A Fine Passion (7 page)

Jack translated easily; tidy and back in order meant restored to the most exacting standards—Lady Clarice Altwood’s standards. He glanced around; obviously Warren had understood her, too.

“Did they—Griggs and the others—tell you why the garden had been left to go to seed?” He brought his gaze back to her face.

Far from coloring, as many might have done, she merely raised a brow. “They told me your father had ordered it be shut up, but he was gone by then, and, frankly, I’ve never seen the point in celebrating a death rather than celebrating the life.”

He held her dark gaze; it didn’t waver in the least. She was, at least over the garden and its present state, as calm and assured as she outwardly appeared. For all she knew, she might have trampled his toes and be in for a nasty altercation…he glanced around again, unable to help himself. She couldn’t know she’d given him back something he hadn’t realized he’d mourned, and had just put into simple adult words exactly what he, as a boy, had always felt but been unable to express.

“It’s as I remember it.” That was all he could find to say, that he could easily say.

He looked back at her. To his surprise, faint color had now risen to her alabaster cheeks. Aware of it, and of his gaze, she shifted, then admitted, “I found a notebook of your mother’s, with a detailed plan of the garden. I didn’t think you’d mind me consulting it to bring the garden back to what it was.”

He studied her face, then glanced around. “I don’t mind.”

He sensed a certain relief ripple through her; her stance—her stiffness—eased a fraction. But then she drew breath, and drew herself up, and faced him. “Now—I believe I owe you an apology, my lord.”

The words were brisk, even. They effectively drew him back from the past, into the present.

He smiled at her. Intently. “You perceive me all ears, my lady.”

She didn’t frown, but her gaze sharpened. For a moment, she studied him, as if debating whether to inform him gloating was uncouth, then she raised her chin and fixed him with a challengingly direct gaze. “When we first met I misjudged you, my lord. Pray accept my apologies.”

Clarice waited, willing him to simply nod.

Instead, he raised his brows. “Misjudged? How so, if I might make so bold as to ask?”

His hazel eyes held hers. She felt her temper stir. Make so bold, indeed. “As you’re perfectly well aware, I thought—had deduced from what I’d heard from others here—that you cared nothing for your acres, and were wholly absorbed with the typical, frivolous, and inconsequential entertainments of gentlemen of our class. That view, it appears, was incorrect.”

His brows rose higher. “I thought it was my prolonged absences that invoked your ire?”

She pressed her lips tight, then nodded. “Indeed. But I now understand those absences were…excusable. Understandable.”

“Perhaps even laudable?”

She drew in a breath, held it, then nodded again. “Even that.”

He smiled, all gratified male.

She exhaled, pleased to have the deed over and done—

“You didn’t hear anything specific from those round about, and you didn’t ask what they thought of me, either. You leapt to unwarranted conclusions.”

She snapped her eyes up to his and caught her breath. Felt her own eyes widen as he stepped closer, and she was afforded a glimpse of the man behind the charming mask—one whose honor she’d impugned, at least as he saw it. Looking into his face, at his squared jaw, the etched line of his lips—and most especially the changeable, now clear and agatey-hard hazel of his eyes—she understood that clearly.

He was one of the few men she’d ever met who made her feel…slight. And some part of her knew he wasn’t even trying, not deliberately trying to physically intimidate her.

Eating crow suddenly seemed easy. Even advisable. Holding his hard gaze, she nodded. “Yes.”

He blinked. His brows rose again; this time, when his eyes met hers, she detected surprise, swiftly superseded by an untrustworthy amusement that warmed the hazel depths, softening them. His lips eased, but he managed not to smile. “Just yes? No equivocation?”

She narrowed her eyes to slits; folding her arms, she fixed him with a gaze just short of a glare. “You’re determined to be difficult over this, aren’t you?”

“Difficult? Me? Everyone round about will assure you I’m the most easygoing gentleman you’re ever likely to meet.”

She sniffed. “More fool them.”

“It would be unwise to leap to any further conclusions about me, don’t you think?”

She held his gaze, then succinctly replied, “Overlooking the obvious would be more unwise.”

Amusement again flirted about his mobile lips. With any other, she’d be incensed; with him, she was intrigued….

The oddity of that brought her back to earth with a thump.

She lowered her arms. “You’ve forgiven me—I know you have.” She started to turn away. “There’s no point dragging this out—”

“I haven’t forgiven you.” Jack moved across and into her, with one step trapped her against the edge of the pond. The basin of the fountain within it stood shoulder high, preventing her from leaning back. He studied her eyes from close quarters; such dark, dark brown was hard to read, but he sensed from their wideness, from her quickened breathing, that he’d succeeded in claiming her entire attention.

Tauntingly, he let his lips quirk, let his eyes light with understanding. “Perhaps an olive branch? That might sway me.” Beyond his control, his gaze dropped to her lips. “Might appease me.”

And my demons.

He had to fight not to move closer still, to crowd her even more…to feel her body against his, teasing, tempting…

She licked her lips. He watched the tip of her tongue slide over the lush, lower curve; something inside him clenched. Tight.

“What olive branch?”

She’d managed to find enough breath to speak evenly, to infuse the words with a veneer of her customary haughtiness—enough to spark his less-civilized instincts.

“A kiss.”

He hadn’t even needed to think. That was what he wanted from her, now, here in her resurrection of his mother’s garden.

She blinked, but he sensed she wasn’t shocked. Nor was she unwilling…he had to drag in a breath and fight to hold his instincts back, to give her time enough to agree before he took, seized.

Her eyes returned to his; she eyed him, not warily so much as assessingly. Measuringly.

He wasn’t entirely surprised by her unmissish reaction. From James’s revelations, he’d calculated that she was twenty-nine. She’d been betrothed twice, had farewelled a guardsman going to war once, had been about to elope once. She’d been pursued by many. He knew the males of his class, knew the females, too. She wouldn’t be—couldn’t be—totally innocent.

And she’d been living here for seven years, buried in the country with no one—no gentleman of the style and class with whom she might dally. His style, his class, and now he was home. To stay.

He could almost see the procession of facts cross her mind.

He wasn’t the least surprised when she said, “In return for a kiss—one kiss and nothing more—you’ll agree never to mention or allude to my leaping to unwarranted conclusions again?”

Holding her gaze, he nodded. “Yes.”

Her head rose; her dark eyes flashed. “Very well—one kiss.”

He smiled, and reached for her.

O
ne kiss. Clarice hadn’t been able to resist. She had to know, had to reassure herself he was just like all the others—of no real consequence. That the response he evoked in her was an aberration that meant nothing, that she could ignore it. And one kiss—just one—could pose no great danger. She’d been kissed before; in her opinion, the activity was overrated.

The instant his hand touched the back of her waist, the instant her breasts touched his chest, she realized her mistake.

Her breath tangled in her throat.

One large hand clasped her nape; his thumb beneath her jaw tipped her head back as he lowered his. For a heartbeat his lips hovered above hers; she glimpsed his hazel eyes gleaming from beneath long lashes—in that instant realized he fully intended this kiss would be anything but easily dismissed.

Then he swooped and captured her lips.

Claimed them and her senses, her entire mind…not with force, not with strength, but with temptation. His lips moved on hers, confident yet beguiling, searching, learning, then, as if satisfied he’d reconnoitered the terrain, his lips firmed.

She kept hers shut, tried to remain passive—and failed. Stunned, she found herself responding; she hadn’t intended to at all. Certainly hadn’t intended to part her lips for him, but then his tongue slid between and found hers, and pleasure bloomed.

Lured. Beckoned.

Was there a male version of a siren?

If there was, he and his lips qualified. She knew what he wanted, knew what he intended, yet still she went forward, following his artful, highly skillful lead. Into an exchange that was fascinating, intriguing, exciting—all the things kisses for her had never been.

Just a kiss,
she mentally swore, but her limbs didn’t answer her call as he smoothly gathered her into his arms, surrounded her with his strength, a strength that, at such close quarters, warmed and reassured.

Tempted and enticed.

She hadn’t expected that. She usually couldn’t abide being held, confined, restricted. Controlled. Yet when he drew her against him, against his hard frame, all resistance fled; she had to fight a far-too-revealing urge to abandon all sense and sink against him.

And still the kiss went on, a shifting blend of subtle yet blatant exploration inexorably superseded by flagrant demand. He wasn’t in any way less than direct; even less was he hesitant. He asked for no permission as he angled his head and deepened the kiss—sweeping her into deeper waters.

Waters in which she’d never before swum. The distant part of her mind that still functioned was shocked to discover herself outflanked, outmaneuvered, totally out of her depth. Plunged, not gently but forcefully into a world of sensation and hunger, where passion swirled, indistinct as yet, more mist and promise than solid reality, yet hot, demanding, and exciting nonetheless. Each press of his lips, each too-knowingly languid thrust of his tongue sent a lick of desire sliding through her.

Sent heat through her flesh, weakening her limbs, melting her steel.

Jack felt her hands slide up his chest, hesitate on his shoulders, then rise to frame his face. To grasp and hold tight as their lips fused, as he tasted her, as he learned just how much to his liking she was. Even locked deep in the kiss, in the immersion of his senses, he felt the touch of her cool fingers on his cheeks, on his jaw, felt reaction streak through him.

Nearly cheered.

He tightened his arms about her instead, greedily drawing her more fully against him. Flush, so he could feel her softness cradling him, sense the promise in the long, taut thighs pressed to his. Glory in the firmness of her breasts, in the ruched nipples poking his chest.

Then she kissed him back—not just responded but clamped his head between her hands and pressed a voracious, hungry, defiantly passionate caress of lips and tongue upon him. She sent his senses careening as she leaned into him, into his embrace, and blatantly incited not just him, but herself.

He knew that last instinctively, knew she was exploring as much as he had earlier, but not, in her case, the physical, as he had; she was wholly engrossed in the sensual. She wanted it, grasped the moment and all he offered, and stroked, caressed, learned, and left him aching.

Beneath the clamor of his senses, something primal stirred, some part of him that hadn’t prowled in years but that now scented the right prey, lifted its head, and stretched. He savored her, luxuriated in her promise, in the heady invitation inherent in her bold and challenging response.

And started to plot, to plan.

Some small part of his mind was congratulating himself on the superiority of his instincts—he’d been wanting to kiss her for hours—and his good sense in acting so promptly in that regard, when footsteps sounded on the paved path.

He lifted his head, instantly alert.

He was smugly aware that a finite moment passed before, blinking, she refocused.

And tensed. Before she could struggle he released her, setting her back on her feet. “The side path,” he said, voice low. “They haven’t seen us.”

She glanced around, still a trifle dazed. She shot him a glance to see if he’d noticed; he pretended to be oblivious, looking past her to where Crawler had come into view, walking along a secondary path leading to the alcove.

Crawler saw them; his grizzled face cleared. “Howlett said as he thought you’d headed this way.”

Nearing, Crawler nodded to Jack, then his gaze switched to Clarice. “Begging your pardon, m’lady, but if you’ve a minute when you’re finished with his lordship…?”

Clarice flicked a glance Jack’s way. “I’m quite finished with his lordship. What can I help you with?”

She moved, stepping closer to Crawler; Jack quashed a powerful urge to reach out and haul her back, and whisper in her ear that she was very far from being finished with him, or he with her.

Not after that kiss.

“I was wondering,” Crawler said, “if you’ve any ideas about that new mare Mr. Trelliwell’s been riding. Seems he feels she’s not up to his weight and wants rid of her. He’s asking a fair price, but I wondered if you’d heard any whispers—whether there was any other reason he wanted shot of her?”

Boadicea smiled. Knowingly. Crawler’s eyes lit.

“I heard,” she said, “that Mr. Trelliwell suffered a rather embarrassing accident when out with the Quorn a few weeks ago. I heard he was riding a bay mare, and that mare is a bay, isn’t she?”

Crawler snorted. “Tipped him over a fence, did she? Well, that suits me—I want her for breeding. She has right nice lines”—this Crawler directed at Jack—“and I’m always in favor of spirit in a mare.”

“Indeed.” Jack smiled, jovially man-to-man. “Spirited fillies make quite the best riding all around.”

Darting a glance at Boadicea, Crawler manfully swallowed his guffaw.

But Clarice had looked down, absorbed with flicking out her skirts. When she looked up, her expression was as usual, serenely calm with a touch of hauteur. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I must get back to the rectory.”

Crawler immediately bowed. “Thank you for the advice, m’lady. I’ll be off to see Mr. Trelliwell tomorrow morning.”

She directed a gracious smile at Crawler, but when she turned to Jack, there was nothing but dark warning in her eyes. “Lord Warnefleet.” She inclined her head regally, then added, more softly, “Welcome home.”

With that, she turned, and sailed away up the central path.

Jack watched her go, the frown in his mind due to more than the simple fact that he hadn’t wanted her to leave, yet she had. He found it difficult to tear his gaze from the elegant line of her back, the perfect inverted heart shape of her hips and bottom as she walked away…and left him standing.

Mentally gritting his teeth, he forced his gaze to Crawler. He felt he should have known about Trelliwell’s mare, that it should have been he who Crawler had come to. He knew that was irrational, yet…outwardly relaxed, he met Crawler’s gaze. “So tell me about this mare. And what else have you been dabbling in breedingwise, you old reprobate?”

Crawler chuckled and told him as together they walked to the stables.

But the main part of Jack’s mind remained in the rose garden, with the opportunity he’d sensed, and was determined to pursue, despite—or perhaps because of—the complex mix of reactions a certain warrior-queen evoked in him. And those he evoked in her.

He was quite certain she’d guessed he wouldn’t be content with one kiss, not now; that was what that warning in her eyes had been about, why she’d so slickly seized the opportunity Crawler had presented to escape.

Did she truly think he wouldn’t pursue it, and her—that she could with just a censorious look warn him off?

Probably.

Unfortunately, she’d misjudged him—again. He had every intention of pursuing her, and would, but he was too wise to simply ride forth to engage with a warrior-queen secure in her domain. He’d pursue her, but on his terms.

In his own time, in his own way, in a place of his choosing.

After that kiss, definitely in a place of his choosing.

One that eliminated all chance of interruptions.

Jack spent a quiet evening letting his staff fuss over him. The dinner Mrs. Connimore set before him would have done justice to a king; it was a pity, he later reflected, nursing a glass of brandy in the library, that a certain warrior-queen hadn’t been there to share it.

He sat and sipped, letting the peace and tranquility of home sink in, the quiet tock of the longcase clock, the comforting crackle of the log in the grate, feeling the glow from the brandy spread through him, reminiscent of the fire Boadicea evoked…

After a long moment, he shifted in his chair, then resolutely redirected his mind to his alternate plan to ensure his succession. It was the only alternative, but if matters fell out as he hoped, it would do.

Gradually, the day caught up with him; his head still ached, but no longer throbbed. Draining his glass, he went upstairs, along the way noticing this and that, little items, glimpses of the past…

He was home.

He slept well, better than he had in thirteen years. He awoke with a clear head, rose, washed, and dressed for the day, a sense of anticipation buoying him.

Walking through the gallery, he saw Mrs. Connimore come out of the bedchamber in which the young man lay. Pausing at the top of the stairs, he waited for her to join him.

“Good morning, my lord.” Mrs. Connimore beamed at him. “And it’s a pleasure to be able to say that, you may be sure.”

He smiled. “Thank you, and good morning to you. How’s the patient?”

Mrs. Connimore’s face fell. “Still not with us.”

Jack nodded and started down the stairs, knowing she’d insist he go first.

Connimore followed. “I’ll send word to Dr. Willis, and to Lady Clarice.”

Jack paused, then shook aside an urge to ask why Lady Clarice Altwood needed to be informed; it would only fluster Connimore, and Boadicea had, after all, been instrumental in rescuing the gentleman. He continued down the stairs and headed for the breakfast parlor. He was disinclined to allow anything to dim his ebullient mood.

After demolishing a plate of ham, eggs, and pikelets, washed down with a mug of strong coffee while perusing the latest news-sheet, he headed for the study, and Griggs. He expected his faithful agent to be eager to go through all that had been done in his absence and reacquaint him with the current state of the manor. In that, he wasn’t disappointed; Griggs, old cheeks flushed with pleasure, laid out ledgers and accounts with not a little pride.

Justifiable pride; the estate was doing better than Jack had imagined it could.

Something else he hadn’t expected was the number of times Clarice’s name figured in Griggs’s explanations for the manor’s improved state.

“Now.” Pince-nez perched on his nose, Griggs set another open ledger before Jack. “We’ve managed to increase the yields from the south fields.”

Jack couldn’t stop himself. “Lady Clarice…?”

“She suggested—oh, a few years ago now—that Hidgson might rotate his clover with his grains. Seemed no harm trying it, so he did.” Griggs pointed to a row of neat figures. “Improved the yield by ten percent the first year, then another five percent the year after. We’re now running the same system in the east fields, and they’re coming along well, too. If you look here…”

Jack looked, and absorbed, and asked himself why he minded.

He hadn’t been here. She had.

A trip to the stables before lunch should have restored his mood; instead, while listening to Crawler bring him up to date on his horses and his herds, he learned that Clarice knew a remarkable amount about horses, cattle, and sheep, and their husbandry. Enough, at least, to have gained the respect of Crawler, a confirmed misogynist, or so Jack had always thought.

Lunchtime arrived; when, later, he visited Connimore and Cook in the kitchens, he discovered the recipe for the asparagus soup he’d so enjoyed had been introduced to his household by…Lady Clarice.

He forced a charming smile and asked after the young gentleman.

“No change.” Connimore shook her head. “Lady Clarice sent word she’d drop by this afternoon.”

His smile grew tight. “I’m afraid I’ll miss her—I’m going to ride around the estate.”

With a nod, he left the kitchens, strode out to the stables, called for Challenger to be saddled, then swung himself up and thundered off across the fields.
His
fields.
His
land.

He prayed his tenants wouldn’t fill his ears with tales of Lady Clarice and her suggestions.

They did, of course.

By the time he turned Challenger’s head for home, he had a very clear idea of how Boadicea had filled her time, buried down there in the country. And while some part of his brain told him his instinctive response to her actions was irrational—she
wasn’t
trying to interfere, nor had she deliberately usurped his position—yet still he smarted, justifiably or not.

He still felt…slighted in some indefinable way.

Illogical, irrational, and given Boadicea, probably idiotic, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling, couldn’t free himself of the emotion.