“I do not doubt it, Ivy. Something in your past made your need for approval more important than your own happiness.” He regretted the words the moment they left his lips.
Ivy’s back stiffened, and she sat very still.
“Ivy, I am very sorry. I should not have said such a thing.”
“But, for some reason, you did.” Ivy angrily jerked her head around to face straight ahead. “And you are quite correct, which only adds to the sting of your assertion.” With a growl, she snapped the reins, and the horses jolted forward. Ivy focused on the road ahead of them.
“Ivy, I apologize.” Dominic grasped the seat as Ivy urged the horses into a trot and did not slow in the least when they cornered onto Park Lane. She did not utter another word until they wheeled through the gates of Hyde Park.
The team clopped down Rotten Row, flinging up clotted bits of soft, sandy earth in the air as Ivy and Nick glanced out, searching the Serpentine’s shore for Miss Feeney and Viscount Tinsdale.
Honestly, Nick didn’t care in the least if they ever met up with the other couple, and found himself looking at trees and flowers and splashes from fish on the water’s surface.
Ivy, did not, of course, realize this, and she too was really only pretending to maintain a crow’s-nest lookout for Miss Feeney and Tinsdale.
And even though their meeting this day was not as amiable as she might have wished, Ivy actually quite liked their heated exchange—and learning both last evening and this afternoon that Nick was not quite as perfect as he seemed to be.
Somehow, silly as it sounded when she voiced the notion in her head, it made her feel calmer around the handsome actor.
In some small way, it removed her need to shine so brightly. Ivy tightened the reins and slowed the horses back to a trot. “What say you, Dominic?” she said, finally looking back at him. “Do you think we ought stop and set up in the shade of the oak tree, just there, by the water?”
“I am glad you are no longer perturbed with me.” He peered back at her, relief flooding his beautiful face. Waiting for her response.
“I never was. Your observation was correct.” Ivy sighed and transferred the ribbons into her left hand and gestured with her right. “Aye, what you said is true, but out of necessity, I assure you. If I do not regain my father’s approval, I will soon be destitute and without a family.” Her voice broke as she admitted this.
Blast.
Heat itched at the backs of her eyes. “Do you agree that we should lay our picnic here or not?”
“Ivy, we’re already tardy thanks to my inadequate phaeton-driving skills.” Nick looked down, but she could see a slight creasing of his lips. “They will be looking for us.”
“We’ve been looking for
them
and have not seen them. Perhaps they have been delayed as well.” She separated the ribbons into each hand and pulled the horses to a halt. “Besides, we will be far easier to locate sitting still instead of driving along the Serpentine, don’t you agree?”
“I expect you are right. Here will do.” Nick leaped down from the perch. He reached up and took the ribbons from Ivy, then led the horses to a hitching post not more than a yard away and tied them off.
Hoisting the hamper with both hands, Ivy swung it down to Nick, who set it on the ground, then took her hand and guided her down the steps.
The sky was vibrant blue and the sun warm on their backs as they walked together through the cool grass, then beneath the leafy shade canopy of the great oak beside the water.
Ivy hummed as she spread the coverlet she had borrowed from Lachlan’s bed so that it abutted the ancient tree’s wide trunk. When it was smooth, she gestured for Nick to position the hamper nearby, and she sat down and bade him to sit beside her, resting his back against the trunk.
For comfort.
Not to be near her.
And certainly
not
for the purpose of obscuring the sight of them from anyone who happened to peer toward the Serpentine from Rotten Row.
But if they were unintentionally hidden, so much the better.
For despite her plan, a day without Miss Feeney would be a perfect one indeed.
Ivy peeled off her gloves and tossed them atop the picnic hamper. Her skin was as smooth and white as fine porcelain, save the two tiny pink bumps on her arm she was scratching madly. “We’ve not been in the country for two minutes, and already I’ve been bitten. Look there, do you see it?” She angled her forearm toward him.
“This is hardly the country, Ivy. We’re in the center of London.” He took her wrist and pulled her closer to peer at the bite. “Oh dear,” he murmured.
“What is it?” Her eyes were growing wider with each passing second. “What is the matter? Do you know what bit me? Was it a—
spider?”
“Possibly. I can’t quite tell if there are two separate bites or one two-fanged spider bite.” He squinted. “My aging eyes, you know.”
“Fangs?” Her gaze raked her skirts and the coverlet for any sign of an eight-legged marauder. Seeing nothing, she started scratching at imaginary insects on her ankle, then her throat.
Finally, she jumped to her feet and frantically began shaking her skirts and brushing at her sleeves. Yanking up the coverlet, she started shaking it furiously in the air.
“Ivy,” Nick said. “It’s nothing more than a pair of midge nips. I promise.”
This didn’t seem to stop her from squealing and batting at her dress. Then he saw them, Lord Tinsdale and Miss Feeney standing beside the hired high-perch phaeton tied to the hitching post.
“Ivy, stop.” He pressed her up against the tree trunk and held her there with his thighs and chest. “Ivy,
please.”
His mouth hovered just above hers as he whispered calmly to her.
Just then, she quieted, and peered up at him, though her chest still rose and fell with excitement.
“Aye, Dominic?” Her tone was as silken as her skin. An invitation, more than a question.
And then he felt himself rising with excitement.
The sound of footfalls muted by the grass touched his ears just then.
Damn it all.
Too late.
It was too late to warn her that Tinsdale and Miss Feeney had found them and would be coming around the tree at any minute to find them…in a most compromising position.
So, he did the only thing he could do. Use the situation to further Ivy’s plan.
He would kiss her.
She must have seen the decision in his eyes, for her gaze softened, her golden green eyes suddenly became darker, more seductive, as she stared up at him.
A copper curl was tangled in the ribbon tie of her bonnet. It was all of the excuse he needed to touch her. He loosened the satin bow at her throat and drew the lock from it, dragging his fingertips along the sensitive skin of her throat. She closed her eyes and drew in a short breath before looking up at him again.
His fingers moved upward, meaning to stroke the side of her face. She turned her cheek into his palm, brushing her lips against it without, he was sure, truly meaning to.
Her eyes widened, and her lips parted in astonishment at her own reaction. But he wasn’t going to let her turn away.
Whether it was
the plan
or simply the need to unleash his own yearning for her, he lowered his mouth to hers until he felt the sweetness of her breath upon it. Then he pressed his lips to hers, urging her mouth open until his tongue could slip inside.
Ivy moaned softly. He knew she had no notion that Tinsdale and Miss Feeney had arrived, and yet still she lifted her arms around him, moving her warm lips so passionately over his that the cut of his breeches was growing tighter, making matters far more complicated.
“Lady Ivy!” Tinsdale’s voice boomed, startling Ivy to such an extent that her gasp sucked the breath right out of Nick’s mouth.
Curling his fingers around the edge of the bonnet, Nick took it from Ivy’s hands and held it at his middle as turned to face the viscount and Miss Feeney.
“Ah, there you are!” Nick said enthusiastically. “Thought we might have to start without you.”
Miss Feeney colored and giggled into her hand.
But Tinsdale’s gaze was fixed on Ivy’s flushing face, which was deepening with color by the second. “And what, pray would you be starting without us? Or dare I even ask?” His tone was scathing, which intrigued Nick. For why would a man who had jilted a woman care if she kissed another?
Ivy managed to steel herself then. “Why, our picnic, of course.”
Nick stepped forward and clapped a hand over Tinsdale’s narrow shoulder. “We just decided we’d start with dessert first.”
And, just as Nick guessed, Tinsdale stiffened like an oak tree.
“What sort of dessert?” Miss Feeney chasséd over to hamper and began working on the leather strap holding it closed.
“Tarts.” A mischievous smile tickled Ivy’s lips.
“Tarts?” Miss Feeney glanced up at Nick, fluttering her thick lashes. “I would adore one.”
In a burst of uncharacteristic generosity, Ivy hurried over to the hamper and quickly opened it. “Allow me to serve, won’t you, Miss Feeney?” She retrained her gaze onto Lord Tinsdale as she handed up a small plate with what appeared to be an apple tart upon it to Miss Feeney. “I simply cannot wait to hear what you think of them…you being somewhat of an authority on tarts.”
Miss Feeney scowled down at Ivy as she popped a large bite into her mouth.
Ivy smiled. Aye, it was going to be a lovely day…after all.
After their alfresco meal, Nick sat down upon the blanket, settling a comforting hand upon Miss Feeney’s back. He was fairly sure Ivy hadn’t poisoned her, not intentionally anyway, but the tart she’d gleefully served had caused Miss Feeney to retch and sent her running to the Serpentine, where she promptly heaved up the dessert.
Miss Feeney raised her eyes and glared. Nick followed her focus and saw Ivy leaning against the phaeton, giggling like a maid. Nick glared too as he noticed Tinsdale’s arm propped casually on the vehicle, his hand disappearing behind Ivy’s back.
Nick came to his feet. Yes, his goal this day was to flatter and charm Miss Feeney, but was it not also to display his affection for Ivy? Had she not bid him to make love to her—those were her words. “Are you feeling any better, Miss Feeney? Or shall I ask Lord Tinsdale to escort you to your home?”
She looked up at him, her face appearing a mossy green in the waning afternoon light. She started to say something, but a gurgling welled up from her belly, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.
He lowered a hand to her. “No need to speak. I understand. I shall fetch your escort promptly.” He bent and collected the basket, then strode across the green toward their carriages. His pace quickened as Tinsdale pretended to pluck something from Ivy’s sleeve, allowing his hand to linger on her arm overlong.
Tinsdale didn’t notice Nick’s approach until he was but a few strides away. He dropped his hand to his side immediately. “Ah, Counterton. Is she feeling better?”
“Indeed she is not. Miss Feeney wishes to quit the park and be taken home to convalesce.” Nick moved between Ivy and Tinsdale and lifted the hamper into the phaeton. He turned and settled a hand at Ivy’s waist and handed her up into the phaeton. “I will return directly, dear one,” he said to Ivy.
Nick pressed a hand into the middle of Tinsdale’s back and started him down the gentle slope back to Miss Feeney.
“Good heavens, you look a fright!” Tinsdale exclaimed as he helped her find her feet and stand.
Nick lifted her hand and patted it. “I do you hope you are well very soon, Miss Feeney, for I hope to see you at the Winthrop musicale.”
She smiled weakly, but her eyes revealed her pleasure at his comment. Not daring to open her mouth to speak, she gave a slight nod.
Nick bade them both good afternoon and returned to the phaeton carrying Lachlan’s coverlet. He untied the team and climbed up into the perch, taking the reins, this time, himself.
“If I haven’t yet mentioned it, you need to be wary of Mrs. Wimpole’s special receipts,” Ivy said. He looked at her, expecting a mischievous smile to be hanging on her lips. But there was none. “The tarts weren’t spoiled, only an unfortunate blend of ingredients. I’d hoped to dispose of the tarts before anyone could wish to taste one. Sadly, Miss Feeney and Lord Tinsdale were upon us before I could do so.”
Nick held the reins tightly, allowing the phaeton to roll slowly down Rotten Row. They were only just in sight of the gates when another carriage barreled past them, startling the team.
“Damn it all!” Nick looked up as he struggled to control the horses only to see that Tinsdale was cracking a thin whip, urging the team drawing his own carriage past them.
“Tinsdale.”
Nick snapped the reins, and though given his lack of experience with such a fast carriage, he urged the team into a gallop.
“Good heavens!” Ivy reached out for the reins, but he would not allow her to take them. The phaeton picked up speed, and within a minute it had overtaken Tinsdale’s carriage.
Tinsdale’s gleeful expression fell from his face as they passed. His eyes were squinted with anger, and he raised his whip in the air again.
“Oh, no,” Ivy gasped as they slowed to drive through the gates to Park Lane. With a pleased smile on his lips, Nick turned to see how close Tinsdale’s carriage was behind them when he saw they had stopped.
Miss Feeney was doubled over on the bench. Tinsdale was standing on the earthen row, ripping off his dripping coat.
Nick’s stomach turned at the sight. “Thank you for the warning about Mrs. Wimpole’s special receipts.”
“Not at all,” Ivy replied, setting a hand over her mouth.
Nick snapped the reins and turned quickly onto Park Lane. “The evening is fine. What say you to a drive to allow me to master the phaeton?”
“Drive on, Lord Counterton,” Ivy replied.
It wasn’t yet dark as the carriage rolled into Mayfair, but in August the cloak of night fell late upon London…hardly seeming to come at all in Scotland, Ivy recalled. It seemed so long ago, and yet it was only a few short months past that she and her brothers and sisters were cast out of Scotland. How deeply she missed her home. She sighed. She’d miss London too—if her plan failed. And she knew it might yet, for there was now only a clutch of days left before her father arrived and sealed her fate. It was inevitable if Tinsdale did not offer his ring very, very soon.