The Earl I Adore (28 page)

Don't miss the next sensual romance in the

Prelude to a Kiss series by Erin Knightley,

 

The Duke Can Go to the Devil

 

Coming from Signet Eclipse in July 2015!

T
o most, Mei-li Bradford's aunt was known simply as Lady Stanwix, second wife and widow of the old earl. To a very select few, she was referred to as Victoria. To the servants, she was called something not entirely fit to repeat. But to May, her father's sister—with whom she'd be living until Papa returned from his current voyage—was more often than not the Warden.

An entirely fitting title, given how often she required May to stay buried in the suffocating opulence of the grand house the older woman had called home for the past two decades. The rooms were large, but that didn't make the place any less confining. Especially since, thanks to her aunt's uninspired sense of design, the place was as dark and dreary as a mausoleum.

Fortunately, May was nothing if not resourceful.

And while she prudently avoided clashing with her aunt whenever possible—she had made a promise to her father to behave in his absence, after all—she was not above exploiting the Warden's weaknesses.

Which was precisely why May had been sneaking out every morning for the past three months. She had a routine to keep, and after a lifetime of tropical living, she
refused to do her morning exercises within the olive- and brown-walled confines of the lifeless old house. Although, to be fair, it was hardly
sneaking
when one walked straight out the front door. If her aunt chose to keep to a rigid routine that consisted of being awoken at nine o'clock sharp every morning—and not one minute before—then that was her prerogative. Just as it was May's to rise before dawn and start her day.

Smiling, she breathed in the cool morning air as she pulled the door closed behind herself, more grateful than ever for the quiet solitude of the city this early in the morning. Unlike many of the cities May had visited in her life, Bath had a certain laziness to it at this time of the day. This was a city that came alive in the evening, with the monied glow of hundreds of beeswax candles lighting the rented homes and public gathering places, which were overflowing come sundown.

Walking along the deserted streets in the timid predawn glow, one would never suspect that thousands upon thousands of visitors filled every available inn and townhouse—nearly all of whom had flocked to Bath for the first annual Summer Serenade in Somerset music festival.

The festival, along with the new friends it had brought her, was the only thing making this forced visit bearable.
Until last night
. Her jaw tightened at the memory of the disastrous evening she had endured, thanks to the combined efforts of the Warden and one self-entitled, pompous visitor in particular. As quickly as the thought had popped into her mind, she mentally shoved it away again.

Coming to the park by the river today wasn't about her aunt or, more specifically, defying her aunt. Nor was it about the encounter last night, as infuriating as it had been. Coming here today was about
her
. It was about
doing what she had done every morning for years, whether she was in the Far East, the East Indies, the open ocean, or right here in Bath.

And she'd be damned if she'd let her aunt's dictates or last night's confrontation spoil it for her.

Arriving at the park at last, May slipped out of her shoes and stepped onto the soft, dewy grass.
Bliss
. Next she shed her dull gray pelisse, letting the ugly fabric fall in a heap on the damp ground. The coat had been the first thing Aunt Victoria had commissioned for her upon May's arrival this past spring. It had seemed a nice enough gesture, until she realized it was the Warden's attempt to cover May's bright and exotic wardrobe.

Sighing happily, she stretched her hands over her head, reveling in the loss of the restrictive garment. God bless the English and their propensity to sleep in. Not only did she actually have a moment to herself this time of morning, but there was no one around to dissolve in a fit of vapors over the thin silken tunic and pants she wore.

The whisper of the fabric was nearly lost in the muted flow of the River Avon as she walked toward the clearing beside the river, limbering up her body as she went. Rolled shoulders, windmilled arms, a few neck stretches—just enough to get the blood flowing for her routine. The light was particularly lovely this morning, all pinks and purples with the blushing promise of a new day. In this light, the green of the trees and grass and shrubs and, well,
everything
in this bloody country, wasn't quite so obnoxious. Truly, it was as though the king had ordained exactly one shade of green for every plant, leaf, and blade of grass in the country, and the flora, being good little English subjects, had obliged.

She caught herself sliding down the familiar path of negativity, and firmly banished the thoughts from her
mind. She was here to find peace. To be centered for the day, to start off on the best possible foot.

Breathing in a long, slow lungful of the fresh morning air, she cleared her mind of all the clutter it had accumulated over the past twenty-four hours. And there was a
lot
of clutter, thanks to yesterday's debacle. Getting her body into position, she closed her eyes, imagined her favorite place on earth, and began her routine.

Each movement was slow and controlled, as she glided effortlessly from one position to the next. She took slow, measured breaths and focused on the feel of the air as her hands swished through it, on the gentle sound of the river flowing against its banks, and on the soft, spongy grass beneath her feet as she slid from one step to the next.

Yes, the routine that she'd learned from Suyin, her friend and lady's maid, was technically a form of martial arts, but it could more accurately be described as meditation in motion. The movements were so familiar, it was as though her limbs moved themselves, following the age-old rhythm that she'd learned years ago. The sleeves of her tunic slid along her skin like cool water, pooling at her elbows before slipping their way back to her wrists. Again and again the silk caressed her skin, a sort of silent lullaby.

As the minutes ticked by, the knotted muscles of her upper back loosened, and her body became more and more relaxed. The tension caused by the day before melted like candle wax. Her mind settled as well, letting go of all the negativity that had plagued her since yesterday.

Just as she reached the perfect place of quiet clarity, the sound of a cleared throat startled her from her peace, wrenching her back to the present. She straightened abruptly and swung around, her heart pounding. She saw
the interloper at once, standing only a dozen feet away with arms crossed and lips raised in a slight sneer that she was beginning to think was the only expression he was capable of. His strong, aristocratic jaw was tipped up in a look of superiority as his decidedly disgusted whiskey brown eyes raked her over from the top of her head to the bottom of her bare feet. May silently cursed.

In four different languages.

The Duke of Radcliffe, it would seem, was not as easily forgotten as originally
hoped.

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