Swept Away By a Kiss (21 page)

“I’m off for a little skate, ladies,” she said to Alethea and Cassandra, and without another backward glance pressed her blades to the ice. The wind snapped at her cheeks and her fur-lined hood as she pushed out onto the open field of snow. Lengthening her stride, frigid air hissing against her chest in enlivening eddies, she was almost able to forget her aching heart for a minute. Immersed in the sparkling cold, the heartbreak of Etienne La Marque’s sudden appearance at Castlemarch seemed less catastrophically painful.

Lost in her thoughts as she made the final, arcing turn of the lake to rejoin her friends, she didn’t notice the alarm written upon Alethea’s distant face until the moment just before the collision.

Valerie’s breath exploded from her lungs and she lurched forward. Instinctively she threw her arms wide, her skates sliding out from under her, the cold, hard ice rising swiftly.

Strong arms seized her beneath the shoulders and hauled her upward, turning her in the direction of her scrabbling feet. Clutching on to the support, Valerie jerked up her chin and came nose to nose with the Viscount of Ashford.

She could not have been more closely pressed to him. But not even the embraces they had shared aboard ship had revealed to her what the vibrant, frozen brilliance of the day did now. His golden eyes shone bright, his sculpted cheeks flushed from cold, and his mouth, nearly hidden by the crimson muffler wrapped about his neck, curved wide in surprised laughter. He radiated beauty and joy so intense it sucked Valerie’s breath. She lost herself, sinking into the tangled warmth that connected them, that had since the moment they met.

For a suspended moment, he held her against him, still and silent, gazing down at her. In the sliver of space between them, their plumed breaths mingled.

“My lady.” The words sounded husky in his throat.

Valerie’s limbs went weak.

Abruptly, his smile vanished and he released her. She wavered and slipped, nearly tumbling to the ice before she righted herself.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said contritely, backing away and bowing with a fluorish. “I was moving too quickly and not attending to my direction. It was terribly unsportsmanlike of me. Please accept my sincerest apology.”

Fighting for breath, Valerie watched, stunned at his instant transformation as he bent and picked her fur muff from the ice. He dusted it off and made a gallant show of proffering it to her. She heard the approach of others, and her heart constricted. He meant this show for their audience. Another act. Another deceit.

She snatched her muff from him and turned away.

“Think nothing of it, my lord. It is already forgotten.” Her frosted words crackled in the air. She hoped he took their double meaning. Heart pounding, she set her skate to move away. Then, despite a voice inside warning her not to, she glanced back.

He stood motionless, staring at her, lion eyes blazing with heat to melt the ice beneath them.

In an instant, the look disappeared. He laughed lightly and headed toward the far edge of the lake.

Throat constricting, Valerie turned to Alethea and Cassandra. Timothy followed, smiling. They reached the bank, and Timothy offered to help Valerie and her friends remove their skates. She declined, finishing the task herself, willing her heart to beat evenly, her thoughts to calm. Timothy knelt at Cassandra’s feet, the girl’s hand resting lightly upon his shoulder as he unfastened the blades from her stylish boots.

Valerie stood up, her gaze slipping away from the intimate tableau to the other guests gathered near the fire, then to the figures coming off the ice.

Far across the lake, the last skater made his unhurried return. He moved gracefully, his body as beautiful as his face, strong and powerful enough to save her from falling to the ice moments earlier. The same as when he had held her intimately, his muscle and sinew pressed to hers, the heat of his desire for her unconcealed. She watched him now, her skin tingling where he had touched her aboard ship, and the fire his burning gaze kindled inside her grew.

“You admire Ashford’s style upon the ice, my lady?”

Mr. Flemming’s voice startled her out of memory. Out of unwise reverie.

“He is a man of many talents,” he continued without waiting for a reply, “and polished at all of them.” His eyes seemed oddly intense though his lips smiled. “When we were children, I used to envy him for his looks and charm. I was jealous of his ability to do everything he wished with ease and aplomb. But we were just boys then, and I suppose envy is always a part of growing up, isn’t it?”

Valerie’s brow creased. “Perhaps.”

“But not you, Lady Valerie. I suspect you never envied others, did you? Of what, after all, could you have been envious?” His flattering tone rang false.

“None of us were perfect children, Mr. Flemming. Especially not me.”

“But perfection is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Sir, you flatter me.” Prickling heat crept across Valerie’s shoulders. Mr. Flemming was too intense. Too unhappy, Valerie realized abruptly.

“A beautiful lady deserves flattery.”

“But we were speaking of character attributes, sir, not appearance.”

“And appearances can so easily deceive.” His glance flickered to the ice again. “In your case, however, I suspect loveliness is more than skin deep.”

“Thank you,” she said, anxious to finish the conversation. “I wish, though, that my boots were as warm as they appeared.”

Mr. Flemming smiled, seeming to shake off his pensive humor. “Shall we join the others returning to the house, and to less superficial warmth, my lady?”

Valerie nodded, twining the laces of her skates around her gloved hand and turning her back upon the lake. Upon a breathtaking man and futile memories.

Chapter 21

S
wiping flour from her cheek with a sticky hand, Valerie suspected there must be a tidier way to avoid the Viscount of Ashford.

Her gaze traveled around the kitchen, taking in the table spread with sugar, egg whites, spoons, cups, flour, molasses, and mounds of biscuit dough; two squabbling children; Cook’s toothy smile and brawny arms; and the pair of turtledoves tucked at the table’s far corner.

Lord Michaels and Alethea Pierce seemed to have entirely forgotten that they simply adored making holiday biscuits. At least they had insisted that while trying to convince Valerie to join them and the pair of children for the task. Now they seemed much more interested in flirting than baking.

Valerie grinned ruefully. She’d gone along with them even guessing how it would be, certain that at least here she would not encounter the erstwhile French priest. After only two days sharing the vast estate with Steven Ashford, she was beginning to think even Castlemarch not large enough to insulate her from the effects of his charming and much sought-after presence.

A war raged inside her. She feared seeing him, yet she longed to. She could not entirely avoid him, of course. The party gathered for dinner each evening, and other entertainments drew them all together, like the ice skating outing the day before. Recalling how his eyes had shone as he held her briefly on the ice, and his beautiful smile, weakened Valerie with yearning.

But he clearly did not want to be with her, and she refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he disturbed her.

Swallowing a sigh, Valerie pulled her hands from the sticky dough and tucked an errant lock behind her ear. She glanced at Alethea, shoulder to shoulder with Lord Michaels and chuckling at some witticism the baron uttered. Valerie smiled. How lovely it would be to have an innocent flirtation like that with a kind, sincere gentleman.

Of course, she had thought Etienne La Marque was that sort of man. He felt like the same man. When she had touched him in the library, she touched the same delicious, warm, strong man she knew aboard ship. He hadn’t spoken a word, remaining perfectly still, as though the contact affected him the same way it did her. Then on the ice, that could not have been an act. His pleasure had seemed so real, his reaction so unguarded at first. And his eyes . . .

Valerie rested her chin upon a doughy hand and drew in a long breath of warm, sweet, nutmeg-scented air. Distractedly, her gaze slid to the pair of children across the table, covered up to their elbows in flour.

“I have baked ginger men before, Cook,” Beatrice Sinclaire insisted, her soft brown gaze resting seriously upon the woman. “I did so last Christmas with my sister Georgianna, so I know that Guy is incorrect. It does not require quite this much flour to roll out ginger men.”

Guy Fredericks’s tongue shot out from between his pouting lips so quickly Valerie giggled, surprised at how good it felt. She hadn’t laughed since the day the Viscount of Ashford arrived at Castlemarch.

Cook’s bracing arms, bared and floured, rolled the pin back and forth across the dough with unflappable ease.

“Master Guy, listen to your elders like a good boy and don’t argue matters you know nothing about.”

Beatrice was nodding in sage accord when a mist of flour settled upon her shoulders like Christmas snow. Guy’s hand was sunk deep in the flour bin.

“Guy Fredericks, you little monster,” the girl uttered. “Don’t you dare—”

Flour flew in every direction. Valerie laughed as her gown and hair rapidly became a powdered mess and Cook scolded.

Abruptly, Valerie’s neck and shoulders grew warm. Her breath caught. Only one thing had ever caused her that animal premonition. One person. Her gaze darted to the kitchen door and her stomach tumbled over.

“Ashford, have you come to help us make biscuits?” Lord Michaels greeted the viscount.

“It appears you have much more appealing assistance than I could ever hope to be,” the viscount responded from the doorway, casting an appreciative glance at the baron’s pretty companion. Alethea’s cheeks turned pink. Valerie nearly choked upon the hard shaft of jealousy that sliced through her.

“Thank you, my lord,” Alethea said with a lovely smile.

Valerie scowled. She did not wish to feel jealous of her friends. The viscount’s amber gaze shifted to her, lit with unfeigned pleasure. Valerie’s frown faded, her entire body flushing with heat.

“Dearest Cook,” he said, turning to the kitchen’s mistress and bowing with a flourish. “My godmother sent me here in search of chamomile flowers. I am terribly sorry to interrupt your, ah—undertaking, as it were. But what clever little men you are contriving, Miss Beatrice, Master Guy.” He bowed to the children, a twinkle in his golden eyes.

Valerie could not breathe.

“It’s over in the pantry, milord,” Cook said. “The scullery maid will fetch it for you. Penny!” she bellowed.

A smocked girl peeked out from a doorway and bobbed the viscount a quick curtsy. He smiled.

“Thank you, Penny,” he said gently. “I appreciate your assistance, and so will your mistress.”

He turned to Valerie again, and his gaze glowed with amusement as it passed over her whitened coiffure. Then a glint of hardness appeared in it.

“My lady.” He bowed to her. “You appear to great advantage in the style of our grandparents. It needs only a velvet patch upon your cheek to complete the image.” He put a hand to his chin, seeming to study her, but his eyes glittered flinty. “It’s too bad my godmother has not planned a masquerade ball for a sennight hence, rather than the simple fête she intends. You would have your costume at the ready.” His words played, but his tone mocked.

Valerie’s insides ached. She dragged her gaze to the children.

“If there is a masquerade, my lord, I daresay you will have the best costume. Beatrice, let me have that shape and we will show Master Guy how a man really ought to be cut.”

Ashford’s low, alluring chuckle tangled in Valerie’s senses like new wine, sending heat through her again, this time focused beneath her tight belly. Where he had once touched her. Where he had been inside her. Her cheeks warmed. From the corner of her eye she saw him advance into the kitchen, gracefully nonchalant.

“Indeed, my lady, I do not wish to interrupt your creative project. Though, from all reports, God dealt more mercifully with his clay than you with your flour and molasses.” Steven lifted a brow.

“Ashford,” Lord Michaels said through a mouthful of biscuit. “Have you heard? March is making up a tourney for us tomorrow.”

“Ah. Saber or épée?” Steven chose a biscuit from a tray, hoping he would not actually be required to eat it in order to remain in the kitchen for another few minutes. Little Guy Fredericks’s hands were deep in the dough, and his nose was dripping fiercely. But Steven could not leave just yet. Walking into the chamber was like walking into a dream. Valerie’s shining hair, dusted with flour, tumbled from its pins. Dough smudged her cheeks and gown, and her face was lit with laughter. She truly was not mortal. Rather, a goddess.