, clearly resentful of having been separated from
Leonidas’s footman, who’d been left behind at Dyrham. Viola realized with a jolt she’d never asked about Nance’s Midsummer-men.
Had they portended true love, or had they reared away from one another in aversion? Did she really want to know?

Pen grumbled in her sleep. The dog had long ago eaten her supper and fallen asleep on the chaise she’d promptly claimed as
her own. Pen was seemingly content no matter where they were.

Lord Leonidas was late. That simple fact hung over the evening like a shroud. Viola damped down a wave of despair. The ormolu
clock on the mantel chimed nine times, and she found herself fighting back tears. She sat listening to her heartbeat, to her
dog’s soft snores, and the ticking of the clock. Nothing was in time with anything else. Each sound grated, shredding her
nerves further.

Mrs. Draper finally shooed her into the dining parlor and forced her to eat. Viola pushed the stewed carp around on her plate.
He wasn’t coming. The food turned to chalk in her mouth, making it impossible to swallow.

She put the plate on the floor for Pen and refilled her wineglass. She drained it in one long draught. She was going to bed.
And she wasn’t going to get up for a week. Maybe two.

She was at the top of the stairs when a loud knock arrested her progress. Her hand shook, and she gripped the railing tight.
The wine in her stomach swirled with
sickening power, and her pulse fluttered with it, battered like a leaf in a storm.