The Greatest Lover in All England (4 page)

He'd heard too much of this comparison to horses. “Do all women think of men as stallions?”

“Nay, some are geldings,” she mocked, “but not you, Tony. Stop champing at the bit. You wouldn't be so insulted, except you feel the cold hand of fate on your back.”

A shiver ran up his spine. Jean was right. Beneath his indignation and outrage lurked a very real sense of doom. What Lady Honora lacked in humor she made up in determination.

His search for a wife had become a race against time.

“I won't marry her,” he said firmly. “I hold Lady Honora Howard in the highest esteem, but never could I think of her in the carnal sense.”

Jean laughed, clearly unconvinced. “You'll have to explain that to
her
.”

“Jeannie, dear sister.” He put his arms around her. “I'm only a humble man, no good with words. Surely you—”

“I'm not telling her.”

“—could find a way to spare her feelings.”

“It would take a runaway stallion to flatten her feelings.” She grinned at his ire. “Besides, I've known Lady Honora all my life, and never have I convinced her of anything. You're doomed, Tony, doomed, and I can't say I'm unhappy. Lady Honora is the perfect wife for any man, and especially you. You'll no longer hear a word about your bastardy. No one would dare face her down.”

“But I don't want my wife to be the source of all respect directed at me. I want to earn that respect myself.”

“You have already earned it, except with fools, and in your own eyes. If you had already made your choice, perhaps Lady Honora could be persuaded to abandon her mission, but—”

“But I have!” He glanced around, desperate for escape.
“My bride has just arrived. I've been fighting the attraction, but she's here.”

“Where?” Jean glanced at the traveling acting troupe. Camped at the edge of the expanse of lawn before the manor, they unloaded the scaffolding for their stage, preparing for their afternoon performance. “Where?”

“There she is!” He almost collapsed in relief when he saw a girl. The only girl within sight. She stood apart, nervously shifting from foot to foot. Hunching her shoulders, she stared at the manor and muttered words that were lost to him in the distance. She would have to do. “She's standing beside that painted wagon.”

Following his gaze, Jean saw her, too, and squinted. “
Her?
”

“Do you know her?” He hoped not.

“I've never met her before, but she looks”—Jean cocked her head—“familiar. Who is she?”

“She's the portrait of perfection.” A perfectly vague answer.

“In that garb?” Jean shook her head. “Better rein yourself in, Tony. She's no wealthy, influential virgin.”

Even from this distance he could see that her clothes were odd, and her red wig towered in stiff curls above her face. How had he got himself into such a trap?

Recalling Honora's upright figure, he answered his own question.

Desperation. Sheer desperation.

He said, “For her, I would give up my shallow desires.”

Jean continued, “I do know she shouldn't be tarrying by the wagons. Actors are not savory company.”

“I'll go rescue her.” And hope he could persuade—or seduce—her into helping him with his own rescue attempt.

Dada, don't leave me here. I'm tired and it's too far to walk
.

The lawn undulated like a flying carpet, soft green and pale gold, carrying the massive manor like an honored passenger.

I picked these pretty flowers. Don't you like them, Dada? I picked them for you
.

Like a white lady with arms spread to embrace all comers, the wide-winged manor shone in the sunlight. The autumn-frosted trees bent protectively around her; the ever-green shrubbery decorated her.

I didn't take it, Dada. Don't leave me alone. Dada, please, I'm frightened. I'm scared, please, Dada please Dada please—

“You're a lovely lass.”

Rosie jumped so hard her nosegay flew into the air. The confusing vision that had filled her mind swirled away. She snatched at it as if trying to recall a dream, but it left as quickly as it had come.

The big man caught the flowers deftly as he stepped around the edge of the wagon.

With a charming smile and a flourishing bow, he presented the flowers again. “My eyes are drunk with your beauty, my lady, so I scarcely know my own name, but I would swear I have never met you ere this moment.”

“Who? Who?” she stammered, pressing her hand to her chest, trying to contain the thump of her heart.

“I am Sir Anthony Rycliffe.”

She stared, still agitated and lost.

“Your host,” he prompted.

“Oh.” Oh. He was Sir Anthony, and she…she was…was…

She shook her head, trying to dislodge the images.

She was Rosie. Rosencrantz. Sir Danny's daughter and part-time son. She was facing Sir Anthony Rycliffe, their employer. Searching for her decorum, she bobbed a curtsy. “I'm honored, sir.”

Overwhelmingly masculine, overweeningly confident, their host picked up her hand and kissed the back as delicately as if she were the queen. “You speak so softly, but there's no need to be shy, lass. If you'll but tell me your father's name, I will go to him at once and beg him leave to court you, for you are as fresh as the spring breeze, and as appealing to me as…” He hesitated, like an actor who has forgotten his lines, and shrugged his massive shoulders in a movement she would have called sheepish. “Tell me your father's name, and I'll court you as man has never courted a maiden.”

Her mouth dropped open, and although she knew
she looked foolish, her astonishment proved too much for her control. “You jest with me, sir.”

“I would not jest about a gift of the gods, lest fair Jupiter himself should snatch her out of my reach. Tell me your father's name, so I might prove my good intentions.”

He didn't realize who she was. He thought she was a woman.

Which she was, of course, but most men penetrated her disguise and saw what they expected—a disreputable youth, a vagabond, an actor.

Did this man see less than most men, or more?

Large and blond, sunny with charisma, overwhelming with welcome—what did he want of her?

His smile never wavered. Indeed, it deepened the dimples in his cheeks and brought a bright twinkle to his blue eyes. “Lass, you act as if no man has given you his heart, and I know your charm must have overwhelmed even those more wary than myself.”

Instinctively she recognized his swaggering intent. He was a man intent on a maid who had struck his fancy. More than that, he was a man no maid ever refused.

“Sir Anthony,” she began.

But he pressed his finger to her lips. “Call me Tony.”

She freed herself with a jerk of her head. “Respected sir, I dare not speak to you with such familiarity.”

He leaned one elbow against the wagon beside her head. “Then call me Anthony. Or dearest, or lover, or sweetheart, I beg you.”

He loomed over her: too tall, too broad, too brash, too masculine. A cape of crimson velvet hung around his shoulders, so bright it hurt her eyes. His cutwork silk stockings and ribbon garters showed off legs rippling with muscle. His black doublet glittered with an
embroidery of golden thread, and in the middle of his broad chest hung a heavy gold pendant—a pendant that proclaimed him master of the Queen's Guard.

He reminded her of Essex's men-at-arms, who would slay her with their swords.

Yet Sir Anthony Rycliffe's sword was blunter, a weapon to be used on women only, for their pleasure and his own. But she had never had a man look at her with knowing eyes, or woo her aggressively, or want her. It frightened her. “I can call you none of those things. Your rank is a barrier.”

“I would not have my affianced wife place any barrier between us. Not words nor”—his gazed delved the depths of her bodice and heated her flesh—“clothing.”

She placed her hand over her cleavage to hide it. But he would have none of that. Again he took her hand and kissed it, but this time his lips caressed her palm. He curled her fingers over the caress and whispered, “Keep that to remember me when I am not near. Open your hand and place my kiss upon your cheek, your lips, your body, and imagine that I am with you. For in truth, I will be.”

Amazed and uncertain, she wondered at her identity, at his objectives, at this estate that confused her. It seemed he waited for some sign which she should give, but indecision crippled her, and instinct warred with habit. “Dear Lord,” she whispered, and he took that as permission.

“Call me not lord,” he whispered as he bent closer, boxing her in between his arms in one direction, between his body and the wagon in the other. She stared at his lips as they moved with his speech. “I am Tony.”

Too wide for beauty, his mouth promised pleasures forbidden her before. Now, as he nuzzled her chin, her
cheek, and shut her eyes with a flick of his tongue, the promise became reality. Breathless, she waited, strained, wondered.

“Say it,” he instructed. “Say my name.”

“Tony,” she whispered.

A reward for obedience, he layered his mouth on hers. The kiss, her first, should have been a lesson he taught her, but it was not. He listened to her body's signals. He deepened his advance only when she craved it, touching his tongue to hers and withdrawing, enticing her to follow his example. She did as he wished, for curiosity's sake.

It had to be for curiosity's sake. Nothing else could explain this madness.

Yet like flint striking against metal, her curiosity and his patience brought a spark to life, and he laughed softly as that spark jolted her.

“That's it,” he murmured against her mouth. “That'll warm us.”

Had she marveled at his patience? he wondered. The growing flame obliterated any trace of his control.

“Give me,” he demanded, greedy as a child. “Give me.”

His kisses forced her head against the wagon. Her wig slipped, and he pushed it off and flung it away. A single long, thick braid tumbled down, and he untied the string that held it in place. She winced at the tug when he combed his fingers through, loosening the weave that kept the rich brown hair tidy, and he kissed her in apology. He kissed her again as he created his own weave—his fingers, her hair, tangled to hold her in place for him, keeping her as if she might run away.

“More.”

As if she could run away. As if her knees could even
hold her up. His other hand lifted her ruff and roamed her neck, then delved below the steel corset of her bodice and filled his hand with her. She moaned when his thumb rasped across her nipple, and he murmured, “That moan. The serenade of a lover. My lover.”

His tone drenched her in his satisfaction, and his satisfaction worked on her like a splash of cold water. What was she doing? She opened her eyes, and humiliation slapped her to consciousness.

Brilliant sunlight illuminated every bit of their surroundings, and in turn illuminated them. Anyone could see.

“No one can see.” Tony read her mind, and his rich voice smoothed to a seducer's croon. “I've used my body to block the view of any busybody who might glance this way.”

His glib assurance only launched her outrage. “Used your body?” she choked. “Aye, you've used your body, right enough. The body of a yeaforsooth knave, a foul and beetle-brained rascal.” Desire mingled with fury—or were they one and the same?—and she slapped at his hand. “Remove your leprous paw from me, ere I use my knife to remove it at the elbow.”

Although his broad chin firmed, he chuckled. “Rest easy, sweetling, my intentions are the best.”

His amusement convinced her. She'd behaved like a drab from the docks. Doubling her fist, she punched at his throat.

He flung his head back and the blow struck his shoulder. The padding of his sleeve deflected the force, but impatience and amazement struggled for supremacy on his countenance. “'Tis marriage I wish, I tell you, and this delectable irritation which plagues you”—his fingers stroked her breast—“is easily cured.”

She dislodged his impudent hand, and again rolled
out from under his shadow. He followed, hand outstretched, as she snatched up her wig.

“Which room have my servants given you?” he asked. “If you will but confess, I'll find you tonight and bring you such satisfaction that Apollo's loves themselves will envy your good fortune. Come, lady.”

His persistent palm thrust itself beneath her nose, and such was his allure that she wavered even while her anger grew.

“Place your hand in mine, and we'll seal our fates, one to the other, for eternity.”

“Madness! You're stricken with moon-madness and know not what you say.”

The blow deterred him not at all, and he matched her step for step as she stalked away. “Moon-madness? Nay, love-madness.”

“Brain fever,” she countered.

“Love fever.”

“You're a lunatic, fit only for Bethlehem Hospital.” She clapped the wig on her head, not caring that her own hair straggled beneath and around as if she were the lunatic she declared him. “I don't know who you think I am, but I assure you”—she rounded on him, and found his palm again extended—“that you'll be horrified”—his fine eyes cherished her countenance as no man had ever done—“when you discover”—his fingers flexed invitingly, and she stared at that hand. Stared, and wished he hadn't ignited that spark within her. For it burned still, warm and tempting, and she knew not what would douse it.

But she suspected that he knew.

With an incoherent cry, she fled, running across the stubble of lawn, sure that he would pursue.

He did not.

Subduing his predatory impulse, he watched her
run and laughed aloud, then turned and waved at Jean.

She lifted a wary hand, and he swaggered toward his manor. It was an impressive structure, with three stories of pale stones, built in the shape of an E. The railed terrace jutted out along the whole length of the front, and chimneys, statues, and arches decorated the roof. A fine house and a worthy home for him and for his lady.

Would it be the little wren who'd run from him?

Perhaps it would be. Her appearance had been uninspiring from a distance, and worse upon close examination, but she kissed like a dream and displayed such a sweet confusion he'd been charmed. After all, her youth proved her greatest ally, and her clothing was easily improved.

Aye, he would enjoy pretending she was his true love. He'd enjoy setting her on fire, and teaching her how to set him on fire, too. He shifted uncomfortably.

Set him on fire
more
. His canions fit him well, he'd seen to that. The shaped, short breeches had been sewn by the finest tailor in London, for his position in the Queen's Guard occasionally required him to dodge an assassin's knife or fight in Her Majesty's defense. But nothing could ease the strength of his arousal, and he wondered at himself.

Did he need a woman so badly? Or did that plain girl have that special gift, the one that set foolish men ablaze with passion?

He looked again in the direction she'd run, toward the stage that the actors had set up. He'd have to find out, wouldn't he?

The play had begun, a quick, comic piece to entertain the gentlefolk, to lure them to the later, longer performance. A quick glance around verified that the girl
had vanished. No more than he expected, for she would try to avoid him, and he would let her—until he needed further defense against Honora.

Taking his place at the edge of the crowd, Tony looked neither left nor right, smiling politely at the eligible girls as they beckoned.

“Anthony!” Honora's precise voice spoke close to his shoulder. “Come and sit with me on the front row. I reserved a place for you on the bench.”

He jumped as if he were guilty.

Damn Jean for mentioning that diabolical union. He'd been one of the few men who'd been able to treat Lady Honora with equanimity. Her lush body and equally lush estates attracted many an unwary man, but her unsmiling countenance, her erect posture, her lack of humor propelled them into the arms of younger, poorer girls. He hadn't realized the tragedy of it until this moment, when he faced the prospect of Lady Honora across a breakfast table, her flat voice instructing him on his duties. Or worse, the prospect of Lady Honora laid across a bed, instructing him on his duties.

The woman was so convinced of her own superiority that she intimidated lesser mortals, and she now intimidated him. Ironically, the very characteristic which presumably had attracted her had proved his downfall. “Lady Honora, I am comfortable when I stand.”

“Nonsense!” With a grip unfashionably strong, she jerked him sideways. “You are the host. It is your duty to stay where your guests can observe you. You will allow me to guide you in this matter, as you will allow me to guide you in the matter of your marriage.”

“My marriage?”

“To me.” She rested her narrow hand on his sleeve. “Jean told me of your trifling objections, but you're a
logical man, and I feel sure you'll soon see the good sense of my ways.”

Looking down on the jeweled cap which covered her fall of blond hair, he wondered if he stood a chance against Lady Honora's determination and his own need for affluence. Then he remembered the mystery girl and how he would use her. He had only to keep her at the forefront of his mind, and Honora's schemes would be for naught.