The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount (16 page)

“Very much,” he said. “And you?”

“I like horses…but I am a poor rider.” She looked up at him. “I need someone to teach me to ride properly.”

Summerfield cocked a brow at her suggestion. “A poor rider…that is a pity, for I had hoped to entice you to see the wild horses that come around.”

Caroline wanted to kick herself, but she smiled as saucily as she might and said, “You tease me, my lord. I have heard of the wild horses. They are an elusive herd, are they not? I understand there are now two foals, yet no one has been able to get near them.”

“No one?”

He smiled in a way that made Caroline feel as if she were a child when it came to clever repartee. “My father’s friend, Mr. Higgins, is an experienced horseman and he vowed that no man has come within one hundred yards of them,” she said, challenging him.

Summerfield laughed and leaned slightly closer to her. His eyes were shining, and Caroline felt a funny little tickle in her groin. “Would you believe me if I told you that I have gotten close enough to touch them?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a pert smile. “I must see it to believe it.”

“A challenge, eh?” His gaze swept over her. “I rather like that. I never shy from a challenge.”

She smiled demurely, but inside her heart was pounding with the triumph of having said the right thing. “So I gathered. Where do you see the horses?”

“They come to the lake,” he said, and looked across the gardens, pointing. But something caught his eye, and he faltered.

Caroline followed his gaze and saw a woman in the gardens below. She was squatting next to a rosebush, making cuttings. Her hat had slipped from her head and hung on her back. Her hair, Caroline noted, was so blond it was almost white. She was not dressed in a servant’s uniform, but in a pretty rose-colored day gown. “Who is she?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?” Summerfield asked, startled.

“The woman,” Caroline said, nodding in her direction. “Is she a relative?”

“Ah, no…she is the seamstress,” Summerfield said, and looked past her to the lake. “There—do you see the gazebo?” he asked, pointing. “The horses go there to drink and graze in the early morning.”

“I see,” Caroline said, but she was looking at the woman in the garden, who had stood up and was examining the contents of her basket, holding up each rose and perusing it. “That must be the seamstress responsible for the beautiful gowns Lady Alice and Lady Jane are wearing.”

“She is indeed,” Summerfield said, turning around and putting his back to the vista and the woman.

“The gowns are exquisite, my lord. Your sisters are very fortunate. The seamstress in Greenhill is not as gifted.”

“Here is one fortunate sister now,” Summerfield said, and held out his hand. Caroline suppressed a groan as she turned and smiled prettily at Lady Alice.

“I was just speaking of your gown,” she said sweetly. “It is beautiful.”

Alice, the silly chit, blushed furiously and looked down. “Thank you.”

“I have begged Father to take me to London, where I might avail myself of an experienced seamstress, but alas, he is quite content to stay in Bedfordshire.”

“We have an experienced seamstress,” Alice said. “Perhaps you would like to meet her? She is just there, in the garden.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t like to impose.” Hurry up and go then, silly girl!

“It is no imposition, I assure you. I will send a footman,” Alice offered, and hurried off to do just that.

Caroline smiled again at Summerfield. “I hope you don’t mind, sir.”

“Not at all,” he said. But it seemed to Caroline that he did mind, very much indeed.

Phoebe hadn’t even noticed the family had come out onto the terrace, so engrossed was she in finding the perfect rose specimen for a gown she had in mind, one that mimicked the shape of a rose. In the last few days, she had buried herself in her work, trying to drive recent events from her mind. Alice seemed to have completely forgotten striking her. She’d been sheepish for all of a day, but quickly resumed her ways when it seemed Phoebe would not hold a grudge. She and Jane were still frequent visitors to her workroom, speculating as to who would marry Summerfield while Phoebe and Frieda tried to work.

But Alice and Jane were like children playing in the distance, bringing Phoebe’s head up only occasionally. What clouded her thoughts and vision was the smooth touch of the stone on her skin—which had indeed erased the bruise somehow—and Summerfield’s careful attention to her. It was his soft but aggressive mouth, the feel of his lips on her skin and her mouth. It was a touch, nothing more than a touch, yet it had haunted her since that night. The feel of his lips never left her, nor the unbearable pressure she felt somewhere at the core of her when he was near. She couldn’t keep from imagining his mouth on all of her body.

Since that night, she had counted the moments until she might see him—if only a glimpse of him, so that she might remind herself it was real, that he was real. The days seemed endless; she felt restless, unable to sit still for very long.

To keep from thinking—or longing—she’d worked nearly around the clock, had poured herself into sketching and designing the gowns she would make. This afternoon, she’d left Frieda to some routine sewing and was lost in imagining the gown she would create when Billy nudged her with his toe.

Phoebe started and glanced up.

Billy grinned. “Pretty as a rose ye are.”

Billy had a habit of admiring her. Phoebe had made it quite clear she was flattered, but that there was no reciprocal feeling, yet it had not deterred Billy in the least. “Good afternoon, Billy. Shouldn’t you be attending someone somewhere?” she asked as she bent down to snip another rose from the bush.

“I am attending, love,” he said. “Haven’t you seen me on the terrace with them?”

Phoebe glanced up again, this time shading her eyes with her hand. Good Lord, she hadn’t noticed them, and she straightened up, taking note of Summerfield, Joshua, and Alice, and their guests. She unthinkingly put a hand to her unruly hair, then quickly brushed the wrinkles from her skirt.

“His lordship wants ye now.”

“What? What should he want with me?”

“How should I know, sweetheart?” Billy asked, taking her in with a deepening smile. “Ah, now, why won’t ye favor a lad with a walkabout on Sunday?”

“Billy,” Phoebe said with exasperation, and thrust the basket of fresh-cut flowers at him, hitting him in the abdomen. She was irritated to be called, even more irritated that the hem of her gown was wet from wandering about the garden.

“Ye best go on,” Billy said. “Never good to keep them waiting.”

Phoebe sighed, removed one glove, and tossed it in the basket Billy held. She’d almost succeeded in tamping down her thoughts of Summerfield, but they were rushing up again, filling her cheeks with heat. Now she felt surprisingly vulnerable, particularly when she saw him standing up there on the terrace, looking down at her.

“Don’t they know that there is work to be done?” she asked petulantly as she removed her second glove and tossed it into the basket after the first.

“Ah, lass, surely ye’ve worked for the Quality long enough to know they don’t care a whit,” Billy said congenially, and gestured for her to precede him down the walk.

Phoebe took a deep breath and walked through the parterres and up the terrace steps. When she reached the terrace landing, she saw Alice. With the proper clothing, she didn’t look quite as gangly or awkward as she normally did, but rather regal in bearing.

“Lady Alice, how lovely you look,” Phoebe said, meaning it.

Alice blushed and looked down. “Thank you,” she said. “It is a beautiful gown.” She even smiled a little.

They walked across the terrace to Summerfield and his guests, who were standing about as if they were waiting for something or someone. Joshua sat on a stone bench apart from the others, his eyes dark and steady on the young woman with honey-blond hair and soft brown eyes who stood next to Summerfield. Her parents—the resemblance was obvious—stood beside her, smiling as if they had already arranged a match with Summerfield for their daughter.

The young woman gave Phoebe a thin smile of tolerance. Phoebe curtsied. “You sent for me, my lord?”

“Actually…I did,” Alice said. “Miss Fitzherbert was admiring my gown. May I introduce the Fitzherberts to you?” she asked, and introduced Mr. and Mrs. Fitzherbert, and Miss Fitzherbert.

As Phoebe greeted them, she noticed Miss Fitzherbert shifted closer to Summerfield so that her arm was touching his sleeve. “How do you do?” she asked as she boldly took in Phoebe’s clothing.

“Very well, thank you.” Their casual examination of her made her feel exposed; the kernel of doubt that perhaps these people knew or suspected who she was crept into her mind.

“I did indeed compliment Lady Alice on her lovely gown,” Miss Fitzherbert said at last, drawing Phoebe’s attention. “You do excellent work, madam.”

“Thank you.” Summerfield was infuriatingly expressionless, his hands clasped behind his back, his impassive gaze on Phoebe. It was a far cry from the man who had looked at her with such longing only days ago.

Miss Fitzherbert looked at her coldly. “What do you think, Father?” she asked. “Mrs. Dupree is a seamstress. Perhaps we might retain her when Summerfield is through with her.”

There was something in the way she said it, as if Phoebe were a milk cow to be traded, that made Phoebe bristle. “I beg your pardon, Miss Fitzherbert,” Phoebe said, “but unfortunately, when I have completed my work here at Wentworth Hall, I must return to London.”

“Oh? Surely there is something we can do to persuade you to stay.”

“No, I am afraid I cannot be persuaded.” With the possible exception of Miss Fitzherbert’s head on a platter.

“We will pay you a good wage with room and board, Madame Dupree,” her father helpfully offered.

Phoebe smiled at him. “Thank you, sir, but I have other obligations.”

“Are you certain your obligations are unbreakable?” he persisted. “Perhaps if you tell us who has retained you, we might determine if an arrangement can be made.”

“They are very firm obligations,” Phoebe assured him. “It is a family matter,” she said, trying very hard to look as if the family matter were very dire.

“Oh. Well,” Miss Fitzherbert said with a bit of an insouciant shrug. Her eyes unabashedly wandered over Phoebe’s form, lingering on the hem of her gown. She frowned a little, then lifted her gaze again. “Then perhaps you can see your way to providing me with a riding habit while you are here. Lord Summerfield has invited me to ride, and I daresay I’ve not the proper attire,” she said, turning a coy smile up to him. “If Lord Summerfield will allow it, perhaps you will help me out of my predicament.”

“Naturally,” Summerfield said.

Naturally? What did he think, she pulled riding habits out of the clouds? Miss Fitzherbert’s smile deepened with her pleasure, and she glanced at Phoebe as if she’d just bested her somehow.

Jealousy pricked at Phoebe. All right, they were to ride. What more did the woman want?

“Riding, eh?” Mr. Fitzherbert said, rolling up to the tips of his toes and down again. “Caroline is not one for riding. She prefers a bench and driver.” He chuckled, and seemed oblivious to Miss Fitzherbert’s murderous expression.

“I have offered to show Miss Fitzherbert the wild horses,” Summerfield explained.

The pinprick of jealousy was now a cold stab to Phoebe’s belly. She had no claim to Summerfield and the horses, but she felt suddenly and wildly possessive of them. Would he take Miss Fitzherbert in his arms and help her try to touch the horses as he had done with her? Phoebe couldn’t help herself; she looked directly at Summerfield.

He returned her challenging look by raising a brow slightly. “Are you still walking in the mornings, Madame Dupree?” he asked, his look unwavering, his thoughts clearly on that morning, as were Phoebe’s.

“When I am able. My work keeps me very well occupied, as you know.”

“Have you seen the horses?” Miss Fitzherbert inquired.

Phoebe looked at her. “Many times. They are magnificent.”

“Truly magnificent,” Summerfield agreed, still watching Phoebe.

“Then you must convince Madame Dupree that, at the very least, a riding habit is necessary, my lord,” Miss Fitzherbert purred, nudging him with her arm.

His smile was slow and deep and directed at Phoebe. “I beg your pardon, Miss Fitzherbert, but I have not yet mastered the art of convincing a woman to do anything,” he said, to which Mr. Fitzherbert laughed appreciatively. “Nevertheless, I shall confer with Madame Dupree and see if she can’t accommodate your riding habit in her busy schedule.” And with that, he shifted a smile so charming to Miss Fitzherbert that it was all Phoebe could do to keep from groaning.

Certainly it made no difference to Phoebe whom he esteemed, whom he thought to marry, whom he would bring to his bed. It was his affair if he wanted to court such a plain, provincial woman. Why should Phoebe care in the least? She was the daughter of an earl, the sister of a marchioness, and the cousin of a princess. Her prospects were greater than those of a mere viscount. Stanhope was an earl! She had no call to be jealous of this tepid, rustic, backwoods society chit and her bloody riding habit!

Frankly, she could not bear to watch them smiling at one another like simpletons. If they wanted to ogle one another, let them at least do it without imposing on her—she already had too much work to do. She said, a little too imperiously, “If there is nothing else, my lord, I have quite a lot that must be done.”

Miss Fitzherbert looked surprised by that, but her father smiled. “That’s what I like in a servant,” he said agreeably. “An eagerness to be about one’s duties.”

Phoebe looked impatiently at Summerfield.

Damn him if the corner of his mouth didn’t tip up in the barest hint of a smile. “There is nothing else, Madame Dupree. If you are so eager to be about your work, you have my leave.”

God in heaven, how did true servants bear such superiority? She nodded curtly to Miss Fitzherbert, who smiled at her in a way that made Phoebe’s skin crawl, then curtsied to Summerfield as she ought. Without a word, she turned and walked from the terrace, remembering her mother’s advice to always walk with her chin held high, for every woman was a queen in her own right.