The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount (22 page)

“I’d sit, if I were you,” Summerfield said cheerfully, and threw one leg over the edge of the boat and planted his foot at the stern.

Phoebe sat in a whoosh of blue silk and gripped the sides of the boat with all the strength she had. “I think I should warn you, sir, that I swim very poorly.”

“No need to worry—I do not intend to let you swim.” He gave the boat a mighty shove and clambered into the hull, taking the small bench at the stern as the boat rocked dangerously from side to side. Phoebe cried out with alarm as he grappled with the oars while the boat sailed out onto the pristine surface of the lake.

Summerfield actually laughed at her as he gained control of the oars and began to row. “You surprise me, Phoebe. One would think you’d never been on a boat ere now.”

“A boat?” she exclaimed breathlessly. “That seems a rather generous word for a wash bucket!”

“Have you no sense of adventure?” he asked cheerfully. “I should think marriage to a Frenchman would necessitate a lot of sailing back and forth across the Channel in conditions far worse than this lovely summer’s eve.”

Her very real fear of drowning had caused her to momentarily forget her assumed identity. “Yes,” she said, perhaps a little too quickly. “But that…that was much different from this.” She glanced at the lake, lapping against the sides of the boat. “And not quite as close to the water as this.”

“Unless you intend to stand up and dive over the edge, I do not think you are in danger of falling. And if you do find your way overboard, you have my word that I will fish you out and dry you off,” he added with another, saltier smile.

“Can you swim?” she asked him.

He laughed. “I once swam in the middle of a high sea in a storm. I can certainly navigate a lake.”

“In the middle of the sea?”

“It’s rather a long and involved story. Look there,” he said, nodding to something beyond them. “Have you ever seen such a sunset?”

Phoebe turned as much as her grip would allow her and looked at the sky. “Oh my.” It was breathtaking—it was as if someone had painted great swaths of pink and orange across the sky, then tossed purple puffs of cloud across them. Such vistas were not possible in London, where crowded buildings and foul air rose above the city in the summer to hide the sunset. She wished she had her sketchbook so she could capture the look of the sky and paint it later. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “As lovely as I have ever seen.”

She turned around again. Summerfield was not looking at the sky—he was looking at her. She could see the hall behind him, situated idyllically against the blue hills. The beauty of this estate took her breath away.

“What are you thinking?” Summerfield asked as he rowed them along.

“That the scenery at Wentworth Hall is glorious. You are very fortunate.”

“Do you truly think so?” he asked, cocking his head charmingly to the side. “I find it confining at times.”

“I can scarcely guess how one might find such an expanse of natural beauty confining.”

“It is beautiful, I will grant you that,” he agreed. “But it is rather sedate.”

“Sedate in what way?” she wondered aloud.

“Sedate in that life moves very slowly here. I spent years exploring—every day was a new diversion. Here, every day is much the same.”

“And where did your exploring take you?”

He shrugged a little. “Everywhere, really. The Continent. Then the Greek Isles and India. Africa and the Levant. Egypt and Morocco—”

“Everywhere,” she said with a smile.

He grinned. “Wherever life took me. I was a fortunate man.” He nodded at something over the top of Phoebe’s head. “We’re almost there.”

Phoebe turned. At the end of the little wooded island, someone had lit a torch. Summerfield rowed the boat directly at the torch, driving the boat up onto the shore before leaping out into ankle-deep water and pushing the boat to higher ground. He walked to the end of the boat and held out his hand to Phoebe.

She stood carefully, but as the boat began to list to one side, she grabbed his hand with both of hers, leaping so anxiously to dry ground that Summerfield had to catch her by the waist. He laughed, his eyes glimmering with delight. “Have a care you do not leap over the island,” he said. “It is not very large.”

He did not immediately let her go; his eyes were so intent on hers that she felt a little weak at the knees. “You promised me a surprise,” she finally reminded him before her knees buckled.

“That I did,” he said, and took her hand in his, as if they were intimate acquaintances. He picked up the torch with the other hand. “It is just this way.”

As they began to walk, Phoebe realized the island was larger than she had at first perceived. A well-worn path curved into the trees, disappearing into the greenery. The sun was sinking quickly now, and it was hard to see, but as they continued to follow the path around, Phoebe could see something other than the evening light filtering through the trees. When they reached another bend, Summerfield stepped back and gestured for her to precede him.

She felt almost like a child on the brink of a marvelous surprise. She eagerly gathered her skirts and walked down the path. It widened into a clearing that was breathtaking—whatever she might have imagined, it wasn’t this.

In the clearing was a ruin. All that remained of the original structure was a marble floor and four columns that rose up, their majestic, fluted ends blackened by the fire that had apparently brought the structure down. It almost appeared as if the columns held up the gloaming sky.

In between the columns were torches similar to the one Summerfield was holding. And on the marble floor, there were dozens of beeswax candles—in votive holders, large crystal bowls, and on pieces of wood dragged in from the forest floor.

In the center of the marble floor was a circle of low cushions that surrounded a small brazier. In addition, there was a small table that stood only inches above the ground, upon which sat three silver domes on platters and two decanters of wine.

It was magical, taken right from the pages of a fairy tale. Phoebe walked up the steps to what surely had once been a grand entrance, pausing there to turn about in the midst of it all in order to take it in. She turned once more and faced Summerfield.

He’d put his torch aside, was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his head lowered as he watched her, his eyes glowing with pleasure.

“What is this place?” she asked breathlessly.

“I’m not entirely certain,” he said as he walked up the steps. “Probably a monastery or abbey at one time. My grandfather made it into a summerhouse, but as you can see, it burned down. He never rebuilt it. I suppose the lake became more of a hindrance than an asset to those seeking the solitude of this little island.”

“It is a treasure,” she said, twirling slowly, looking around. “And the candles!” she exclaimed. “I am…I am overwhelmed by the effort you have put forth on my behalf.”

“I am happy you are pleased,” he said.

A wave of delight spilled through Phoebe, erupting in an exuberant smile. She quickly turned from him and lifted her skirts, stepping carefully past the candles as she made her way to the cushions. “What an interesting arrangement—it’s quite exotic.”

“It is quite Egyptian,” Summerfield said, gesturing for her to take a seat on one of the cushions. “I brought them back with me. I found Egypt to be inspiring—I never felt as free of the trappings of life as I did there.” He cast a lazy smile at her. “I thought to give you a taste of that freedom.”

The very idea of Egypt thrilled her—she was emboldened by the magical surroundings and lowered herself to one of the cushions. She could imagine herself in an Egyptian camp, dressed in silks that covered her face as well as her body, just like in the picture books she and Ava and Greer had pored over as children.

“It is the custom of the Bedouin nomads to take their supper in such a manner,” Summerfield explained as he squatted down behind her and brushed a curl from her shoulder, his fingers grazing her bare skin. “They use their hands to eat bits of unleavened bread…but for your sake,” he said softly, his fingers brushing so lightly against her neck that she shivered, “I have bowed to the English custom of fork and leavened bread.”

“How daring,” she teased him.

He grinned and rose to his full height, towering above Phoebe. “Do you enjoy wine?” he asked as he stepped over the cushions in one long stride and reached for the wine bottle. At her nod, he settled onto the cushions and poured wine into a goblet, and handed it to Phoebe. He poured a second goblet and smiled very charmingly when he touched his glass to hers in a toast.

He was making it difficult for her to remember she was a servant presumably in the throes of being seduced by her lord and master.

“How do you find the wine?” he asked after she had sipped. At her nod of approval, he said, “It is French. Smuggled across the Channel at great peril.”

“You smuggled wine from France?”

“Me?” He chuckled. “No. But it was purchased from a smuggler. I have always maintained that if one cannot do one’s own smuggling, one should at least know of a good smuggler.”

Phoebe laughed, not believing him. “You think to fool me, my lord. But why should anyone smuggle wine from France?”

“Don’t you know?”

Drat it all, she could not seem to remember who she supposedly was! She laughed and averted her eyes in response.

“Because the French are quite fond of their wine and exact a high price when it is taken abroad. And the English are quite fond of their wine and impose some rather stiff import duties for the privilege of drinking French wine. The resulting cost of French wine encourages some to seek their libations from less official channels. As it happens, I know one such fellow, and he impressed on me his firm belief that I should own several bottles of agreeably priced French wine.”

Phoebe smiled and sipped.

“I thought you might be a connoisseur of French wine, given that you were married to a Frenchman,” he said, and looked at her expectantly.

“Oh. Ah…not really,” she said, and smiled.

He smiled, too, sipped from the wine, and nodded appreciatively. “Hungry?” he asked, and put aside his glass to remove the dome from one platter of food.

“Mmm,” said Phoebe, realizing that she was ravenous.

Underneath the dome was a selection of cheeses and fruits: grapes, oranges, and cubed apples. He uncovered the second platter to reveal sliced meats and bread. He forked a sampling of the various foods onto a small plate for her, then prepared one for himself.

He watched her take a bite of orange. “English oranges don’t compare to those I had in Paris,” he said languidly, his gaze still on her mouth. “Paris is a city of many decadent delights, wouldn’t you agree?”

Phoebe all but swallowed the orange slice whole.

“Whereabouts did you live?” he asked idly.

“Live?” she echoed stupidly.

“In Paris. The left bank, I’d presume.”

The left bank of what? she wondered frantically. “Mmm,” she said.

“We might have been neighbors, can you imagine it? I was in Paris only a few short months, but I took lease of a small town house just off Rue Monge. I am certain it is known to you.”

The panic of her deceit was suddenly cloying. When she had imagined this night, she had not imagined a lot of chatting, for heaven’s sake. “Yes, of course,” she said thickly, hoping he would not press it further. “An excellent cheese, my lord. What is it?”

He glanced at the cheese on her plate and shrugged. “Cook’s finest, I suppose.” He looked at her again, assessing her. “There is really nothing lovelier than the Seine in springtime,” he remarked. “Where did you say you resided in Paris?”

“Ah…” Phoebe took a large bite of chicken while she frantically thought, stealing more time by licking her fingers. Summerfield watched her with some amusement, waiting patiently for an answer. She smiled, sipped her wine, brushed a bit of chicken from her lap, and glanced at Summerfield again.

“Where again?” he asked.

Phoebe gave him a dismissive flick of her wrist and said, “Where? Oh, I can scarcely remember now. Rue…something or other.” She smiled.

So did he.

“You left Paris,” she said, desperate to leave it herself. “Where did you go then?”

“To Switzerland. Might I inquire—from where did your late husband hail?”

Oh bloody hell. Phoebe put down her plate, shifted off her knees and onto her hip, reached for her goblet, took another, fortifying sip of wine, and nervously cleared her throat. “He was from…from Rouen,” she said, a little uncertainly.

“Ah,” he said instantly, and nodded as if he knew it well. “Another fine city. The cathedral there is recherché, would you agree?”

Good Lord, was there no place he’d not seen? “I would,” she said breezily. “But I must confess…since m-my husband…”—she made a gesture with her hand—“passed, I have tried to forget—”

“Dear God, of course,” he said with a frown of worry. “Forgive me.”

“No, I…” She smiled sheepishly. “It would seem you have traveled the world over, sir. You are quite the adventurer, are you not?”

He gave her a sensual smile. “I am an adventurer in every sense of the word.” He put down his plate and leaned on his side, propping himself up on an elbow. “I thrive on it, actually.” He sighed, took a long drink of wine, then looked in his cup. “That is why I find England and her bucolic countryside to be stifling. I fear I am no longer accustomed or suited to the life of the nobility.”

That declaration surprised and intrigued Phoebe. “What does not suit you?” she asked curiously.

“I rather think a better question is what does suit me? My role as a country gentleman is tiresome beyond my endurance. Englishmen pride themselves on reaching that station in life where they are not pressed to actually work for their livelihood, but I should rather work than sit about remarking on the weather or the prospects for a good crop,” he said with some disgust. “There are no diversions here, nothing to pique my interest. I feel as if I am a bird in a cage.”

Phoebe couldn’t help herself; she laughed.

He looked surprised, which only caused her to laugh more. “What?” he demanded.