The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount (4 page)

Perhaps she could walk around the grounds. She liked to walk—it cleared her head. Once she began to work, the Lord only knew when she might have another opportunity.

Phoebe picked up her shawl and strode from the room.

No one seemed to be about save a footman delivering coal upstairs. She stepped outside, gathered her shawl about her, and began to walk in the direction she had seen the viscount ride yesterday, around the corner of the house. The path diverged at one point—it looked as if it led to the stables on her left, but on her right the path went through a huge wrought-iron gate and into the most extensive parterres she had ever seen.

She moved slowly, the train of her pale yellow morning gown pulling with the weight of the dew on her hem. The path led to another gate, beyond which was a lawn. There was not a sound, not even the smallest breeze. Phoebe detected the scent of water and fish and moved in that direction.

The abrupt and disembodied snort of a horse frightened her out of her wits—it sounded as if it was almost on top of her. Phoebe stilled instantly, catching her breath to listen, to discern where it was. It was a moment before her eyes could focus in the mist, but she saw horses moving like ghosts just ahead of her.

Phoebe slowly released her breath but remained perfectly still as she watched them, listening to the sound of grass crunching between their teeth. The heat of their bodies was dissipating the mist around them, and she recognized the sleek bodies of the wild horses she’d seen yesterday. They were magnificent creatures, large and beautiful and astoundingly graceful. They grazed across the path ahead of her, unhurried in their movements.

As a child, Phoebe had been an excellent rider. She rarely had the opportunity now, but she still felt a strong affinity for the animals and had an undeniable urge to touch these horses. Her heart pounding with excitement, she carefully moved forward. She envisioned herself riding across a summer meadow on the back of the largest horse—the same horse that suddenly lifted its head and pricked its ears in Phoebe’s direction, lifting its nose to sniff the air. He knew she was there—perhaps he could even see her—but he was hardly concerned with her presence and lowered his head to the grass again.

Phoebe took another, deliberate step forward. Two of the horses moved away. But the big, rusty-coated horse remained, obviously content with his breakfast and unafraid of her. She wanted to touch his silken mane, to stroke his long neck and nose, and impulsively held out her hand.

The horse ignored her, and, in fact, turned slightly so that he would not see her.

She moved again, but something caught her eye. She turned her head slightly and saw Summerfield standing only yards from her. He instantly lifted a finger to his lips, signaling her to be silent as he nodded at the horse.

Phoebe nodded. He motioned her to remain where she was, and shifted his gaze to the horse, watching him closely as he moved fluidly to where Phoebe stood and silently moved to stand behind her.

How Phoebe managed not to make a sound was nothing short of miraculous, because she could feel the man at her back, standing inappropriately and deliciously close to her. She could feel the lapels of his coat against her shoulder blades, his leg against her skirt. His body was twice the breadth of hers, twice as hard as hers.

A charge ran through her and she shivered uncontrollably; Summerfield cupped her elbow as if to steady her, and then slid his bare palm down her arm, to her wrist, and wrapped his fingers around it. He slowly lifted her arm out, palm up.

Phoebe tried to draw a breath without gasping with delight and pleasure at the touch of his hand. Her arm was on fire, her skin sizzling where his hand held her arm aloft. But then he slipped something into her palm and curled her fingers over it. Phoebe’s pulse leapt and he felt it, for he slipped his other arm around her waist, holding her steady against his chest.

Oh God, dear God, she could feel every solid inch of him, his warm breath on her ear, and the blood rushing through her veins. She glanced down at the arm that held her—his hands were big and there was a curious mark on the side of his wrist, a thick black line that curved out of his cuff and in again.

Still holding her hand, Summerfield nudged her forward and stepped with her, almost as if they were dancing.

The big red horse lifted his head and fixed one large, unblinking eye on Phoebe. She held that beast’s gaze, her courage emboldened by Summerfield’s iron grip on her.

The horse turned his head partially toward her and Phoebe felt a surge of excitement that shortened her breath. The horse’s nostrils flared and his eye shifted to her palm. Phoebe quickly uncovered the thing in her hand, too riveted by the horse to look at what she held. Summerfield gently nudged her forward again.

The horse turned about fully then, eyeing them both, and with a shake of his head and a toss of his mane, he stepped forward. Summerfield’s arm tightened around her waist, pulling her more tightly to him, and Phoebe honestly didn’t know which excited her more—that this man who smelled of soap and leather and musk was holding her tightly or that the enormous, feral horse was walking toward her.

She inadvertently shrank back when the horse reached her, but Summerfield held her steady as the beast stuck his nose in Phoebe’s palm and drew what she saw were dates between his teeth. Perhaps it was the tickle of his teeth against her palm, or the giddy feeling of being held so recklessly by Summerfield, but Phoebe had to bite back a laugh. The horse sucked the dates into his mouth, then pushed his nose against her palm again, seeking more. She struggled to keep from gasping with exhilaration, but when the horse lifted its head and put his nose to her face, she thought she would die with the laughter bottled up inside her.

She reared back, but Summerfield stood behind her like a stone wall, holding her firmly to him with the strength of what felt like ten men as the horse’s snout passed just in front of her face, flaring and contracting, then snorting again, spraying her shoulder.

It thrilled her beyond compare. But Summerfield obviously mistook her silent laughter for fear. He caressed her arm soothingly as he reached for the horse with the other. Unfortunately, the horse was not in the mood to be touched today, and jerked his head away from Summerfield’s hand and gracefully trotted away, past the two horses of the herd that were still grazing. The two smaller horses started after the red, and the three of them began to lope along the edge of the lake, disappearing into the mist.

Still, Summerfield did not release her. “Please forgive my familiarity,” he said low in her ear. “I only meant to keep you from harm.” He dropped his hand from her and, regrettably, stepped away, creating a draft at Phoebe’s back as he moved in front of her.

But he took one look at her exuberant smile, heard the small laugh of pleasure that escaped her, and suddenly smiled, too—a brilliantly warm smile of surprise that ended in a pair of dimples in his cheeks and small lines of laughter fanning out from his hazel green eyes. “I beg your pardon—when I felt you tremble, I assumed it was fear, not laughter.”

“I am not so easily frightened,” Phoebe said with gay abandon, remembering that she was Madame Dupree. “Very little frightens me, actually,” she continued recklessly, embracing her new identity. “With the exception of Gypsies sometimes. I’m never certain if they are thieves or merely dancers. But certainly a horse does not frighten me.”

“Oh?” he said, his smile full of amusement. “You are as fearless as that?”

“Mmm.” She glanced around Summerfield to where the horse had stood. “He is beautiful,” she said reverently.

“He is,” Summerfield said as his gaze curiously wandered the length of her. “Forgive me, Madame Dupree, but if wild stallions and dancing Gypsies do not frighten you, what does, if I may ask?”

Wild, untamed men. Men who exude virility and strength.

When she didn’t answer directly, he lifted his gaze to hers. “Do I frighten you?”

Phoebe felt in danger of falling into those eyes, of becoming completely lost in them. She could imagine that women all over England melted inside when he merely looked at them. “You? No!” she said with a smile that hid her melting. “Oh no! Not in the least…” She paused and peered at him. “Unless…I should be frightened of you?”

One corner of his mouth tipped up in a wolfishly lazy smile. “I suppose that depends on what a beautiful young woman such as you might find frightening in a man.”

God help her, he was flirting with her. She felt a silly flutter in her belly and her chest, felt her palms grow damp.

He seemed to sense what his smile did to her, for his smile deepened, his lips dark against his golden skin. “You remind me of my sisters,” he said casually. “I think nothing frightens them, either—with the notable exception of thieving Gypsies, naturally.” His gaze flicked over the length of her. “Perhaps you should be about the business of clothing them. Do you know the way back to the house?”

“I—Yes,” she said, nodding. “Yes, of course.”

“Very good.” He smiled, touched his hand to his forehead, and she caught sight of that curious curving black line on his wrist. He strode away from her, taking the path the horses had taken, his gait strong and long and sure.

Phoebe watched him, holding her shawl tightly about her and memorizing the swing of his arms and the cadence of his gait. When he had disappeared, she sighed with girlish longing.

“Oh dear, Madame Dupree,” she muttered to herself, and reluctantly turned back toward the house.

A few hours later, Will met his childhood friend, Henry Ellison, in Greenhill. When Will had returned from abroad, he’d felt almost like a visitor in a foreign land—nothing was as he remembered it, and what he did remember fit him ill, like a poorly tailored coat. But Henry had sought him out, had been genuinely glad to see him after all those years. Henry had grown an inch or two, and what once had been a thick head of brown hair was now thinning. But his blue eyes and effervescent smile were very much the same, and he had insisted on helping Will reacquaint himself with the English gentry. He was Will’s one true friend.

Henry was in high spirits when they met at the public house for a pint of ale. He’d returned just days ago from London, where he’d been spending quite a lot of time as of late. There was a woman there who had captured his fancy completely and he seemed only slightly bothered that she was a married woman. But then Henry had never been particularly discriminating about women, and frankly, neither had Will.

When Will handed two shillings to the serving girl, Henry squinted at the tattoo that peeked out from the cuff of his shirt. “Been showing that around, have you?” he asked before sipping from his tankard.

“What?” Will asked, glancing at his hand. “This?” He pointed to the tattoo.

“Yes, that. You’ve managed to scandalize my dear mother with it.”

“How so?” Will asked, since he’d not seen Henry’s mother since the last time he attended church services—a month or more ago, to be exact.

Henry leaned across the table. “Lord Summerfield, haven’t you the slightest sense that the entire county is talking about your tattoo?” he whispered loudly. “Apparently, you rolled up a sleeve to help a poor man in need of wheel repair on his wagon, and now everyone is quite titillated by the little bit of that serpent that peeks out from your sleeve.”

Will shoved his sleeve up a bit and looked at the symbol. The night he’d done it, he’d been a guest in the palace of an Indian prince. His hair had been so long he’d worn it bound at the nape with a leather tie, and he’d donned the dhoti kurta, the long garments Indian gentlemen wore. During the course of the evening, he’d partaken of the hookah pipe the prince had offered him, and sometime after that—the details were a bit hazy—he’d taken the tattoo that was offered.

“That serpent curls around the ancient Hindu symbol for peace and prosperity,” he said, looking at the tattoo on his wrist. He lifted his gaze to Henry. “It is a form of art.”

“It is a form of the devil,” Henry said cheerfully. “Or at least Mrs. MacDonald, the vicar’s wife, would have my mother believe.”

“The devil?”

“The devil. But you may trust that I stood in defense of you.” Henry winked and took another swill of his ale.

“What do you mean, stood in defense of me?” Will asked, frowning.

“When the ladies started speaking ill of you,” Henry said blithely. “My mother’s friends. They were in her drawing room discussing some sort of ecclesiastical event—I’m not entirely certain what event, really, as I find such topics tiresome and tend not to listen—but when the subject of your wrist was raised, and the ladies began to toss words like heathen about, I simply had to step in.”

“And what did you say?”

Henry brought his tankard down with a clap. “What do you think I said, my good friend? I told them that you are indeed a heathen!” he said, and laughed.

Will smiled.

“What was I to say, then? All that talk of your spiritual journey you’ve subjected me to—you had me fearing for my very soul!”

“My talk of a spiritual journey is the last thing your soul should fear,” Will said with a wry smile. “I should think your soul has far more to fear in your illicit affair with Mrs. Montaine.”

“Have a care!” Henry whispered hotly, and glanced around the crowded, noisy public room to see if anyone had overheard. When he was satisfied they had not, he grinned at Will. “Come now, Summerfield. You really must allow me to introduce you to her sister—”

“I think not,” Will said, and tossed back the rest of his ale. “I’ve enough to keep me occupied with my brothers and sisters. Speaking of which, I’d best be home. The good Lord only knows what havoc they have wrought this afternoon.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, have another pint. If they haven’t harmed anyone, you might afford it.”

Will stayed, but he felt rather uncomfortable. He supposed he really didn’t know how to fit in with the country life any longer. He’d been gone too long, experienced too much of the world to simply pick up where he’d left off.

Ever since he’d stepped into Wentworth Hall after his six-year absence, he’d felt much like a duck out of water. He was, inescapably, a changed man. He just wasn’t certain what, exactly, he’d changed into.