Gloucestershire, England
March 1803
The second he stepped outside, the wind ripped the hat from Edward Astley’s head and carried it to the top of a nearby elm tree, where it became lodged. He bit back a curse as he crossed the small yard to his horse. Wasn’t that just the kind of week he was having? In addition to the impending disaster bearing down on him, he’d ridden all the way out here, to the house of his former tutor, Mr. Julian St. Cyr, and he hadn’t even learned what he’d hoped to find out.
And, judging by the rapidly darkening sky, now he was going to get drenched to the bone.
He urged his mount into a canter, hoping to cover as much ground as he could before the skies opened. This had been his best shot, his only shot, really, at learning something useful. Edward wasn’t the type to panic, but he only had two weeks to figure this out, and if he couldn’t…
If he couldn’t, his brother would be left hanging in the wind, exposed to both their father’s wrath and society’s scorn. And although, in truth, this whole ridiculous situation was Harrington’s fault, Edward would never allow that to occur. There was nothing he would not do for his brother. Edward would lay down in a muddy ditch and die for Harrington without a second’s hesitation.
The thought sounded strangely appealing, compared to what he was now going to have to do instead.
He was riding through a grove of cherry trees when something caught his eye, a blur of pale blue just visible through the branches. He squinted and saw a flash of copper.
Suddenly every hair on the back of his neck was standing on end. Although he knew he needed to return home with all possible haste, he found himself reining his horse in. Even as he chastised himself for being ridiculous, he steered his gelding through the cherry trees, and a pond came into view.
That was when he saw her.
A single ray of light penetrated the gathering clouds, and no subject of a Raphael painting had ever been better illuminated. She was floating on a rowboat in the middle of the pond like a water nymph surveying her demesne. She wore a simple gown of pale blue, and a cascade of red curls tumbled down her back.
God, he had always been so partial to redheads, and she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, by a very wide margin. She had a heart-shaped face and perfectly shaped coral-pink lips, the bottom just a hair fuller than the top. She was biting that full bottom lip in consternation. Edward also could not help but notice that his nymph had a figure that would tempt any ancient god who stumbled across her bathing in her pool to sin, with breasts that were neither large nor small, but which suddenly struck him as being precisely the right size. The outlines of her nipples, clearly visible through the thin fabric, were both tantalizing and tempting. She looked to be neither tall nor short, with delicate shoulders and a lithe waist, which led to the delightful swell of her hips.
He could see… everything. Hell, that dress fit her like a second skin…
Wait. It was difficult to think when his senses were being bombarded with so much female gorgeousness, but somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind the thought emerged that the reason her dress fit her like a second skin was because it was soaking wet. That the delicate shoulders were drawn up and subtly quivering, and those lush, full lips were a bit… blue.
He shook himself. How disgraceful, to be gawking at the poor girl when she was freezing to death. He nudged his horse to the edge of the pond and opened his mouth to offer his assistance.
But the words died on his lips as it hit him—this wasn’t just any gorgeous woman.
He knew this girl. It had been ten years since last he saw her, ten years since he had sat caddy-corner to her in her father’s classroom, but he was sure of it.
“Miss Elissa?” he asked in shock.
Elissa St. Cyr had done it this time.
She was hardly a stranger to calamity; one might say it was her stock in trade. Nor was this the first time reading out of doors had been the cause of her downfall. There had been the time when she was ten and had thought she could finish the last few pages of Xenophon’s Anabasis during the short walk to church. She had wandered straight into Mrs. Naesmith’s blackberry bramble, and it had taken a quarter of an hour to disentangle herself. She could still recall the way the preacher fell silent, and everyone turned to stare as she slunk into church with her dress torn and her arms covered in scratches.
There had been another incident when she was twelve. It must have been a Wednesday, because Wednesday was the day the village shop received a box of books from the big circulating library at Cheltenham to supplement the two shelves they kept behind the counter for lending. Elissa never missed a Wednesday and, besides, she had to return the book she had out, Francis Fawkes’s translation of Argonautica. She had been reading a favorite passage one final time as she walked along.
That was when she tripped over the pig (because of course there happened to be a pig just wandering by) and fell flat on her face in the middle of the road.
She was unharmed, but the incident was unfortunate in that it was witnessed by William Ricketts, one of her father’s students. More specifically, William Rickets was the worst of her many tormentors inside the classroom. The Unfortunate Pig Incident had given him years’ worth of fodder.
Then there was the Bicklebury Bog Debacle.
Elissa still did not like to think about the Bicklebury Bog Debacle. She’d had to wait until Farmer Broadwater had fetched his plough horse to pull her out, by which time a crowd had gathered to point and laugh.
That had been when Elissa finally swore off reading and walking, but she still loved to read outdoors. There was nothing like a picturesque spot to truly stir the imagination. Farmer Broadwater, her rescuer all those years ago, didn’t mind if she borrowed his rowboat, and when she was reading something set on the water, she liked to lie in it. The gentle bobbing gave her the feeling of being aboard a ship, right there amongst the ancient heroes who sprang right off the page and into her imagination.
She always kept the boat tied to the dock. She had never dreamed that anything could go wrong.
Today had been the first day of the year that had truly felt like spring, and she just had to get outside. She had grabbed Plutarch’s Life of Theseus from the library and set out after luncheon. As always, she had become lost in the tale, and must have read for the better part of three hours.
She sat up when she saw the clouds rolling in. She ran a hand over her opposite arm and was startled to find gooseflesh; she had been so caught up in the story, she only now noticed that the temperature had dropped by ten degrees. And that was when she noticed what had happened.
At some point, the rowboat had come untied from the dock and drifted into the center of the pond. A quick search revealed that there wasn’t an oar in the boat, but no matter—the pond was small enough that she could use her hand to paddle back to shore.
It was when she failed to make any progress that she noticed the rope had become entangled in an underwater tree that had been left in place when they flooded the hollow. Try as she might, Elissa was unable to work the rope free. And although she picked at it until her fingers bled, she wasn’t able to loosen the knot.
By this time, the weather was really starting to turn, and she shouted as loudly as she could for Farmer Broadwater, whose house was just over the rise. This was to no avail, and that was when she began to grow fearful. A storm was coming, a bad one, and she knew she couldn’t be stuck on the water with absolutely no protection.
The only option she could come up with was to wade to shore. Although she couldn’t swim, the pond was small, and most of it wasn’t very deep. Perhaps she could touch bottom.
She lowered herself, trembling, into the water, and was quickly disabused of that hope. The outside of the boat was slimy with moss, and she immediately lost her grip. Her chest seized with panic as her head went under, but she managed to grab a tree limb with a flailing arm and pull her head back out of the water. It was a struggle to get back into the slippery boat, especially after her hair became snarled in the tree, and she tried and failed so many times it began to feel like she was never going to make it out of the frigid water. By the time she finally collapsed into the bottom of the boat, her hair had unraveled from its pins, and her whole body was shaking with fatigue and terror.
That had been perhaps an hour ago, an hour in which the temperature had continued to plummet. The thin muslin gown that had seemed perfect for a sunny spring afternoon was grossly inadequate for the current conditions, and between her sodden state and the way her thoughts were becoming muddled, she was fairly certain she was growing hypothermic.
She had mumbled every prayer her frozen brain could dredge from her memory. Elissa had always prided herself on being self-reliant. She may have her head stuck in the clouds, but she had never been the type to sit around and wait for someone to come to her rescue. Life had taught her there was no such thing as a prince on a white horse.
But if ever she had needed someone to be her hero, it was right now.
And then she heard it—the cadence of hoofbeats on the nearby path. She tried to cry out, but she was so cold she could only manage a sad little croak.
The hoofbeats slowed, and she could see something moving through the trees.
It proved to be a man.
A man on a white horse.
And—oh, God, surely this could not be happening…
Although Elissa knew she needed help, and had in fact just spent the better part of two hours praying fervently for someone, anyone, to happen along, she could not believe her terrible luck.
Because if there was anyone on the face of this earth she did not want to witness her in this, the most humiliating moment of her remarkably humiliating life, it was Edward Astley.
It had been ten years since last she saw him. He had been seventeen, as she recalled (“as she recalled”—as if she did not recall it all perfectly!) At an age when most boys had been spotty-faced and awkward, Edward Astley was already breathtakingly handsome, showing every indication that he would become this outstanding specimen of the male species, whom the newspapers reported that the tittering ladies of London had dubbed “Prince Charming.”
Certainly, he deserved it. Although he looked much the same as she remembered, his shoulders were broader, his jaw squarer, and he appeared to have grown even taller. He looked the part of the ideal country lord. He was riding a gorgeous white Irish Hunter and was impeccably turned out in buff breeches and glossy top boots, with a cream waistcoat and flawlessly white linen. His coat was the color considered most suitable for the country, a pale brown shade called drab. On anyone else, it would have looked, well, drab, but on Edward Astley the dull color only served to make his thick, glossy, dark brown hair look richer by contrast. And as for his eyes…
They called them the Astley eyes. She had heard that his mother had them, and four of his six siblings. They were huge and as blue as… Elissa didn’t even know how to finish that sentence, because she had never seen anything as blue as Edward Astley’s eyes. Even from fifteen yards away, she could make out their color.
Those eyes were currently staring at her in shock. Oh, but this was mortifying!
Get a hold of yourself, Elissa. It wasn’t that bad. He didn’t seem to recognize her. Gracious, after all these years, he probably didn’t even remember her!
“Miss Elissa?”
Well—er—so much for that hope. She cleared her rusty throat. “Lord Fauconbridge,” she replied, using his title (because as the heir to the Earl of Cheltenham, he was known by the courtesy title Viscount Fauconbridge). She sifted through her brain for the appropriate manner in which to converse with a viscount whilst one was floating on a pond in a gathering thunderstorm, wearing a translucent dress. “How—er—lovely to see you again.”
“Yes, what an unexpected plea—” He was interrupted by a rumble from the sky above. “Forgive me, Miss Elissa, but are you perhaps in need of some assistance?”
“Indeed I am.” She could hear her own voice trembling with gratitude. She gestured to the front of the boat. “The rope has become entangled in this tree, and I cannot free it. I fear I am stuck. I—I cannot swim, you see.”
He swung down off his horse. “I see,” he said, draping the reins over a branch.
“If you would be so kind, Farmer Broadwater’s house is just over that rise,” she said, gesturing. “If you would alert him, he can fetch the neighbor’s boat.”
“Ah,” he said, brightening, “there is another boat. Where is it? I am sure that, given the circumstances, the owner would not object to my commandeering it.”
Elissa flushed. “I wouldn’t want you to go to such trouble."
“It is no trouble at all.”
She swallowed. “It is a mile, maybe a mile and a half, down the road.”
“A mile and a half—” He broke off, looking affronted, and began peeling off his coat.
“What—what are you doing?”
“You cannot wait that long,” he said firmly. He hung his coat from another branch and began tugging at one of his boots.
Oh, dear God, he meant to come in after her! “Please, my lord,” she sputtered, “I would never expect for you to—"
“You should,” he said, grunting as the boot slid free. “What kind of blackguard would leave you there with a storm coming?”
He had never seemed to understand that she wasn’t the kind of girl who received such solicitude. “I’m not worth the trouble,” she said ruefully.
He looked up, shocked that she would even suggest such a thing. “Of course you are.”
She sighed. This was why Edward Astley would always be her beau idéal. Not because he was devastatingly handsome (which he was), or because he was rich, or because he was heir to an earldom. Not even because he was so smart (although she had always found that even more appealing than his good looks). After leaving her father’s tutelage, he had gone on to win just about every award the University of Cambridge gave out, including its most prestigious, Senior Wrangler, which was given to the best student in mathematics. He had also been named second Classical Medalist, having completed the near-impossible feat of being a top student in both mathematics and classics.
But more than any of those things, the reason Edward Astley had always made Elissa a bit weak about the knees was because he had always been so kind to her.
By the time Elissa had been old enough to join her father’s classroom, Edward had gone off to Eton. But during school breaks, he would ride over twice a week to take some additional lessons. The days when he was there had been completely different. Her father’s other students seemed to be universally of the opinion that it was unnatural for a girl to study Greek and Latin. Mostly they would ignore her, but there were a few, led by William Ricketts, who seemed affronted by her mere existence, and were constantly making remarks just skirting the inappropriate, trying to get a rise out of her.
But Edward would not brook any boorish behavior in her presence. As soon as William Ricketts started in on her, he would clear his throat, say, “Come, Ricketts,” and nod toward Elissa with a genial smile. He always assumed the best about everyone, assumed that Ricketts was a good sort who had momentarily forgotten himself (Elissa could have disabused him of that notion).
It hadn’t been anything extraordinary, just little things like the way he would smile and say, ‘Good morning, Miss Elissa,’ when she walked into the classroom. He often made an interested observation after she read her translation aloud (an event that was usually followed by the sound of crickets, at best). Once she had broken the nib of her pen, and he had immediately handed her his spare.
She knew very well that he didn’t like her, at least, not in the same way she liked him, nor did she expect him to. But he had treated her like his fellow student, at a point in her life when everyone else had treated her like an oddity. It was a small thing, but one that head meant a tremendous amount to her.
From the bank of the pond, he cleared his throat. “And it is obvious that you are rather cold.”
Oh dear—he had caught her woolgathering. “I cannot deny it,” she said, hugging her arms around her chest.
He divested himself of his second boot and waded into the pond. Once he was waist-deep, he leaned forward and began slicing through the water with smooth, precise strokes.
He made three attempts to disentangle the rope, twice diving down under the water and not resurfacing for what seemed like too long. After the last attempt he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead (gracious, she had never seen a man with such thick hair in her life). “You are right,” he said, “it is well and truly tangled. I fear there’s nothing for it—we’ll have to swim. Please don’t worry. I am confident in my ability to convey you safely to shore.”
She had no concerns on that front; she had seen how efficiently he cut through the water. The only question was as to the mechanics of how this was to be accomplished. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, and she could hear her own voice trembling with sincerity. “Um, how should I, er—”
“Let’s see,” he said quickly. “I can pull down on the side of the boat. Can you—”
“Yes, let me just—”
Her dress snagged on the lip of the boat as she slid into the water. She felt a rush of cold air all the way up to her thighs as her skirts were pulled up. Oh dear—well, she was into the water so quickly, he probably didn’t see any higher than her knees. At least, that was what she was going to tell herself. She was gripping the side of the boat with both hands, in the water up to her collarbone, when he wrapped a warm, strong arm around her waist, pulling her body flush against his.
Even in the icy chill of the pond, he was so warm beneath his thin linen shirt, and she instinctively curled into him, a groan of pleasure escaping from her throat. She had never been this close to a man. Never. Her breasts were pressing into the firm planes of his chest, her stomach was flush with his, and their legs tangled intimately beneath the water. She peered shyly into his face, which was mere inches from her own. “All right?” he asked.
“All right,” she confirmed, her voice a squeak, and he was leaning back to push away from the rowboat when she remembered. “Oh—wait—I almost forgot my book!”
“Your book?” he asked, his brow wrinkling.
She reached over the side of the rowboat, feeling around. “You know how my father is about his library. I’ll never hear the end of it if I leave one of his books out in a rainstorm—here it is,” she said, pulling it from the boat.
His face broke into a broad grin as he took in the title. “You read Plutarch in a rowboat?”
“I—er—yes.” She cleared her throat. “You know, it’s the ship of Theseus, and the rocking of the rowboat makes you feel like you’re on the water, and… and…”
She trailed off, ducking her head. Edward was studying her, a soft smile upon his face. His face was so close to hers, she could feel his breath brushing her lips. “That strikes me,” he said slowly, “as the ideal place to read it.”
The sky gave another rumble, and he glanced heavenwards, serious again. “I’ll need at least one hand to swim. Can you hold the book up out of the water? Perhaps if you wrap your other arm around my neck—”
The only advantage of being half frozen was that it prevented her cheeks from bursting into flames as she hooked her arm up around his shoulders. Now her entire body was pressed against his, and she felt a shudder ripple through her.
“We must get you out of this cold water,” he said, misinterpreting the reason for her trembling. He shifted so that he was floating on his back, pulling her on top of him, one arm wrapping around her back, his hand resting gently on her waist. “Is that all right?”
Was that all right? She was lying on top of Edward Astley with naught but a few layers of wet muslin to separate them. She might feel mortified now, but she had a feeling this would go down as the best moment of her whole entire life.
She cleared her throat and nodded her assent, and he let go of the boat. He floated along on his back making slow, smooth strokes with his free arm, propelling them steadily toward the shore.
Mere seconds later his arm scraped the bottom. “Ah,” he said, putting his feet down, “here we are.” He grasped her about the waist again and helped her rise to standing.
“And we even managed to keep Plutarch dry,” she said, holding the book up. “More or less,” she laughed, holding it between two fingers, trying to keep it from being soaked by her wet hands.
He grinned. “Excellent.” He released her waist and offered his arm. “Now, let’s get you back home before—”
She started to sway as soon as he withdrew his hands. She hadn’t realized she was that cold, but it was clear her legs wouldn’t hold her. He immediately snatched her up about the waist, pulling her body flush against his, preventing her from falling.
Plutarch was not so fortunate. The book slipped from her tenuous grasp and plunged into the pond.
“Oh, no!” she cried. “Father is going to kill me.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, somehow managing to hold her upright while bending down to fish the book out of the water. “That was my fault.”
“It absolutely was not.” She gave a bleak chuckle. “Disaster is my signature. It has a way of following me wherever I go.”
“Are you all right now?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said, taking a step forward. “I just—”
Her knees promptly buckled. Edward was on her in an instant, scooping her up in his arms and living up to his nickname as he carried her to shore.
He seated her on a log and immediately draped his coat around her shoulders, solicitously making sure she was well wrapped before taking up his boots. As soon as his back was turned, she buried her nose in the collar. Bergamot. It was the same shaving tonic he had started to use when he’d been around sixteen years old. She could remember catching a hint of that fresh citrus as she rounded the corner toward the classroom, and how a shudder would run up her spine, because she would know before she even saw him that he was in attendance that day…
All semblance of rational thought fled from her mind as Edward scooped her up again and carried her to his horse. He lifted her up onto the saddle as if she weighed nothing, then adjusted the stirrup so she could insert her foot. She was seated sideways, even though it was not a sidesaddle. “I won’t go faster than a walk,” he said. “Do you think you can manage?”
“Of course,” she replied, grabbing the pommel for purchase.
She really thought she could, but as soon as he started leading the horse, she began to sway at even that much motion, and came close to tumbling off.
He immediately drew his gelding to a halt. “Miss Elissa?” he asked, his expression sincerely.
She felt mortified. “I’m so terribly sorry. I—I guess I’m colder than I realized.”
“It’s no trouble.” He studied her a beat. “I apologize—this is not going to be entirely proper. But I can’t think how else to get you home before this storm breaks.”
He led his horse slowly, watching her the whole time, back to the log, which he used to climb up behind her. He then lifted her just enough to scoot up into the saddle and settled her on his lap. He wrapped one arm securely about her waist, holding her firmly against him, and took the reins in the other.
“Is this all right?” he asked tentatively.
All right? Of course Edward Astley sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her away on his white charger was not “all right.”
It was her every schoolgirl fantasy come true, is what it was.
But she could hardly tell him that, so what she said was, “It’s all right.”
“Come,” he said, “let’s get you home.”
The Sea Siren of Broadwater Bottom will be available spring of 2022—preorder your copy today!