Page 128

T he sole of her half boot slipped on the first rock, and she cursed, wishing for a lantern. Clouds covered the night sky and hid what little light she’d get from the quarter moon. The drizzle had turned to gentle rain that nevertheless seeped into her bodice and skirt.

Still, she’d crossed this way so many times she should know the stones by heart and?—

Her foot slid and twisted and she slipped into the water up to her hip. She clung to the rock, her nails raking the cold stone for purchase. The sodden brocade dragged yet she managed to crawl up and seat herself.

She ought to have shed the skirt and hoops before crossing. Now, the soaked ties would have to be cut, and her knife was packed away in her bag at the folly.

Tears threatened again as she thought of Simon.

Simon with Miss Hazelton. And the execrable Percy Nacton?

Someone would come after her, but she felt certain Fitz wouldn’t allow Percy to do so.

Nor Simon, or anyone else who might compromise her.

And she wasn’t at all certain her brothers would rouse themselves to come tonight, unless Mama insisted.

And she might. Her mother’s refusal to allow her to meet Sally in London had surprised her.

The argument over visiting Sally in Birmingham…

that had broken her heart. Mama could be strict but she’d never been unreasonable and unfair and so high in the instep.

If Sally was respectable enough for Mrs. Thomas’s academy, why couldn’t she visit her?

No, her mother wouldn’t make escape easy, and if she learned of the aphrodisiac, Nancy would never be allowed any sort of freedom, ever again. Never mind that it was her beef-witted brother’s fault.

It had all slipped out of her control, and the rest would as well if she spent too much time thinking. She’d best make haste, change quickly, and go as far as her feet would carry her.

A not so short while later, drenched and miserable, she dragged herself and her wet skirts up the steps of the pillared portico and found the door to the folly locked.

She rattled the knob, certain she’d left it unlocked, and with a sharp oath, sunk to the flagstones and gave into the tears of frustration and rage she’d been fighting.

Simon—what had she done, driving him into the arms of Miss Hazelton?

And… James had almost poisoned him, and it was her own fault for asking his help.

I nside the folly, Simon heard the door rattle and he chuckled.

He’d locked it, a retaliatory prank of his own. If she broke a window to enter, he’d cover the cost of replacement. It would be worth it to see how determined she’d be.

She would find a way to enter, he was certain.

Inside the folly, he’d had time to light candles, close curtains, and kindle a fire, before chucking off his wet shirt and stockings and rubbing himself down with a dry blanket he’d found in the side bedroom. The folly was far more elegant than it had been during his visits so many years earlier.

A valise, stuffed with a gown and the delicate white cloth of a lady’s underthings, had been stowed in a cabinet.

A huge hamper of food and wine sat on a table in the main room.

The valise must be the one Mary said Nancy had brought over earlier.

But the hamper—how she’d managed to bring that, and how she’d carry it with her, if that was her plan, he had no idea.

He went to the door, pressed his ear to the panel, and waited.

The sound of sobbing, followed by choking, then angry cursing, sent his emotions tumbling with memories of his mother, a woman who, when all other means of persuasion proved fruitless, fell back on piteous weeping to get her way.

He shook off the thought. This was Nancy and she couldn’t know he was here.

With a soft click he turned the key in the well-oiled lock and opened the door.

Her head shot up, her mouth fell open, and she stumbled to her feet, looking not at all happy to see him. “S-simon?” She choked in a breath. “H-how… You’re here?”

Light from the open door revealed tear-ravaged eyes under tendrils of wet hair. Her clothes were soaked as well, more so than from just the rain. He longed to take her into his arms, like…

The full memory flooded him, the sensations, the overwhelming desire he’d almost succumbed to when he’d kissed her at Lady Chilcombe’s.

The wild hair, the clinging skirts, the sheer vulnerability—she was just as desirable now, even more so.

“Did you swim across?” he asked, forcing a placid tone.

She shuddered and shook her head. “I s-slipped and f-fell in. If you must know.”

“You crossed on the rocks?”

With an irritated frown, she nodded, and he quashed a wave of tenderness. Her pride was smarting. “Anyone would slip on a night like this. You’ll want to get out of those wet things.”

She blinked, her gaze lingering on his bare chest, traveling over his trousers to his bare feet and up again. Even in the dim light he saw her color rising, stirring his own desire.

Damping down his urges, he smiled. “As it happened, since I was bound to be soaked by the rain anyway, I took the quickest way and swam across. Excuse my deshabille. I’ve started a fire for us.” He stood aside and gestured for her to enter, and then saw her hesitation.

“You’re safe with me, Nancy. The Swilling Duke is not present, just me, Simon.”

She’d lost her fichu and the stomacher, wet and weighed down by ornate beading, sagged. He could see the top of her nipples, pebbled, pert, and beckoning. Her hair streamed down to her waist in passionate disarray.

As she stood biting her lower lip, desire made a liar out of him. How safe was she when lust was flooding him, hot and urgent?

He gripped the edge of the door to keep from reaching for her. “Can we begin again, my love? Like old times? Your brother’s friend, a soldier, an unworthy clerk’s son courting his best friend’s sister, a baron’s daughter?”

A shiver went through her and echoed in his heart, deeper than his lust, purer than his desire. This lovely girl was meant to be his, he knew it for certain. He just had to convince her as well.

“We’re not courting, S-simon.” She swept past, defiant in her sodden skirt, splashing his bare feet as she shoved the awkward hoops through the door.

N ancy scanned the room as she walked to the beckoning warmth of the hearth.

Candles brightened the soft angles of this central parlor, shimmered in mirrors, and cast shadows over carved wainscotting and Turkey carpets.

In her hurried visit that morning, she’d barely noticed the remodeled décor.

That basket, with bread and tall bottles protruding, had most certainly not been here.

If Simon swam across, it must have been delivered earlier.

She squeezed back another rush of angry tears. Someone else would appear here tonight. Some couple seeking the romance of the folly—Fitz and Mel, probably. The restoration had been Fitz’s project after all, his gift to Mel.

She leaned her forehead against the warming mantel. Tangle on top of tangle—when Fitz arrived, she would be safe from this half-naked Simon, with his gorgeous bare chest and beautiful bare feet, and the tight trousers that hugged his legs and showed… everything. How could a girl not notice?

She’d be trapped. Fitz wouldn’t let her sneak off into the night, and until he arrived, she’d still have to deal with Simon.

Getting him drunk would take too long. Bashing him on the head—she couldn’t do it.

She hated that James had almost poisoned him.

Humiliating Simon, thrashing him even, yes, but she couldn’t do him real harm.

Still, she must somehow get rid of him, if she wanted to leave.

If she wanted to leave .

Can we begin again, my love ? What did he mean, his love ?

Oh, how she wanted that to be more than just some courtly lie to get at her dowry, that he could want her as much as she wanted him.

Or, as much as she’d once wanted him. She’d known him most of her life, yet they were barely acquainted, as his behavior at Lady Chilcombe’s ball had proven.

Men were another species of humans.

“Do you need help with those skirts?” The melting baritone tickled her ear and sent another shiver through her.

Her wet, stringy hair lifted. A warm blanket came around her shoulders and she hugged it to her, wanting to weep for the tenderness, knowing she must resist if she truly wanted to leave.

Turning, she raised her eyes. Dark hair plastered his forehead and neck. The egg yolk had washed away in the lake, but even from this distance, he smelled like pondwater.

Or maybe it was her own self she smelled. The thought made her smile, and her smile triggered an answering one from him that set butterflies aflutter inside her.

Light from the candles danced and flickered over wide shoulders, sculpted muscles, and a sprinkling of dark hair between the manly flat nipples of Simon’s chest. Her heart raced as she fought the force pulling her toward him.

“Does this dress tie?” he asked, matter-of-factly, studying her gown and breaking the spell. “Or are there hooks?”

“The skirts and hoops tie. They’re so wet, I may have to cut them.”

He gave her a long look. “Is there a knife in your bag? That is your bag in the cupboard, isn’t it?”

So, he’d found her valise. There’d be no sneaking away.

“Yes,” she hissed.

He tucked the blanket more securely. “Wait here. I’ll find it.”

In the end, he carried the valise over to a table for her, and with the scissors from her small sewing kit, she freed herself and pushed down the skirt, petticoat and panniers to find Simon watching.

He’d given her no privacy, but it didn’t matter. There’d been no privacy in the shed where they’d changed, and anyway, the dress bodice covered her to her waist, and she still wore Puck’s trousers.

Her boot stuck in a hoop, and she wobbled. Strong hands caught her and lifted her, freeing her from the frivolous boning.

“Trousers.” He laughed, setting her back. “Puck’s trousers?”