“If only we could compel Westcliff in some way,” Daisy mused. “Trick him, or blackmail him, somehow.”
“You can only blackmail a man if he’s done something shameful that he wants to hide. And I doubt that stodgy, boring old Westcliff has ever done anything that’s worthy of blackmail.”
Daisy chuckled at the description. “He’s not stodgy, boring, or even that old!”
“Mother says he’s at least thirty-five. I’d say that is fairly old, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ll wager that most men in their twenties aren’t nearly as fit as Westcliff.”
As always, when a conversation turned to the subject of Westcliff, Lillian felt thoroughly provoked, not unlike the way she had felt in childhood when her brothers had tossed her favorite doll over her head, back and forth between them, while she cried for them to give it back to her. Why any mention of the earl should affect her this way was a question for which there was no answer. She dismissed Daisy’s remark with an irritable shrug of her shoulders.
As they drew closer to the house, they heard a few happy yelps in the distance, followed by some youthful cheers that sounded like those of children playing. “What is that?” Lillian asked, glancing in the direction of the stables.
“I don’t know, but it sounds as if someone is having an awfully good time. Let’s go see.”
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“We don’t have long,” Lillian warned. “If Mother discovers that we’re gone—”
“We’ll hurry. Oh, please, Lillian!”
As they hesitated, a few more hoots and shouts of laughter floated from the direction of the stable yard, offering such a contrast to the peaceful scenery around them that Lillian’s curiosity got the better of her.
She grinned recklessly at Daisy. “I’ll race you there,” she said, and took off at a dead run.
Daisy hiked up her skirts and tore after her. Although Daisy’s legs were far shorter than Lillian’s, she was as light and agile as an elf, and she had nearly come even with Lillian by the time they had reached the stable yard. Puffing lightly from the effort of running up a long incline, Lillian rounded the outside of a neatly fenced paddock, and saw a group of five boys, varying in ages between twelve and sixteen, playing in the small field just beyond. Their attire identified them as stable boys. Their boots had been discarded beside the paddock, and they were running barefoot.
“Do yousee?” Daisy asked eagerly.
Glancing over the group, Lillian saw one of them brandishing a long willow bat in the air, and she laughed in delight. “They’re playing rounders!”
Although the game, consisting of a bat, a ball, and four sanctuary bases arranged in a diamond pattern, was popular in both America and England, it had reached a level of obsessive interest in New York.
Boys and girls of all classes played the game, and Lillian longingly remembered many a picnic followed by an afternoon of rounders. Warm nostalgia filled her as she watched a stable boy round the bases. It was clear that the field was often used for this purpose, as the sancutary posts had been hammered deeply into the ground, and the areas between them had been trampled to form grass-free lanes of dirt.
Lillian recognized one of the players as the lad who had loaned her the rounders bat for the wall-flowers’
ill-fated game two months earlier.
“Do you think they would let us play?” Daisy asked hopefully. “Just for a few minutes?”
“I don’t see why not. That red-haired boy—he was the one who let us borrow the bat before. I think his name is Arthur…”
At that moment a low, fast pitch streaked toward the batter, who swung in a short, expert arc. The flat side of the bat connected solidly with the leather ball, and it came hurtling toward them in a bouncing drive that was referred to as a “hopper” back in New York. Running forward, Lillian scooped up the ball in her bare hands and fielded it expertly, throwing it to the boy who stood at the first sanctuary post. He caught it reflexively, staring at her with surprise. As the other boys noticed the pair of young women who stood beside the paddock, they all paused uncertainly.
Lillian strode forward, her gaze finding the red-haired boy. “Arthur? Do you remember me? I was here in June—you loaned us the bat.”
The boy’s puzzled expression cleared. “Oh yes, Miss… Miss…”
“Bowman.” Lillian gestured casually to Daisy. “And this is my sister. We were just wondering …would you let us play? Just for a little while?”
A dumbfounded silence ensued. Lillian gathered that while it had been acceptable to loan her the bat,
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allowing her into a game with the other stable boys was another thing entirely. “We’re not all that bad, actually,” she said. “We both used to play quite a lot in New York. If you’re worried that we would slow your game—”
“Oh, it’s not that, Miss Bowman,” Arthur protested, his face turning as red as his hair. He glanced at his companions uncertainly before returning his attention to her. “It’s just that …ladies of your sort …you can’t… we’rein service, miss.”
“It’s your off-time, isn’t it?” Lillian countered.
The boy nodded cautiously.
“Well, it’s our off-time too,” Lillian said. “And it’s only a little game of rounders. Oh, do let us play—we’ll never tell!”
“Offer to show him your spitter,” Daisy said out of the corner of her mouth. “Or the hornet.”
Staring at the boys’ unresponsive faces, Lillian complied. “I can pitch,” she said, raising her brows significantly. “Fast balls, spit balls, hornet balls …don’t you want to see how Americans throw?”
That intrigued them, she could see. However, Arthur said diffidently, “Miss Bowman, if someone was to see you playing rounders in the stable yard, we’d likely get the blame for it, and then—”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Lillian said. “I promise you, we’ll take full responsibility if anyone catches us. I’ll tell them that we left you no choice.”
Though the group as a whole looked openly skeptical, Lillian and Daisy badgered and pleaded until they were finally allowed into the game. Taking possession of a worn leather-covered ball, Lillian flexed her arms, cracked her knuckles, and assumed a pitcher’s stance as she faced the batter, who stood at the base designated Castle Rock. Shifting her weight to her left foot, she stepped into the throw, launching the ball in a fast, competent pitch. It landed with a stinging smack in the catcher’s hand, while the batter swung and missed completely. A few admiring whistles greeted Lillian’s effort.
“Not a bad arm for a girl!” was Arthur’s comment, causing her to grin. “Now, miss, if you wouldn’t mind, what was that hornet ball you were talking about?”
Catching the ball as it was thrown back to her, Lillian faced the batter again, this time gripping the ball with only her thumb and first two fingers. Drawing back, she raised her arm, then threw the ball with a snap of her wrist, giving it a spin that caused it to veer sharply inward just as it reached Castle Rock. The batter missed again, but even he exclaimed in appreciation for the hornet ball. On the next pitch, he finally connected with the ball, sending it to the west side of the field, where Daisy happily scampered after it.
She hurled it to the player at the third sanctuary post, who leaped in the air to snatch it in his fist.
In just a few minutes, the fast-paced enjoyment of the game caused the players to lose all self-consciousness, and their drives and throws and full-bore runs became uninhibited. Laughing and crowing as loudly as the stable boys, Lillian was reminded of the careless freedom of childhood. It was indescribable relief to forget, if only for a little while, the innumerable rules and the stifling propriety that had smothered them ever since they had set foot in England. And it was such a glorious day, the sun bright but so much gentler than it was in New York, and the air soft and fresh as it filled her lungs.
“Your turn at bat, miss,” Arthur said, raising a hand for her to toss the ball to him. “Let’s see if you can
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hit as well as you throw!”
“She can’t,” Daisy informed him promptly, and Lillian made a hand gesture that caused the boys to roar in scandalized delight.
Unfortunately it was true. For all her accuracy in pitching, Lillian had never mastered the art of batting—a fact that Daisy, who was a superior batter, took great delight in pointing out. Picking up the bat, Lillian gripped the handle like a hammer with her left hand, and left the index finger of her right slightly open.
Cocking the bat over her shoulder, she waited for the pitch, timed it with her narrowed gaze, and swung as hard as she was able. To her frustration, the ball spun off the top of the bat and went sailing over the catcher’s head.
Before the boy could go in pursuit of it, the ball was tossed back to the pitcher by some unseen source.
Lillian was perplexed as she saw Arthur’s face suddenly blanch to a shade of white that contrasted starkly with the fiery locks of his hair. Wondering what could have put such a look on his face, Lillian turned to glance behind her. The catcher seemed to have stopped breathing as he too beheld the visitor.
For there, leaning casually against the paddock fence, was none other than Marcus, Lord Westcliff.
Cursing silently, Lillian gave Westcliff a sullen stare. He responded with a sardonic lift of one brow.
Although he was clad in a tweed riding coat, his shirt was open at the throat, revealing the strong, sun-browned line of his neck. During their previous encounters, West-cliff had always been impeccably dressed and perfectly groomed. At the moment, however, his thick black hair was wind-tousled, and he was rather in need of a shave. Strangely, the sight of him like this sent a pleasant shiver through Lillian’s insides and imparted an unfamiliar weakness to her knees.
Regardless of her dislike, Lillian had to acknowledge that Westcliff was an extremely attractive man. His features were too broad in some places, too sharp in others, but there was a rugged poetry in the structure of his face that made classical handsomeness seem utterly irrelevant. Few men possessed such deeply ingrained virility, a force of character that was too powerful to overlook. He was not only comfortable in his position of authority, he was obviously unable to function in any capacity other than as a leader. As a girl who had always been inclined to throw an egg in the face of authority, Lillian found Westcliff to be an unholy temptation. There had been few moments as satisfying as those when she had managed to annoy him beyond his ability to bear.
Westcliff’s assessing gaze slid from her tumbled hair to the uncorseted lines of her figure, not missing the unbound shapes of her breasts. Wondering if he was going to give her a public dressing-down for daring to play rounders with a group of stable boys, Lillian returned his evaluating gaze with one of her own. She tried to look scornful, but that wasn’t easy when the sight of Westcliff’s lean, athletic body had brought another unnerving quiver to the pit of her stomach. Daisy had been right—it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find a younger man who could rival Westcliff’s virile strength.
Still holding Lillian’s gaze, Westcliff pushed slowly away from the paddock fence and approached.
Tensing, Lillian held her ground. She was tall for a woman, which made them nearly of a height, but West-cliff still had a good three inches on her, and he outweighed her by at least five stone. Her nerves tingled with awareness as she stared into his eyes, which were a shade of brown so intense that they appeared to be black.
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His voice was deep, textured like gravel wrapped in velvet. “You should tuck your elbows in.”
Having expected criticism, Lillian was caught off-guard. “What?”
The earl’s thick lashes lowered slightly as he glanced down at the bat that was gripped in her right hand.
“Tuck your elbows in. You’ll have more control over the bat if you decrease the arc of the swing.”
Lillian scowled. “Is there any subject that you’re not an expert on?”
A glint of amusement appeared in the earl’s dark eyes. He appeared to consider the question thoughtfully. “I can’t whistle,” he finally said. “And my aim with a trebuchet is poor. Other than that…”
The earl lifted his hands in a helpless gesture, as if he was at a loss to come up with another activity at which he was less than proficient.
“What’s a trebuchet?” Lillian asked. “And what do you mean, you can’t whistle? Everyone can whistle.”
Westcliff formed his lips into a perfectly round pucker and let out a soundless puff of air. They were standing so close that Lillian felt the soft touch of his breath against her forehead, stirring a few silken filaments of hair that had adhered to her damp skin. She blinked in surprise, her gaze falling to his mouth, and then to the open neck of his shirt, where his bronzed skin looked smooth and very warm.
“See? …Nothing. I’ve tried for years.”
Bemused, Lillian thought of advising him to blow harder, and to press the tip of his tongue against the bottom row of his teeth…but somehow the thought of uttering a sentence with the word “tongue” in it to Westcliff seemed impossible. Instead she stared at him blankly and jumped a little as he reached out to her shoulders and turned her gently to face Arthur. The boy was standing several yards away with the forgotten rounders ball in his hand, watching the earl with an expression of awe mingled with dread.
Wondering if Westcliff was going to reprimand the boys for allowing her and Daisy to play, Lillian said uneasily, “Arthur and the others—it wasn’t their fault—I made them let us into the game—”
“I don’t doubt it,” the earl said over her shoulder. “You probably gave them no chance to refuse.”
“You’re not going to punish them?”
“For playing rounders on their off-time? Hardly.” Removing his coat, Westcliff tossed it to the ground.
He turned to the catcher, who was hovering nearby, and said, “Jim, be a good lad and help field a few balls.”