When a Rake Falls (18 page)

He touched her breast over the fullest part, and she sighed upon the joyous sensation this created. Wrapping his arms around her, he rolled her on top of him and buried his kisses on her neck and under her ears. Sitting up, he scooted to lean against a tree. “Come here,” he said, his voice taking on a deep rumble. He pulled her up onto his lap. Then he reached under her bodice and kneaded her breast, all the while raining hot kisses on her neck. The earthen pathway in front of her blurred into a golden halo of light.

She relaxed fully, sinking lower onto his torso, pushing her breasts against his palms. Her attention seemed fixed upon her physical responses from the caresses and kisses delivered under the heated spotlight of the sun, just above. Soon, however, she felt his reaction, a stiffening member directly under her backside. Logic returned, since she was unsure of his control over the situation. She hesitated, waiting for him to move first.

He must have sensed her reluctance. “You cannot marry that fellow. Please reconsider what your betrothal would mean.”

Logic prevailed; they were not speaking the same language. His tenderness did not bespeak a marriage proposal, while her responses put voice to an unspoken acknowledgment of her love. His behavior was meant as a lesson in contrast, the differing sexual proficiencies between two men. His kisses were merely a gesture to wake her up, persuade her not to wed Charles Henry. Each kiss said, “Here is what I can do for you, versus the ineptitude of the other man.” She concluded his heart was likely hidden, inaccessible, or jaded due to a lifetime of easily available women.

“You are the one who does not understand me,” she said, a tear forming. She turned around again and lay with her back on his chest, so he couldn't see her tears. Before her stretched nothing but the darkness of the impenetrable trees.

“So you will wed this jackanapes, Mr. Henry. How could you?”

“I've always done my duty to my family.”

“Duty?” He leaned to the side to stare at her directly, and she glanced away.

Eve's mother had wanted her to be happy. She needed to persuade her father to allow her to remain unwed, and the three of them continue their research as before. Happiness with the man she loved was not her fate. “Come, let's return to the priory and say our farewells. We are needed elsewhere.” In the future, whenever she felt alone or frightened, maybe even witnessing others share an embrace, she would hold dear this one blissful memory of passion, under a canopy of trees, hidden away.

What was wrong with everyone? Funny thing how a single day can lead to a fantastical change in your life. Yesterday, Boyce's future stretched before him composed of nothing but promise. Today? Today, after a sleepless night and a hurried breakfast before anyone else at the priory had risen, he entered the quiet stables to saddle Charity.

With his small collection of belongings and a few necessities loaned by Buxton, he planned to rejoin the earl's race. His ribs, right leg, and back, injured from his fall out of the balloon, pained him more today than yesterday, but this gave him strange comfort, because it complemented his feeling of being ill-used and allowed him the luxury of suffering in silence.

Damnation
. Before him, outside the stable doors, the day proved to be another blasted sunny one. A perfect summer's day had never irritated him before, but it did now—birds yelling, bees buzzing, stable hands being cheerful.

Charity became difficult to saddle, perhaps dragging her from a warm, cozy stall made her grumpy this morning. For the fourth time, he tried to tighten the strap under her belly, but she scooted out of the way.

“Boyce dear.”

He let his head fall to rest on Charity's flank and closed his eyes.

Lady Buxton sighed. “I apologize for disturbing you, son. For the sake of your dear mother, please let me have a word with you before you leave.”

What should he do? Have a conversation with a lady who deserved no disrespect from him, or hang himself with Charity's bridle?

“I know why you are leaving us so soon.”

“I gave my farewells yesterday. It's all settled.”

“I wonder if a groom is awake to fetch me a stool?” She stepped back to peer down the row of stables.

He turned to face her. “Why do you need a stool?” He wondered if Lady B. planned to climb upon Charity.

“To stand on, of course. Under the circumstances, I believe your dear mother would approve of me boxing your ears.”

He turned back to resume securing Charity's saddle. “Please leave me. Please.” Perhaps if he ignored her, she'd return to the house. He could then apologize for his ill spirits on another visit.

Even though the stable floor was covered in straw, her cane hit the ground with such force, it made a loud tap. “You're a sulky puss, now attend me.”

Resisting the urge to lift her physically into his arms and return her to the house, he spun to face her and straightened. “You have five minutes,” he snapped. “I apologize; it's early.”

The fight in her seemed to leave as her shoulders sagged. All of a sudden, her countenance expressed every one of her sixty-plus years. She carefully and slowly approached him until she stood at a distance suitable to box his ears. Then she sighed and waited.

He had no intention of speaking first.

After a longer sigh, she said, “Tell me about this Lady Sarah. Are you in love with her?”

He shook his head. “Pardon? What gave you the idea I was in love with the woman? I only met her once, and that interview lasted a full minute.”

“What about Miss Mountfloy? What are your feelings for her?”

A
good
question
. Yesterday, he had not lingered after his aeronaut confirmed her betrothal. His mind had instantly become hopelessly muddled. Now his blood boiled whenever he thought of her engagement, so he vowed never to consider it again—ever. He needed to flee this place, rejoin the race, and put his failures and her mistaken choice of a husband behind him. If not, his heart might pain him forever. He doubted they would ever meet in the future.

He then remembered his father's expression after she accused him of not being able to take his presentation seriously, the pater's tight lips, head held lower than normal, and the all-too-familiar expression of disappointment. Was his father disappointed with her too? The marquess had only known her for a few days at most, so he couldn't have been upset from the news she planned to marry Charles Henry. Was his father blaming her for
his
less than perfect performance of the sun dog speech? He remembered his father using the word
adequate
, and despite Eve's misgivings, her offer to help make his next speech more credible. But perhaps his father had only said it because he did not want to appear overly critical of his son in front of Lady Buxton. Boyce knew for certain that, had he remained in the room, his father would have belittled him even more for his failure. He might even be waiting for him this morning with some colossal scold. Boyce must flee.

“Perhaps you do not consider your feelings for Miss Mountfloy. So you leave me without a notion in my head why you are so eager to leave us, leave the people you love, for some trifling race.”

“It's not a trifling race. With my ballooning adventure, I truly believe I have won at least one challenge. Why would I leave a race, abandon the winnings and acclaim, if I have already won?”

She squeezed his forearm. “Don't you understand that winning the race will not ease your difficulties?”

He stared at her wrinkled hand still squeezing his arm, possibly as hard as she could. “I'm not going to listen. Leave me alone.”

“Although you hide it with your enthusiasm, you are an intelligent young man. Look past your father's words and into your heart. What will this race accomplish? What do you fear? What matters the most to you?”

He pulled his arm away. “You are acting like a female, all empathy and consideration, but my father is a typical gentleman, a man who desires successful sons. He was so proud when Richard faced American bullets like a man in New Orleans. But to him, I'm just Piglet, the youngest and the one always in trouble. With my victory, I will win respect and thousands of pounds. That matters the most to me.”

Her eyes became shiny. “No, upon reflection, you will realize that is not what matters. You have won already in a different sense—
think
.”

“I can't.”

She paused, shoulders stooped. “I cannot stop you from making a grave mistake, so you must learn it for yourself.” She stepped close.

“See, like my father, you too think I'm defective—broken.” He understood why she stepped near, so he lowered his head to give her the opportunity to box his ears.

She kissed him on the cheek. “Come back when the race is over. I want to have the pleasure of boxing your ears.” A fond smile appeared on her ruddy face.

“Thank you,” he said, with a slight bow. “I don't know exactly when I can return, but I give you my word.” He resumed saddling Charity, aware of the sound of her footsteps leaving the stables.

* * *

Darkness had fallen by the time he reached the small town of Uckfield. His day's progress was unremarkable, since he'd spent the morning wandering around an old Saxon church admiring the stonework. Then the following day, after traveling a few miles in the afternoon, he had stopped at the Wayward Lion. The rest of the evening, he had spent obscuring his recent memories by means of copious ingestion of the local ale.

It took him four days before he rode into the small town of Dover late in the evening. The packet would not sail until just after sunrise tomorrow, so he had plenty of time to drink himself to the blue devils. He engaged a small room at the local inn, The Fair Breeze, brushed the obvious dirt off his clothes, and attempted to tie a decent cravat knot. In the middle of a halfhearted attempt at a Maharatta knot, his thumb became stuck in the middle. He yanked his thumb free, messing up his almost-perfect folds. Following a long sigh, he tied a simple knot, adequate to join the locals in the taproom.

At the bottom of the grimy oak staircase, he heard the loud voices of an unnecessarily happy crowd—an irritating sound. Then directly in front of him, a pretty young lady dressed in pink sarcenet walked through the door in the company of her proud mama. He gave both women a respectable bow, but even the calming loveliness of the fair sex failed to soothe his troubled spirit. Realizing he lacked the ability to enjoy, or even be civil, this evening, he ordered a pitcher of ale, a mutton pie, and retired to his room. Sitting on a rather ugly sofa in front of the fire, he stared at the coals glowing in the hearth.

Before he became lost to the blue devils, he needed to write a letter to his father and explain his motive in rejoining the earl's race. Except ready words escaped him. He became lost in contemplation of the random hiss of hot coals in the grate. Why did one silly race and a few ribald books turn him into a disregarded son? He drank the pitcher of ale and ordered a second without bothering to wipe away the heavy foam lingering on two days' worth of whisker growth.

Soon his ale-addled mind fixed upon his aeronaut, Eve. He could not think of her—too painful—even now. Unshed tears pooled in his eyes, blurring the hot coals into a smudge of red light. Best to put her out of his mind entirely if he wanted to complete the earl's race. Maybe someday in the future, he could think of her again. Think of her without tears. Think of her happy. But until that day, if his mind strayed or remembered her in any manner, he'd force himself to sing.

He put two fingers into his ale and flicked some brew into the fire. The liquid sizzled before it vaporized into acrid steam. He repeated the gesture; the noisome smell of sour vapors suited him. By the time he finished the second pitcher, a wet trail of ale stained both trousers along his thigh, while puddles of brown ale spotted the floor.

The next morning, he rose late, paid his bill, and chatted about the probability of a smooth crossing with the innkeeper. Standing at the bar, in the middle of the crossroads of humanity, waiting for the packet to sail, Boyce ignored the commotion around him. Then over the hubbub, he heard someone shout his name. Turning, he saw Buxton struggling through the crowd to reach him.

“Lord Boyce, it's a pleasure to find you. I thought you'd have sailed by now, but I'm delighted to be proved wrong.” Buxton placed his hands on his knees to recover his breath.

“Buxton, well met. Let me help you to a chair. Landlord.”

“This way, your lordship.” The burly innkeeper created a pathway for the men and their baggage through several large parties, into an almost-empty back parlor.

Old-fashioned and on the small side, the private room had giant oak beams holding up the walls and ceiling. In a corner, under this low-beamed ceiling, a wealthy, respectable gentleman and his son waited for the packet.

The landlord showed them several oak chairs around a small table. Once they were comfortably seated, Boyce ordered coffee before the landlord left the room.

“What brings you all the way to Dover? Is there an emergency at the priory?” Boyce could not think of any reason his friend would set out on a journey of eighty or so miles. At least, not a good reason, so he began to panic over the welfare of his friends.

“No, not in the least. Let me catch my breath—I ran all the way from the stables—and then I'll tell you the purpose of my visit.”

“Right ho.” Boyce watched his friend regain his breath. After his first mug of coffee, Buxton returned to his usual self. Except, Boyce noticed an extra-wide smile shining on his friend's face, wide enough to make him suspicious that Buxton held some good news. “You seem happy today. Happier than I've ever seen you, in fact.”

“Bliss, Lord Boyce. Bliss.”

“Bliss is a rather strong word for a fellow to use. What has caused this overwhelming happiness?”

“Actually, you had a hand in my good spirits. After Drexel's field guide became published, I talked myself into a spot of bother. Saw my wife's initials between the pages and jumped to all of the wrong conclusions. I firmly believed my worst fears, that my wife lied to me or was incapable of love. I even sent her down to my mother to punish her.”

“Yes, yes. I say, rather harsh, that. For someone like Lydia to be isolated is a sure path to a strained marriage and unhappiness for you both.”

Buxton chuckled. “And so I found out. She cleverly alluded to the consequences of the riot act, and I deserved it.”

He nodded. “I think you're a lucky man. She is a delightful companion and a good and faithful wife. I truly wish you both happy.”

Buxton held up his mug. “To Mrs. Lydia Buxton.”

“Mrs. Lydia Buxton,” Boyce said, smiling at his friend and touching their mugs in salute.

“Thank you.” Buxton put down his coffee and then pulled a parchment letter out of his waistcoat. “This is why I came all this way to Dover.” He slid the letter across the table.

“What is it?” Boyce felt his pulse begin to throb.

“I don't know the precise contents of the letter. But Lady Buxton urged me to place it in your hands immediately.”

“What did Lady B. say it was?”

“I doubt Mother knew for sure, but she indicated that she had good feelings about it and urged me to find you with all haste.”

Boyce gulped loudly. Not expecting a letter and unsure of his readiness to face censure in a missive from his father, he opened the letter and immediately read the valediction: Mr. Thomas Harrison, Secretary of the Royal Institution of Great Britain. He yanked and pressed the letter flat with his hands, almost tearing it in half.

“Steady on,” Buxton said.

Upon a rapid perusal, Boyce learned Mr. Harrison wrote to inform him that the recent paper he submitted relating the observation of parhelia was interesting and important. Enough so, they accepted it for publication in their
Journals
. “Huzzah!”

Buxton patted him on the back. “Congratulations, I knew it would be of some importance. Important enough to justify my journey. What does it say?”

The innkeeper approached with fresh coffee. “Good news, your lordship?”

“Yes, yes.” Moreover, the letter contained an invitation to relate his observations in person at a Friday afternoon lecture, at two o'clock, on the third of the month. “Huzzah! Our paper has been accepted by the Royal Institute, and they would like me to present my sun dog observations in person.” He vowed to give a credible speech and make Eve proud.