Yankee Earl (31 page)

      
“I have every confidence you will, Drum,” Rachel replied.

      
He nodded gravely to her.

      
Jason watched the exchange between the two with interest. He had been quite certain that his misogynistic companion and his sharp-tongued bride would instantly detest each other. But that had not proven true at all. For some reason, which utterly eluded him, they appeared to genuinely like each other. That sent warning bells clanging inside his already troubled brain.

      
They had apparently discussed him at some length prior to rescuing him from those waterfront thugs. Such collaboration did not augur well for his plans to escape leg-shackling. What if Drum took it into his head to join Harry at matchmaking? Uneasily, Jason walked with Rachel and the little dandy to the side portico, where Drum's curricle awaited.

      
As they waved farewell to their friend, Garnet's son Evelyn strolled out into the bright morning sunshine, holding a hand over his eyes as he strained to see who was departing. He smiled flirtatiously at Rachel as he bowed over her hand, saying, “Miss Fairchild, you make the sunlight more bearable.”

      
“A fulsome compliment indeed, coming from one who toils in dank warehouses,” Jason interjected.

      
Sensing that his purring remark held a hint of jealousy, Rachel could not resist another jab. She smiled at Evelyn. “My thanks, sir, for such a gallant compliment.” Then turning to the earl, she said, “Not that you would know aught of compliments, gallant or otherwise.”

      
“Yankee clodpole that you have named me, I do not deal in Spanish coin, Countess.” Jason gave her a sharkish grin and then said to Roger's stepson, “I assume you must return to the shipping business soon.” He did not give a fig about Evelyn's commercial affairs, but he found the way Garnet's son watched Rachel to be most irritating.

      
“My mother has been chiding me for working too hard. She insisted that I rest in the countryside. I am finding it quite refreshing here,” Evelyn replied as his dark eyes fixed warmly on Rachel.

      
The upper ten thousand might be fools, dismissing her rare beauty because it did not fit the current mode, but Jason knew that Simmons was anything but a fool. In fact, the young Cit appeared quite smitten with her. And the earl did not like it one bit. Would she one day ask for that annulment so she could wed a man such as Evelyn? Surely not, he assured himself. Garnet's son was a creature of the city, and she was a woman of the countryside.

      
“I say, was that Mr. Drummond taking his leave?” Simmons inquired.

      
“He's off on the trail of Forrestal,” Jason replied.

      
“Hope he catches the blighter. Odd fellow, your friend Drummond. The manners and dress of a peer, but he seemed quite interested in the effects of the embargo. Is his family in trade of some sort?”

      
Jason could not help chuckling at the thought of Drum as a man of business. “Scarcely. The nearest Drum has ever come to work is cleaning the blood from his foil after a duel.”

      
Just then Evelyn's mother waddled out the front door with a wide smile pasted on her chapped lips. This morning she was dressed in a day gown of bright pumpkin orange with deep lavender ribbons trimming the bodice and sleeves. Garnet patted her son's arm affectionately, saying, “Tis so good to have you take a few days to visit here in the country, Evelyn. But you know how important our business is in Gravesend.”

      
Jason could not resist a wry grin at catching his erstwhile rival in a lie. Obviously, Evelyn's mother did not consider him in need of a rest.

      
“Time enough to return to work, Mama. I find the country air quite salubrious.” Simmons's eyes swept over Rachel before returning to his mother's face.

      
“Yes, 'tis pleasant here, but we have work to attend to at the warehouses,” she replied.

      
Rachel thought she detected a flash of irritation on the older woman's face; but it quickly vanished, if indeed it had been there at all. She was certain that, as an only son, Evelyn was the apple of his mother's eye. He was certainly attractive, but Rachel could not help comparing his pale, slender body with Jason's sun-bronzed muscularity. Angry at her own treacherous thoughts, she turned her attention to Evelyn, saying, “I do hope you were not disappointed by the cancellation of the fox hunt, Mr. Simmons.”

      
He laughed in a husky baritone, replying, “Quite the opposite, I must confess. I'm really a terrible rider. I end up eating everyone else's dust, and the broom has always been awarded by the time I catch up.”

      
“Too bad we were denied the opportunity to witness my bride's riding skills,” Jason interjected. “Rumor around Harleigh has it that she can outrun the hounds and strip the fox of his tail before anyone else rides onto the scene.”

      
Evelyn looked startled at the pronouncement, but Garnet chuckled.

      
Rachel could feel Jason's mocking gaze send a warm flush to her cheeks. Fighting it down, she turned to him with a less-than-genuine smile. “I take no pleasure in the kill, but you should be grateful that I am an excellent rider, m'lord earl.” The moment she spoke, she could have bitten her tongue.

      
“Oh, I am, Countess, I am,” he replied innocently.

      
Only Rachel appeared aware of the double entendre. Would she have the courage to go through with her plans for their wedding night?

* * * *

      
Just after luncheon, Rachel received a message from her steward, who had ridden hard from Harleigh to deliver it as soon as it arrived, per her instructions. Passage was arranged for two, leaving Bristol the Friday after the wedding. She needed to share this vital information with Jason, but somehow could not bring herself to do it. She held the sheet of paper in one hand, staring down at the tangible evidence that he would soon be out of her life forever.

      
“Perhaps a good hard gallop will make me feel better,” she murmured to herself, folding the missive and slipping it in her bodice. She dashed upstairs and quickly changed into her old riding togs. A fancy habit and sidesaddle might have been necessary in the presence of Roger and Garnet's guests, but now she intended to be alone. After making certain no one was about, she slipped out a side door and strode toward the Dalberts' stables.

      
Rachel had tossed and turned in her sleep for weeks now, unable to rest for thinking of that…that Yankee clodpole. He'd even admitted himself that he was one. Arrogant and overbearing and used to getting his way. Of course, many people said the same of her, including her own family!

      
“Well, all the more reason we could never suit. We'd be at loggerheads every hour of the day,” she muttered to Sugar, the small white mare she was saddling.

      
But insidious thoughts about the hours of the night intruded as they had ever since she'd first met Jason Beaumont. She led Sugar from the stable and swung into the saddle, then cantered off. Why did she have to care for the loutish earl so very much? To be blindly attracted to a man so utterly unsuitable? It simply was not fair.

      
You only say that because he does not return your tendresse.

      
The unbidden thought stung her bitterly. But it did not signify. She knew it would be a disaster for them to attempt a real marriage. Building a companionable relationship and raising children together required that two people have things in common and dispositions that complemented each other. All she and Jason Beaumont seemed to do was ignite each other to maddening fury…or maddening desire.

      
The best she could hope for was to use the latter to her advantage and have the marriage consummated. If a child came of it, well… Rachel could not allow herself to hope for that. At the very least, she would be free of the marriage mart; and that was no small matter, she reminded herself as she urged Sugar into a hard gallop, letting the cool autumn wind brush her face.

      
And dry away the tears.

      
Jason reined in Araby behind a buckthorn bush and watched Rachel from a distance. She seemed to float with the breeze, utterly graceful, one with the smooth-gaited little mare. He had never seen better horsemanship in his life. She wore her usual scandalous men's britches and loose shirt. He grinned, wondering how she'd managed to leave the Dalberts' house without anyone seeing her. Or perhaps someone had. Rachel Fairchild would most probably not give a fig if a butler or a baron fainted dead away from shock.

      
He could see the way her slim thighs hugged the horse's sides, and he imagined her riding him instead. The wind picked up as she raced across the meadow, scattering bright patches of orange and gold leaves and molding the sheer linen of her shirt over her breasts. He had touched them, felt the nipples harden. She was a passionate woman who denied her nature. Why did it have to be so?

      
“Dangerous thoughts, old chap,” he murmured to himself and started to turn Araby away, but just then the wind tore the ribbon from her hair. He watched transfixed as the plait came unbound. Her thick waist-length hair streamed on the breeze, gleaming like a brown satin banner. All he could think of was burying his fists in the rich dark curls, immobilizing her head as he lowered his mouth to hers.

      
Madness. He turned his stallion and rode as if all the hounds of hell were after him, back to Roger's stables. Unlike most of his cousin's staff, the stablemen were competent, doubtless because Roger was an avid horseman and hunter. But today Jason felt the need to do some hard physical work. He dismissed them and began to rub Araby down himself. Anything to keep his mind off Rachel.

      
The horse barn smelled of hay and manure mixed with the tang of liniment and sweat, equine and human. Not an unpleasant blend, to Rachel's nostrils. She walked her lathered mare around the paddock a few times to cool her, then headed inside to rub her down. She hoped the smirking stablemen were in the kitchen having dinner. The mood she was in, she would most likely take a pitchfork to the first one who provoked her with another leer.

      
Whickering and snorts greeted her as she pulled open the side door of the barn and led Sugar in. She could hear a male voice humming. Probably one of the stable boys, she thought—until the fellow began singing a sea chantey. And a most ribald one at that. What else would she expect from a Yankee privateer?

      
His voice was a deep baritone, clear and strong. Rachel hated to admit that he could carry a tune exceedingly well. She paused by the doorway of Araby's stall and froze, unable to turn away from the sight of Jason, stripped to the waist, plying a coarse cotton cloth to the big black brute's lathered coat.

      
She was not certain which of the two, man or horse, was more soaked with perspiration. Suddenly the low-ceilinged barn seemed stiflingly close indeed. She felt a tingling warmth spread from her face to her throat, then move over her breasts and settle low in her belly like liquid fire. By contrast, her throat felt dry and scratchy, and the normally soft, much-washed fabric of her chemise abraded her suddenly swollen and tender nipples, causing them to burn.

      
She knew the reason. He stood before her, completely unaware of her presence. Rivulets of perspiration glittered like diamonds as they ran down his broad back and vanished tantalizingly into the low-slung waistband of his trousers. His skin was bronzed from hours spent under a relentless sun. With his every movement, lean, sinewy muscles rippled and tensed.

      
Rachel bit her lip to steady her breathing. Memories of that afternoon in the water came rushing back, tantalizing her with images of his wet, naked body. Somehow seeing him partially clothed, so compellingly male, aroused feelings in her that matched or even exceeded what she had felt that day. It seemed that every time they met, her desire for him intensified.

      
Was this truly love? Or merely lust? Considering that she had always been impervious to male charms, Rachel knew the answer. She needed to get away from him as quickly as possible.

      
Jason suddenly felt a prickling along the back of his neck and knew someone was watching him from the stall door. Frederick Forrestal's sneering face flashed into his mind, along with Drum's dire warnings about how dangerous the disinherited nobleman might be. Without allowing himself time to consider anything further, he spun around, using the heavy cotton rubdown cloth as a weapon, snapping it sharply into the face of the intruder. Then he dived forward, tackling his prey and throwing them both to the straw-covered ground.

      
Both Araby and Sugar started prancing and whinnying in fright, trying to avoid stomping on the crazy humans rolling around beneath their hooves.

      
Rachel tasted the pungent musk of horse sweat as the wet cloth smacked her face with a sharp sting. Before she could do more than grunt, her breath was knocked from her and she found herself lying on the stable floor with Jason on top of her. As soon as she could take in sufficient breath, she let out a volley of strident curses.