Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series Page 10

In the stable yard stood an Arabian with a glossy black coat and an exceedingly round belly. The mare nuzzled the nose of skewbald pony with cream-colored markings and which stood at least three hands shorter. Long, fringed lashes swept down as the mare’s eyes closed, as if with pure affection. The pony responded in kind, pressing his muzzle to her neck.

  The sight stole Merribeth’s attention for a moment. Then the fragrant breeze hit her again, and her focus returned to her main goal. With a slight shift of her gaze, she spotted the object of her obsession—though whether it was the coffee or the man holding it, she couldn’t be entirely sure.

  Sitting on the wide top rail of the fence, with his back against a tall corner post, was none other than Lord Knightswold. In his grasp, he held an earthenware tankard, with a hinged pewter lid propped open over the handle. Ribbons of steam curled upward, and by the rich fragrance drifting toward her, she knew it wasn’t ale he drank this early in the morning but something far more pleasing.

  Beside her, Sophie kept pace. “My, what a surprise. He appears quite comfortable there, does he not?”

  As he drew the tankard to his lips, she couldn’t help but admire his profile. That easy, languid grace he carried with him was patently evident now. Even though he scarcely moved, there was something in the way he watched the horses that spoke of contentment. She felt as if she were seeing a man perfectly at home in his surroundings.

  Yet as she drew closer, she noticed something else that puzzled her. He looked different somehow. There was an unguarded quality to him this morning, here with these horses. She had the strange suspicion that this was the only time she’d witness such an expression. At the thought, an unfamiliar yearning to understand more about him unfurled inside her.

  She pressed her fist to her breast, where she felt it stir.

  “Are you unwell?” Sophie asked, slowing her steps.

  Realizing what she’d done, and disliking that she wasn’t allowed an unguarded moment, she dropped her hand to her side. Keeping her gaze straight ahead, Merribeth said, “I could say ‘perfectly well,’ if you were only now waking me.”

  Although he made no observable motion that gave his awareness away, she saw the change in Bane instantly. One moment, he was content to be alone with the horses and the next, he was aware and guarded. It was as if the morning light over the paddock suddenly dimmed and the air around him darkened.

  Slowly, he turned his gaze, a carefully crafted smile of greeting in place. Yet when he saw who approached, his smiled altered into the smirk she knew better. Unbidden, a blush warmed her cheeks, even before she had the presence of mind to know what embarrassed her.

  “Forgive our trespass on your solitude, Lord Knightswold,” her aunt said. “We were drawn in by the quaint image of these two affectionate friends.”

  Merribeth turned with a start, only to realize Sophie was referring to the horses. But of course she was. Thankfully, her aunt didn’t notice the look of dismay that must have been on her face.

  Bane chuckled. Of course, he wouldn’t miss a thing. “There is nothing to forgive, Mrs. Leander. They enjoy the attention.”

  Merribeth didn’t have to look at him to know his amusement was directed at her, but she lifted her gaze all the same.

  She was right. He was looking at her and rather intently too. Though nothing had happened last night in his bedchamber, she felt changed all the same, as if a bond had been forged between them. They were connected now. He’d vowed to help her in her quest. And without knowing very much about him at all, she knew he was not a man who made promises lightly.

  “Good morning,” she said, her voice insubstantial, as if every remnant of breath had left her body.

  He lifted his tankard in salute. “And to you.” Then he took a sip, and suddenly she was reliving the feel of his lips beneath hers and tasting the flavors that mingled on his tongue. Just as suddenly, a heated shimmer flared in his gaze, as if they were of like mind.

  She heard a small sound, like the mew of a cat, and realized with embarrassment that the noise had come from her.

  Reaching up, she placed her hand to her throat. “Forgive me, I—” She broke off, not knowing what to say. After all, she couldn’t very well announce that she’d been reliving the kiss they’d shared. Or rather, the one she’d borrowed and then returned.

  “I’m certain Lord Knightswold wouldn’t be shocked by your secret”—Sophie began, startling Merribeth for a beat—“fondness for coffee.”

  “Very little shocks me anymore,” Bane said, sounding like the jaded man everyone knew him to be. Everyone except for Merribeth. She didn’t know why, but she knew there was much more to him than he let on.

  And she had the strange urge to discover it all.

  “Would you care for a sip, Miss Wakefield?” He held the tankard out in offering.

  “Thank you,” she said without considering how it looked. It only occurred to her after that if anyone else had made the offer, she would have politely declined. Too late now. She already had her hands on the ornately carved earthenware.

  Sophie let out a gasp. Knowing that her aunt wasn’t usually prudish when it came to matters of propriety, Merribeth turned her curious gaze on her.

  “Is that a depiction of the Knights Templar on your cup?” Sophie asked.

  “It is,” Bane answered. “One of Eve’s ancestors discovered a collection of relics in the caves beneath the priory ruins. The cook, Mrs. Carwin, keeps them locked in her cupboard but allows me to use this one for my coffee when I visit. She claims it’s better to fill this once than to risk her fine crockery in the stables.”

  “A collection. Do you think she would allow me to . . .” Sophie’s eyes went round. Then, as if she remembered her place as chaperone, she turned to Merribeth. “You wouldn’t mind if I abandoned you for a moment, would you?”

  Merribeth lifted the tankard and took a sip. “I am content to be right here. Besides, we are in full view of the house”—though no one else was likely awake at this hour—“and there are at least a dozen groomsmen and gardeners milling about,” though she had yet to see one.

  Apparently, it was all the excuse her aunt needed. With a wide grin that made her look ten years younger, Sophie patted her shoulder and left in the direction of the kitchen.

  “I’m quite put out,” Bane said, feigning insult. “One woman abandons my company in favor of some dusty relics, and the other only wants me for my coffee.”

  Merribeth smiled, greedily breathing in the dark aroma. “I’m certain my aunt would have remained if she were fond of coffee as well. There is plenty to share.”

  “Somehow, I doubt she would want to sip from the same tankard.”

  She took another sip. “Mmm . . . perhaps.”

  “Though you are not bothered by it,” he said, his voice low, evoking a memory of a darkened study. “In fact, you turned it so the rim touched your lips where it had touched mine.”

  She lifted her gaze to his, waiting for embarrassment to come at the truth of his statement. She’d done it on purpose, knowing full well that he was watching her. However, no sudden flame burst in her cheeks. “Perhaps I was claiming the rest of it for my own.”

  To make her point, she took another long draw of the deliciously dark elixir. She closed her eyes but not before she saw another flare of heat in his.

  “You need no help in flirting,” he said with a wry chuckle that nearly sounded like a groan. “I’ve a mind to take lessons from you instead.”

  Panicked, her gaze flew to his. “But I do need your help. I am never like this with anyone else. You’re the one who makes it easy to . . .”—be myself, she nearly said and wondered where the thought had come from—“to flirt.” She took a breath. “I need you to teach me how to be this way with other gentlemen.”

  His gaze darkened. He lifted a leg from the opposite side of the fence and jumped down to the ground with ease, though perhaps landing too close to her. Yet, he didn’t move apart—to keep a proper distance—and neither d
id she. “If I were any other man, a statement like that might make me jealous.”

  How her pulse could go from something of which she barely took notice to something that practically burst through her skin, from one moment to the next, she did not know. Right now, it was all she could feel. Her whole being was one violently pounding pulse point. “But you are not just any other man, are you?”

  He shook his head, and his gaze drifted to her mouth. In the next instant, his hand was beneath her jaw, pressing against her wild pulse. The pad of his thumb swept over her bottom lip, spreading the dewy remains of the coffee like a balm.

  Without thinking, her tongue darted out for one last taste, only to come into contact with his thumb. Driven by impulse, she closed her lips over the tip and flicked her tongue across his flesh. He tasted salty and smelled like leather, pine, and coffee. She closed her eyes and swirled her tongue over him again.

  Bane’s low growl shocked her out of her temporary insanity. She took a step back, discontinuing the contact. What had she been thinking?

  This is all part of flirting, she tried to tell herself. Yet a small voice inside her whispered that this was quite different, at least for her.

  Clearly, she hadn’t been thinking at all.

  Not knowing how to explain her actions, she abruptly thrust the tankard at him. The lid fell closed with an audible clap. “Perhaps my aunt is right. I should limit the amount of coffee I consume.”

  “Or perhaps you should be wary of the company you keep.” He smirked at her, his thumb absently stroking the lip of the tankard.

  A laugh of self-mockery bubbled out of her throat. “I’m beginning to think it is the other way around.”

  Bane found himself distracted all morning and through luncheon.

  The crux of his problem lay in the fact that he’d made a bargain with Eve to be sociable. In other words, he couldn’t escape.

  Eve thought it would be a grand idea to picnic on fringed blankets overlooking the pond. Luncheon baskets were packed to serve two, which forced an intimacy within the group. Bane had the unfortunate pleasure of Daniela’s company.

  They sat beneath the veils of willow branches on the far side of the party. Most everyone chatted amiably. With the party situated on a slight hill that sloped down to the water, it made for easy conversation, acting almost like an amphitheater. They didn’t have to raise their voices, even when conversing with those upon other blankets. This observation, however, went unnoticed by the exuberant widow.

  “You have not touched your cake. Have you no taste for sweets, or are your appetites more of the savory variety?”

  Several pairs of eyes flashed in their direction, including Miss Wakefield’s. “Though I’m certain the cake is divine, I simply do not care for currants,” he said, ignoring her efforts at flirtation.

  She gave a laugh and reached forward to pinch off a corner of his cake, displaying her bosom to greatest advantage. “How very singular, my lord. Perhaps you could use more variety in your life.”

  How she’d ever managed to pique his interest, he couldn’t fathom. Her inane bawdy talk was tiresome. He was of a mind to thank Eve for their bargain. It had saved him from making an enormous error.

  “I do not believe I am alone in my aversion. It appears Miss Wakefield doesn’t like her cake either.” The truth of his statement was in a mass of crumbs spread out over her napkin, with a pile of currants off to the side. Why the sight stirred him, he had no idea.

  Well, perhaps he had some idea. He just didn’t want to think about it at the moment.

  “Oh?” Daniela cast an appraising look over her shoulder and then returned the full force of her attention to him. “It appears our dear Meriwether doesn’t care for carrots either, whereas I enjoy carrots a great deal.”

  “My aunt and I are saving the carrots for the horses,” Merribeth commented innocently, apparently not noticing that Mrs. Leander and several others cringed at the widow’s thinly veiled innuendo.

  When Archer let out a chuckle, and her gaze slipped to her aunt’s, Venus’s eyes went round. Quick learner that she was, a wave of understanding dawned and with it, a fresh flood of color to her cheeks.

  In the next instant, she narrowed her eyes, and the breeze blew the dark, curling tendrils from her forehead to reveal her wickedly arched brow. A peculiar thrill shot through him.

  “Oh gracious, Sophie,” she said with a convincing pretense of alarm, pointing up to the branches. “Is that a nest of spiders over Lord Knightswold’s head?”

  Her comment was met with instant shrieking. Daniela leapt to her feet and flew out from beneath the canopy. In fact, she was so quick that if she had been a horse up for auction, he would have paid a monkey for her.

  “I believe those are silkworms. Perfectly harmless,” Mrs. Leander commented calmly, as if there weren’t a woman dancing around and shrieking a few steps away. She gave her niece a small smile of approval.

  Eve took this opportunity to stand and redirect the party’s focus. “Whether spiders or silkworms, it’s clear that our luncheon is over.” She smoothed her hands down the front of another perfectly tailored dress, which likely had cost Bane a pretty penny. “I propose to take our party round the bend to where I spy a trail of goslings. If we take our crumbs, we could feed them.”

  Surprisingly, no one offered resistance but readily gathered crusts of bread into napkins and followed the path to the opposite end of the pond. Archer went behind the hill where Daniela had disappeared.

  Bane was in no hurry to join the party, partly because he longed to enjoy a few moments of quiet solitude and partly because he saw that Venus had forgotten her shawl. Any moment, she would return for it.

  Preoccupied by the idea, he made his way to the shore and began tossing bits of crust into the water. It bothered him that he’d found himself distracted by her since they’d met. He couldn’t even sleep without thoughts of her interfering. Now, knowing that she was staying in the next room only made it worse. He couldn’t wait for the party to end, for this . . . obsession of his to cease.

  Then why was he waiting for her to return for her shawl?

  He shook his head. This wasn’t like him.

  In the early morning hours, he’d come up with a likely conclusion to explain his unusual behavior. His bargain with Eve. Apparently, declaring abstinence for a fortnight kept him constantly imagining the opposite. Though why his mind only entertained the idea with Miss Wakefield was another puzzle. After all, he never dallied with virgins. What would be the point? Virgins knew nothing about pleasure . . .

  His thoughts drifted back to this morning and to the way her warm, soft mouth had closed over the tip of his thumb and to the feel of her tongue swirling over his flesh.

  He shuddered.

  All right. So perhaps this particular virgin knew a little about pleasure, albeit accidentally. Certainly enough to pique the interest of an engorged part of his anatomy. Venus possessed a natural instinct for pleasure that could easily be guided by the right instructor . . .

  Damn! He must stop these thoughts at once!

  He looked down at the erection, straining into an unmistakable tent beneath the fall of his breeches. It actually caused him pain, a deep, clenching ache. He wanted nothing more than to grab the next available female, seduce her right here on the lush bed of grass, and hear her whisper his name over and over again. Bane. Bane . . .

  “Lord Knightswold?” a familiar voice asked, just as a hand touched his shoulder.

  He jerked, startled away from his erotic thoughts, only to find the object of them before him. “Miss Wakefield.”

  “I apologize for startling you. I spoke your name several times.”

  He didn’t have a ready response and so let his gaze drift over her features—the sooty lashes that framed her blue eyes, berry-stained lips, elegant throat with a wildly thrumming pulse beneath her jaw, and back to the berry-stained lips again. He knew their texture. Their warmth. Their flavor.

  She blushed a
s if she’d read his thoughts.

  “I see no reason to delay your instruction,” he said, grasping at the first non-erotic thought he could pinpoint. Then again, part of him was imagining another type of instruction, especially when he saw the tip of her tongue dart out to wet her lips.

  “My instruction? Oh, yes. The flirting, of course,” she stammered, as if her own thoughts were as muddled as his. “I don’t know. I really shouldn’t tarry. It would make people suspicious.”

  “We’ll walk together,” he said without analyzing how quickly he came up with a reason to keep her company. However, as he moved forward and felt a twinge in his groin, he knew that he’d need a moment before he could walk without making his condition obvious. Then again, all Merribeth had to do was look down.

  He moved to stand behind her and settled his hands at her shoulders. “You look flushed, overly warm. Allow me to carry your shawl.” Before she could consent, he slipped it from her shoulders and held it in front of him. However, the motion caused the soft pear-blossom scent of her hair and skin to rise. Drawing in a breath caused another jolt of pain through him.

  “Thank you,” she breathed, unaware of his agony. “It is rather warm. I believe the goslings have the right of it by keeping to the water.”

  Venus in the water was the last image he needed at the moment. He nearly groaned. “As for your instruction, we’ll begin with the most rudimentary.” Somehow, he soldiered on and started down the narrow path. Since he chose a meandering pace to conceal any oddness in his gait, she easily kept up with him. “The key to flirting is all in the look. You have to look at a man as if you know a secret about him.”

  “A secret,” she mused, a playful smirk drawing out a tiny dimple in the corner of her mouth. “Like filching the silver?”

  Grateful for the distraction, he chuckled and shook his head. “An intimate secret, my dear.” It was strange how the endearment slipped out naturally. Since he was certain she would merely believe it was his way of flirting, he refused to think too much of it. “Try Sir Colin, there.”

  Up ahead, the man in question was warding off an attack of feathers. Each time his wife nodded or turned her head in conversation with Eve, the plumage sticking out from her turban would slap him in the face, causing him to scratch his nose. No doubt, Eve was completely aware of this and delighted in holding Cordelia in conversation for the sole reason of torturing one of her guests.