Hyde Park dipped in hills and greenswards that were still bright with fading summer flowers. Braving the capricious weather, open carriages took advantage of the sunny day to fill the park’s roads.
Celia St. Clair blinked against the press of light in her eyes, and tugged at the brim of her fashionable bonnet to shade her face. She wore a bonnet of green satin lined with white; a full plume of snowy ostrich feathers curled in graceful dips on the crown. As the gleaming curricle wheeled swiftly down the pathway, feathers fluttered as if about to take wing and fly.
Colter eyed them with a lifted brow. “Enjoy the sun’s warmth while you can,” he said to the lofty plumes that covered Celia’s head and part of her face. “It will disappear soon enough.”
Her chin tilted upward, the feathers bobbing. “Such an optimist. Are you always so cheerful, my lord?”
“Not always. On occasion I’m quite surly.” Handling the reins of the spirited horses, he slid a glance toward her and saw the faintest smile on her mouth.
“If that is indeed true, be so kind as not to inflict your presence upon me at those dismal moments of choler,” she replied with a coolness that belied her amusement. Colter smiled his appreciation of her retort.
“Your lack of tolerance is shocking, Miss St. Clair.”
“I doubt that. You don’t seem to be a man who is easily shocked.”
“I could tell you some tales—”
“I’m sure you could. Please spare me.”
She turned her head slightly, a glance from green eyes that could alter from warm to frigid in an instant. A smile lingered at the corners of her mouth, a tempting curve that was inviting and rejecting at the same time.
Little baggage. He should kiss her again, if for no other reason than to prove to her how much she liked it. She may feign indifference but she hadn’t been indifferent the last time. And no damned ladies’ maid would keep him from it, so she needn’t have gone to the trouble of bringing one along.
The maid, a thin little thing with the look of a determined sparrow, clung to the sides of the curricle as if she feared being thrown out at any moment. He curbed a perverse impulse to increase his speed.
“Very well,” he said, handling the ribbons and horses with efficient ease as he deftly took a curve in the road. “Entertain me with lively tales of your own.”
“Really, I cannot imagine you would be interested in any tales I could tell, my lord.”
“I might surprise you. If you lack ideas, tell me about your home in Georgetown. You lived there for some time?”
“Yes.”
When she said nothing else, he glanced at her again. Her face was shadowed by the brim of her bonnet as she tilted her head downward, but her hands were tightly clenched around the velvet cords of the reticule she held in her lap. She vibrated with sudden tension.
“If you’d rather speak of something else, Miss St. Clair—”
Her head came up. “No. What would you like to know? And I was really born in Virginia. We moved to Georgetown when I was very small.”
“Then your parents are from Virginia, I presume.”
There was a brief hesitation before she said, “Yes. My father’s family owned land along the Chesapeake Bay.”
“So what brings you alone to England?”
She turned to stare at him, eyes boring into his face as if trying to decide what to say next. “How do you know I arrived alone, my lord? Because you saw me alone on the ship?”
“No, because your cousin hasn’t mentioned anyone else as a guest. A simple enough deduction, but I’m sure you’ll tell me if I’m wrong.”
“No, you aren’t wrong. My parents died some time ago, my father killed when his vessel was seized by a French warship. I’m the only member of my immediate family left.”
“I see.” There was no hint of emotion in her voice, only a calm recital of facts, yet her gaze on him was intent. He glanced back at the road. “And so you came to visit your mother’s relatives here. England has a lot to answer for, it seems, in colonizing America.”
When she shifted slightly, he caught a whiff of delicate scent. Verbena? He wasn’t certain. It was light, elusive, inviting—as alluring as her voice, a seductive blend of female innocence and wisdom borne in the husky, drawling tones of a Colonial. Enticing little chit.
“I bear no grudges. America won its independence in the end. A humiliating defeat for England, it seems.”
Amused, he said, “Perhaps just a concession instead of a victory. England has too many Colonies to waste far too much time on insurgents.”
“Yes, such as India, I presume. Yet oddly enough, it seems worth the expense, time and life to continue there.”
“India is proving to be more profitable and even less civilized, despite our best efforts.”
“Ah, the British are so aggressive.”
“Yes. You might keep that in mind should you ever plan a small revolution of your own.”
She gave him an arch look, eyes innocently wide.
“If memory serves, my lord, England didn’t do so well in the last great revolution with the American Colonies.”
“A slight case of miscalculation. We do learn from our mistakes, however.”
“Apparently there are lapses in memory, as it was not so very long ago that there was another war with America. It was in 1812 and didn’t end well for you then, either.”
“Touché, Miss St. Clair. I yield to the victorious Colonist.”
She laughed, a soft sound of amusement, genuine and contagious. “You yield so easily, my lord. I’m surprised. And a bit disappointed. I thought you a more worthy foe.”
“I am a worthy foe in more intimate matters, Miss St. Clair.” He smiled at her when she gave him a startled glance, and had the satisfaction of seeing color flood her cheeks.
It was only a matter of time. He’d give her today, by God, with her damned lady’s maid and chaperon sitting like a watchful cat in the boot of the curricle, but the next time he took her for a ride, it would be under his terms.
She was a mystery, an intrigue, a lovely, sensual female. He was developing a ferocious itch for her. It was damned inconvenient.
“America,” she said with a betraying tremor in her lovely lilting drawl, an obvious attempt to ease the tension between them, “is very different from England. It’s so vast. I think that’s what first strikes visitors. One can go afoot for months and not reach the distant shores. It’s so large, no road exists from one coast to the other. To reach Spanish California one must travel months by ship.”
Amused by her effort, he said, “I’ve been to Spanish California, but it was a long time ago, when I was barely out of Oxford. Now the United States and Spain have an ongoing quarrel with Mexico over the territory. It makes it inconvenient to visit.”
“Then describe it for me, since you’ve seen it.” Her glance at him was speculative. “I was told it’s a marvelous place with constant sunshine, soft winds and lush grass for miles and miles.”
“An apt description. A vast wilderness, but excellent for cattle and hermits.”
“That sounds a bit prejudicial.”
“It wasn’t what I expected but I wasn’t disappointed. I found California to be—a challenge. Wild. A place where a man’s past doesn’t matter, only his ability to survive.”
“You seem adept at survival.”
“So do you, Miss St. Clair.”
With a light shrug, she turned her head to gaze at the much tamer aspect of flower beds and tree-lined drive. He had the sense there was much she didn’t say.
Colter guided the horses more slowly along the curve of the path. It was more crowded in this part of the park, with curricles, landaus and horsemen exhibiting not only equestrian skill, but excellent horseflesh and lovely riding apparel. Nobility rubbed elbows with riffraff.
Madame Poirier, procurer of prostitutes, had several of her newest recruits decked out in all their finery and parading the park in a gleaming brougham with gilded harness and trappings. The ladybirds were near as lovely as the horses, and he recognized several of the men eyeing them appraisingly.
“Isn’t that Sir John?”
He followed Celia’s gaze and saw Harvey approach Madame Poirier’s carriage; sunlight gilded his hair with the same bright glints as the brass harness. An elegant horseman, the baronet rode a flashy bay from his father’s stables. Colter recognized it, remembered Baron Leawood at Tattersall’s purchasing the mare. He’d almost tried to outbid him, but decided against it. If Harvey was riding his father’s mounts, his own stable must be depleted. It was a matter of pride for a man to parade his own cattle through the park.
“Yes,” he said, “Harvey seems to be showing off his fine horsemanship.”
“And his fine horse as well as his diverse tastes.”
“Ah, do I detect jealousy?”
“Only of the horse, my lord. It’s a beautiful beast. I imagine such a lovely animal is quite costly.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it was. I was there when it was first shown at Tattersall’s. Do you ride, Miss St. Clair?”
There was a brief pause before she said, “Not well. I much prefer my riding to be done in a well-sprung landau.”
“Your riding instructors must be most distressed to hear it.”
She turned on her seat to face him. He felt the press of her knee against his thigh, a gentle nudge that sent a flash of fire through him. If it wasn’t for the watchful maid in the rear, he’d take Celia St. Clair to the nearest privacy he could find.
“What is it you want from me, my lord? A recitation of my qualities? My education? What I know and what I don’t know? Shall I confess all my secrets, or do you wish to continue trying to coax them out of me one by one?”
“Have you never heard of discretion?” He slanted her an amused glance, his brow lifted. Angry spots of color glowed on her high cheekbones, made her green eyes seem even brighter.
“Yes, I have, my lord. Have you?”
“Are you speaking of now, or of the night of your cousin’s ball? I seem to recall a lack of discretion on your part, as well.”
It was a telling reply. Her flush deepened and she looked away from him, staring at the tall sycamores that lined the drive. He focused on the horses, set their pace a bit slower as the well-oiled wheels of the curricle took a neat curve in the serpentine lane.
“Please be so good as to take me back to my cousin’s house, my lord.”
He’d been expecting the demand. “You’re not weary of my company already?”
“No. I—feel faint.”
“Ah. I see.”
He guided the curricle to a little-traveled lane that led around the lake the prince regent had insisted upon expanding. Swans floated serenely on the surface and ducks nested among reeds. Sunlight reflected on placid water as smooth as a mirror. A stone bench was screened by bushes.
It took just a moment to set the brake and climb down from the seat, another moment to move to the other side of the curricle and reach in for Celia. She made a sound of protest as he put his hands on her waist and lifted her down. He turned to the wide-eyed maid. “Stay here. If you thrash about, the horses might bolt.”
A muffled shriek was quickly swallowed as she gripped the side of the curricle with both hands and held tightly.
“Really, my lord,” Celia said coldly, “this is not at all necessary.”
“If you’re faint, you should lie down.” He ignored her resistance as he escorted her with an arm behind her back to the stone bench. She moved stiffly. The muscles beneath his hand contracted in a shudder as he slid his arm more securely around her waist.
“Here,” he said with a wicked smile. “Let me help you onto the bench since you’re so faint.”
He lifted her effortlessly into his arms, held her a long moment over the stone seat, then slowly lowered her until she was in a reclining position with her feet on the ground.
“Let go of me at once,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “or I’ll scream for help!”
“From that timid bird of a maid? She’d be of little help to anyone. Be still. If anyone should notice us, why give them something to gossip about? A simple conversation by the lake is much different from an amorous struggle that could so easily be misinterpreted, I’d think.”
“You are a rogue, sir!” Her eyes narrowed angrily, and she sat up, looking up at him as he propped a boot on the seat of the bench and leaned an arm on his knee. It brought him closer to her, a posture meant to intimidate.
“That’s better, Miss St. Clair.”
“How long do you intend to continue this farce?”
“As long as it takes.”
“As long as it takes for what to happen?” She snapped open a fan, then closed it again, ivory spindles a soft click of sound. “If you intend to ravish me, either do it or take me home. I wish an end to this afternoon.”
He slid a finger along the curve of her shoulder up to her jawline, a light caress that summoned a shiver from her.
“I think,” he said softly, “that you’re in a hurry to be ravished. Ah-ah—slapping won’t do anything but annoy me. It certainly won’t stop me if I don’t want to be stopped.”
“A pity my fencing master did not warn me to always carry a saber,” she snapped.
“Fencing? How modern of you. Are you expert, or is it on a level with your riding ability?”
“You would make an excellent foil, my lord. Too bad you aren’t available as a target.”
“And it’s too bad that you’re not being honest with me or with yourself. I don’t remember that you fought me this hard the last time we were alone. In fact, I seem to recall you kissing me back.”
Her face flamed. Her gaze slipped from his. “You have a vivid imagination, sir.”
“No, I’m much too pragmatic to waste time imagining kisses. I prefer—” he paused, dragged a fingertip along the curve of her jawline, watched a pulse beat madly in the hollow of her throat “—the real to the imagined,” he ended softly, and bent to kiss her.
His finger beneath her chin held her in a light grip, lifted her face slightly to his. He heard her quick inhalation just before his mouth covered her half-open lips.
Warm, sweet, tempting, she made no effort to pull away, but allowed him to kiss her. This time, there was no response, no participation. She offered no resistance, but no reaction. He slid an arm behind her back to hold her.
“It won’t work,” he said against her mouth.
Bringing her hands up between them, she balled them into fists and wedged some distance between their bodies. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a voice that held only a slight quiver.
“Oh, you do.” He tucked a curl back beneath the sash of her bonnet, let his hand linger on the delicate whorl of her ear, a slight feathery brush of his finger over the seashell curves that summoned a shudder from her. He smiled. “Oh, yes, you most certainly know what I’m talking about. This pretense that you don’t want me to kiss you is a waste of time at best, bad acting at the worst.”
She relaxed slightly, let his arm bear her weight as she looked up into his eyes. “You have a marvelous opinion of your effect on females, I see. How pitiful that is for you. Do you truly think that all you have to do is kiss a woman and she will fall into your arms? Ignore her station in life, her reputation, her family? I think you’re far too accustomed to your little actresses who must use the few advantages life has given them to get ahead. They must suffer the attentions of arrogant men just to survive. I, however, have other alternatives. Release me at once, or I will scream so loudly everyone in this park will come to my rescue.”
“I’m tempted to test you,” he said, “but there’s time enough for that.”
She stared at him, obviously taken aback. “Does nothing prick your insufferable ego, my lord?”
“Many things. Protests from females who enjoy being kissed are not among them, however. I didn’t imagine your response.”
“No,” she once more surprised him by saying. “You did not imagine it. You simply attached more importance to it than it deserves. Now if you will please escort me back to your carriage, I want to go home.”
She pushed him away and stood up, brushed imaginary wrinkles from her smooth satin skirts and gave him a stare so cool and detached that he let her win this point. For today. Only for today. He swept her an ironic bow.
“Your carriage awaits, Miss St. Clair.” He put out his arm as if they were in a ballroom. After the briefest hesitation, she tucked her gloved fingers into the crook of his elbow and accompanied him back to the curricle.
The vehicle dipped as he lifted her into it, let his hands linger long enough around her waist to make his own point, then he rounded the boot to climb up and take the reins and release the brake.
“It has been an interesting afternoon,” he said as the horses moved forward, hooves digging into the dirt and gravel of the road. “I trust you’ve enjoyed it as much as I have.”
“Probably not,” she replied serenely, and stared out over the open side of the curricle as if he no longer existed for her.
“I think,” he said bluntly, “that you are taking your charade too far.”
“Do you? Shall I tell you what I think, my lord?”
“By all means.”
“I think,” she said softly as he turned his head to meet her gaze, “that you will never forget me.”
“And I think,” he replied with an intent stare, “that I will not intend to try.”