The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance) (8 page)

He brushed his cheek across her thigh as her hair fell away from her shoulders. From this angle he could see the slow curve of her belly rising gently to the soft, round push of her breasts, the rosy pink buds straining against the translucent chemise.

The curve of her neck swept up to the defined triangle of her jaw, and he could see a swallow move her pulse, quickening in the twin veins that framed her throat as he stroked her. Her lips parted to sigh and he came undone. Standing, he felt a rush of cold flood his boots and he looked down. The room filled with icy water and she vanished with a jolt, his booted feet soaked by the water’s edge when he stood.

“Ah, for fuck’s sake!” He pulled at his boots, tossing them at the sun-heated stone, then watched the patterns of water dissipate in the heat.

He’d sent his mistress away in early December, not wanting to begin another year with someone who was easy to bed and slow to leave. He was determined to find a wife by the end of this year and there was no way he could do so with such trivial physical distractions. Here, at the onset of spring with this mysterious woman underfoot, he could see that the diversion of a mistress might have done him a favor in dealing with her. Had his need not been so deep, his want might be controlled.

“Come,” Roxleigh grunted as he pulled his boots back on with great difficulty. Mounting the horse once more, he gave him his head to careen through the forest. He watched the trees and path closely, gently nudging the stallion with his knees to avoid any brambles that might trip him up. He did it mostly out of habit, knowing Samson would find the safest, fastest way home with no help from him.

He closed his eyes, gripping the reins in his calloused hands, feeling the sheathed muscles that moved beneath him, the rise and fall of the horse’s gait, the smell of the trees, the dust and sweat rolling from his face with the wind they created. He breathed deeply and opened his eyes as they soared into the park at the base of Eildon Hill and continued at a great speed toward the manor. Roxleigh felt an electricity in the air and quickly sat back, pulling on the reins and bringing the massive beast to a halt.

He perused the outwardly graceful manor atop the hill. It was majestic, built of large light-grey stones quarried not far away. The strength of the stone and the flying buttresses at the sides and back gave them the ability to open the facing walls to the interior with spectacular windows. The architecture also provided for a sheltered pathway around the exterior that was used to create the sunrooms, including the breakfast room, and several greenhouses.

Roxleigh had never seen a manor in England that rivaled it. If it weren’t for the passion he felt for this place, the land, and his people, he would have left and never looked back. He held several estates where he could reside, all of them closer to London, and thus more convenient. But along with the nightmarish visions of his youth came the wonderful ones, and every single memory involved Eildon because his family had never been attached to London society like the majority of the peerage.

While the exterior appeared powerful and protective, the interior was chaotic and beautiful. The complexity of it astounded him. He could never leave this place—at least not for long. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and a scent caught him. He shifted his gaze, searching the gardens. He glanced toward the parlor balcony and saw the figure peering out.

The wind rushed up to her from the valley in greeting, sweeping her hair over her shoulders as she threw her head back. She leaned against the balustrade, putting her arms out to steady herself. She probably didn’t think anyone would see her, but he did. She pressed herself toward him, her nightdress pulling tight against her chest, accentuating the gentle curves of her body beneath.

He groaned, and as if the wind carried the sound of his sigh to her ears, she became aware of him. She looked down as her mouth dropped open. Obviously flustered, she turned and tripped on the long borrowed nightgown, falling back into the depths of the parlor in a flurry of white fabric.

Roxleigh caught the scent of her again, lavender and rain. He let out another deep groan as she disappeared and he shifted his seat, trying to regain the comfort of his saddle. Watching the empty balcony, he leaned forward to drive Samson in an easy gait around the side of the manor to the stable, still without taking his mind from her supple figure. As he passed the paddock he called to Davis.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Davis said, running from the stable.

Roxleigh slid from the horse, stroking his withers and neck before handing over the reins.

“Did he work hard for you, Your Grace?” Davis asked with a broad grin.

Roxleigh looked up at the horse. “As he does.”

“Aye, he does, Your Grace. That he does.” Davis walked Samson to the paddock to cool his muscles and rub him down before putting him up for the night.

Roxleigh turned and strode to the manor, rubbing his palms gingerly, feeling the newly sore calluses. He eased his cramped muscles as he walked and thought about the woman who had managed to turn his life upside down without so much as a full conversation. He decided it was time to change that. She would join him for supper.

Determinedly he walked in the front entrance before the butler could even see to the door. “Your Grace?”

“Stapleton, call Mrs. Weston.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Stapleton bowed and disappeared.

Roxleigh looked down at his attire—his white shirt no longer crisp but hanging open at the neck and sleeves, his riding pants rumpled and untucked from his soggy, drooping boots. He still held the riding crop and grumbled. He should have left it in the stables. He swatted at the dust on his trousers with the crop and decided it was time for new boots. Disgruntled, he moaned at the thought of breaking a pair. He started to unroll his sleeves but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming from behind the grand staircase, and he looked up to find the housekeeper walking toward him.

“Mrs. Weston, I wish to have our guest to supper. Please advise me as soon as she is able.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said in a confused manner as she came to a stop, eyeing him.

“What?”

“Well, Your Grace, you’re a sight,” she began, then cleared her throat as if aware of her familiarity. “As you know, Miss Francine is not yet in any position to be at supper with a gentleman.” She paused. Her left eyebrow rose nearly to her hairline. “Or anyone, for that matter,” she finished with a stout nod.

He growled. “Of course,” he said, unrolling his other sleeve.

“Shall I ring for Ferry?” she queried, the eyebrow still cocked in a curious gaze.

It bothered him the way Mrs. Weston sometimes took liberties, but occasionally overlooked it since she’d happened to be there when he was brought into the world and had cared for him thenceforth. “Has Dr. Walcott checked on our guest?” he asked, choosing to ignore the impertinence.

“No, Your Grace. He is expected within the hour.”

When he finished unrolling his sleeves he clasped his hands behind his back and stood wide, tensing his muscles. The position drew his figure straighter and sturdier, making full use of his height and his broad shoulders. He latched onto Mrs. Weston’s gaze and held it. “What has the girl said?”

Mrs. Weston became flustered. He knew she hated it when he used this tactic with her, mostly because it worked so well. There was nowhere for her to run and hide, and no way for her to lie or omit anything. “Well,” she said, “she agreed to the visit from the doctor and she appreciates the gowns, though as I told you she is a bit unhappy about your generosity.”

“What?” He released his hands and stepped forward.

Mrs. Weston held up a hand. “Sorry, Your Grace, I meant to say that she’s overwhelmed by it, she doesn’t want to be a bother. She doesn’t seem to feel that she’s worthy of the expense,” she corrected.

He stopped cold. “I see. I—misunderstood.” He paused. “You will send Dr. Walcott to me as soon as he is finished and you will let me know as soon as she is able to attend supper.”

“Yes, of course, Your Grace,” she said as he waved her off. She scurried for the servant’s passage, her hand on her chest. “Oh Lord, you do work me, Your Grace,” he heard her whisper as soon as she was out of sight. Odd how well sound carried in that particular room.

There was a soft knock at the door and Meggie entered with Francine’s supper tray, setting it before the fire.

Mrs. Weston entered just as she was sitting down to eat. “I sent for the dressmaker in town when I sent for the doctor. She’ll be up by week out, and Dr. Walcott should be here any time now.”

Francine nodded resignedly and smiled. She was already receiving too much from the duke. His hospitality was more than any reasonable person would expect. She thought about the terrace, when he had seen her, and her face heated in a blush as she looked at her supper tray. The look on his face when he’d looked up at her still had her flustered.

The food here was unrecognizable—strange cuts of unknown meats, fancy colored gel-like substances filled with vegetables, and grey colored sauces that seemed to drown everything—as though it was merely the texture of the food that mattered and not the flavor.

Cynically, she thought it the best diet she’d ever been on, and she placed her hand over her mouth and laughed a bit.
If this is my dream, why can’t I have a big New York strip with a buttered baked potato and glazed asparagus with lemon pepper?

She clenched her eyes tight and envisioned it, willing the steak dinner to her plate. She sighed when she opened her eyes to the same colorless glop and then saw Mrs. Weston watching her quizzically. Francine realized she was only adding fuel to the fire of her own oddity. She shook her head and smiled at Mrs. Weston, then picked up the fork and tried to eat.

After supper, Mrs. Weston asked Meggie to fetch the slipper tub and prepare a bath. It had been a long day. Mrs. Weston was ready to be done with it, and she hoped that Miss Francine would feel the same. A nice warm bath would ease her muscles and ready their guest for bed—she was sure of it.

As Dr. Walcott examined Francine, Mrs. Weston turned the bed down and placed a warm brick at the foot. It wasn’t quite summer yet, but her grandmother had always said that warm feet made a sleepy head, and what she needed right now was for Miss Francine to sleep so she could retire to her own bed. She’d arranged for Meggie and Carole to watch over her in shifts, sleeping in the adjoining servants’ room and keeping an eye on her from the passageways whenever she wandered.

The doctor nodded when he finished, and Mrs. Weston let out a hearty sigh as he left.

Dr. Walcott knocked at Roxleigh’s study before leaving the manor.

“Enter.”

The doctor opened the door and Roxleigh stood, motioning him to the desk.

“You have already attended my guest.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Her physical wounds seem to be healing nicely, but she isn’t speaking, and that concerns me, considering her reaction—”

Roxleigh cut him off with a gesture. “I have heard, listened to, and understand your concern, Dr. Walcott—but we will not, again, discuss sending her to Bedlam. Is that understood?”

Dr. Walcott cringed, then nodded. “I have removed her bandages. I will return again at a later time to check on her—wounds,” he said stiffly.

“As you see necessary, Doctor.”

“Your Grace.” And with that Dr. Walcott left.

Francine was in a daze as the next days drifted slowly by. She awoke with the sun from the windows, breakfasted in her room, then sat in the private parlor watching the breeze stirring the trees, where she was currently. The most exciting moments were when Roxleigh left on his afternoon ride, though it never seemed as vigorous and fervent as the first time she saw him. She didn’t dare venture outside on the balcony again.