Louisa Rawlings (25 page)

“Not anymore. He married a widow with three children last summer, and moved in with her. Daddy turned the upstairs into a sitting room for me. It’s very pleasant with the breezes coming off the lake. I often go there to read. Come on.” She smiled. “Sometimes Martha thinks to put a pitcher of lemonade on the table.”

The lodge was a two-storied boathouse set among the trees on the edge of Saratoga Lake. The lower floor was given over to the gear and tackle of the several boats that Brian Bradford owned, boats which now bobbed in the water next to Brian’s private dock. The room above was airy, with windows on all sides and fresh-looking, white wicker furniture. On one of the tables was a stone crock covered with a damp square of cloth. Arthur lifted a corner of the cloth and sniffed. “It’s lemonade, or I miss my guess.” He looked about the room. “Are there glasses?”

Willough pointed to a small cupboard. “There.” She took off her English straw hat and put it on the settee with her folded parasol, next to Arthur’s hat.

Arthur opened the cupboard and took down two glasses. He laughed softly at the sight of a small decanter filled with a deep red liquor. “I didn’t think you were a secret drinker,” he teased.

She felt herself blushing. “Oh, Arthur, that’s just for when Daddy comes down here occasionally. He finds lemonade a bit tame for his taste.”

“To be sure. Lemonade is a child’s drink.”

It almost seemed like a challenge. “I
do
drink claret lemonade. I’m old enough!”

“My dear, you’re old enough to do whatever you want to do.”

It
was
a challenge. It was really too hot a day to drink wine, but she could scarcely back down now. “Then why don’t you put a bit of that wine into our glasses before I pour the lemonade?”

Arthur smiled and brought the decanter to the table, placing it next to the crock. He poured carefully; the finished concoction was a lovely shade of pink. They sat facing each other across the table, sipping slowly, while Arthur told her a funny little story about the last time he had been in New York.

What an agreeable man, she thought, admiring his refinement, his courtliness. She regretted all the years she had avoided his company. Guard your virtue, Nat had said. How absurd! She had never felt safer with any man. And Nat, of all people, warning her… Nat, with those eyes that seemed to strip the clothes from her body…

“What say we go for a boat ride?” asked Arthur suddenly.

“You’ll have to do all the work. Won’t it be too hot for you?”

“I’ll stay in the shade, along the edge of the lake. And you’ll have your parasol.”

Willough stood up. “I should have brought my fan.
Nothing
will make me cool today.”

She was sorry she’d had so many glasses of claret lemonade. It only made her feel more flushed.

“I have an idea. You can trail your feet in the water as we go along. That’ll keep you cool.”

She hesitated. “How am I to manage that? With my stockings and all?”

“Why don’t you take off your shoes and stockings here? Then I can carry you down to the boat.” He smiled disarmingly. “It will be very romantic. Like a princess being carried to her barge.”

She giggled. “Oh, Arthur. What a fanciful thought!”

He tried to look serious. “Fair damsel, may I be of assistance?”

She perched on the edge of the chaise and bent to unbutton her shoes. “You may, my liege. If I’m not too heavy for you.”

“Wait. Let me.” He knelt at her feet and slipped her shoes off. He looked up and smiled. “You’ll never fight your way through all those petticoats and frills to reach your garters. Let me do it.”

She stared at him with wide eyes. Could Nat be right?

Arthur looked hurt. “Willough,” he chided. “You can’t possibly think…”

Silly goose! she thought. A man didn’t seduce a woman in broad daylight! What was she making such a fuss about?

“Pretend I’m your maid,” he said. “Lean back on the chaise and relax. I’ll do the rest.”

“You’re being silly, Arthur.”

“Then indulge me. Your maid gets to pamper you. Let me pamper you for a little while. For all the times when I didn’t see you growing up. When I couldn’t buy you an ice cream, or show you a magic trick, or dandle you on my knee.”

How could she say no? He had pinned the flower on her bosom without offending her. She sighed and leaned back against the cushions, allowing herself the pleasure of feeling waited upon. Carefully, he stripped back her overskirt and its contrasting underskirts, then folded up her several petticoats just below her knees. Her garters were fastened above her knees, under the lace edge of her drawers. He reached up under the petticoats and unhooked her garters with delicate fingers; she scarcely felt his touch on her flesh. When he pulled off her stockings, she had a pang of embarrassment that her limbs should be exposed to his gaze. But how ridiculous! she thought. She’d gone wading many a time at the seashore—with her skirts held up—and
strangers
had seen her bare legs. Why should she be embarrassed with Arthur?

She closed her eyes and wiggled her toes. “Oh, that’s so cool, with the breeze on my limbs!” She was content to let her skirts stay just at her knees; she was too comfortable to be concerned about the niceties.

“Such a hot day,” he murmured. “I don’t know why you wore a jacket over your waist. Come. Out of it. Out of it!”

She could feel his fingers beginning to work on the buttons of her jacket. She opened her eyes and smiled lazily at him, laughing as he sat her up and pulled the jacket off her. Without the long, heavy sleeves, she certainly felt more comfortable. So comfortable that she’d almost forgotten why they were there. “The boat ride…” she began.

He pushed her back against the pillows, fluffing them behind her head. “The boat ride can wait. You look cooler than you have all afternoon.” He picked up his straw skimmer and began to fan her feet.

She sighed and closed her eyes again. “I feel like a sybarite!” She giggled. “You’ve no idea how warm one’s knees can get under all these petticoats!”

“Poor knees. We must make them more comfortable.” Carefully he pushed her skirts just above her knees and continued fanning. She sighed contentedly, then gasped. Something was touching her bare skin. She opened her eyes to see that Arthur had bent to her and was kissing her leg.

“Merciful heaven! Why did you do that?”

He looked at her and smiled, a gentle, benevolent smile. “Because they’re such charming knees. And so distressed under all those petticoats.”

She felt herself blushing. But he was dear Arthur, after all. Dear, safe Arthur. Isobel had always said it:
If you’re in danger from a man, you’ll know it
. She had no fear with Arthur. “How can limbs be charming?” she demurred with a shy laugh.

He gazed at her, his eyes warm and sincere. She had never felt so flattered by a look in all her life. And his words brought more flattery. “You have beautiful legs—what I can see of them. It’s a pity a woman must keep her beauty hidden under so many layers of clothing.” She felt deliciously wicked, surprised at her own enjoyment of his frank admiration. She had never thought it could feel so wonderful to have a man praise you with his words and his glances.

He unbuttoned his frock coat and took it off, then loosened his collar and cravat. “You look so comfortable. I hate to disturb you to go boating.”

She stifled a yawn, then giggled. “I think the claret lemonade has made me sleepy.”

“Then why don’t you take a nap? There’ll still be time to go boating in the cool of the afternoon.” He leaned over her and smiled. “Why don’t you close those beautiful eyes? Let me see if I can make you more comfortable.”

“Are you still determined to be my maid?”

He grinned and sat beside her on the chaise. “Of course! Now close your eyes. And when you wake this maid will still be here, not stealing a sweet in the pantry.”

Still giggling, she closed her eyes. Such a silly game! She was certainly not used to such giddy behavior. Who would have thought Uncle Arthur could be so amusing? She felt his hands go around her waist, shifting her body to a more horizontal position. With the heat, and the claret lemonade, and his kind ministrations, it would be very easy to fall asleep.

“Am I interrupting something?” Nat’s voice, hard as granite.

Arthur jumped up and whirled around. “What the devil are you doing here, Stanton?”

“I came for a swim. I thought I heard voices.”

Willough sat up. She didn’t know whether to be angry or humiliated. It was one thing to play with Arthur; it was quite another to be found in such a state of undress by a man like Nat! Quickly she pulled her skirts and petticoats modestly over her bare legs. “Haven’t you any manners, Nat?” she said. Her voice was quivering. “Of all the rude behavior…”

“I didn’t know I was expected to knock,” he said. He looked at Arthur, his amber eyes burning with fury. “But then,
I’m
not a gentleman!”

“You’d better get out, Stanton.”

Nat crossed his arms against his chest. He was wearing only a dark work shirt—the sleeves rolled up, the front half unbuttoned; it was blotched with sweat. He clenched and unclenched his teeth, so his jaw twitched angrily. “You’ll leave first, Gray. Either by the stairs…or the window.”

“Now see here, Stanton…”

“Mr. Bradford always struck me as a somewhat old-fashioned father. He might be interested to hear
my
interpretation of this little scene.”

Arthur’s glance wavered. He managed a thin laugh. “Brian and I have always enjoyed a comfortable association, both privately and in business. I’d hate to see that jeopardized.” He bent to retrieve his coat and hat.

Willough struggled to her feet, smoothing out her skirts. “Arthur, you don’t have to…”

He smiled. “I would do nothing, my dear, that might damage your father’s esteem for either of us.” He indicated Nat with a contemptuous jerk of his chin. “
Honi soit qui mal y pense
. You have my profound sympathies, Willough, that you’re forced to work with this coarse lout! I’ll see you at dinner on Monday.” He pushed past Nat and hurried down the stairs.

Willough whirled to Nat, her lip curled in disgust. “Would you like a translation?”

“Don’t bother. I can guess.”

“It means
Shamed be the man who thinks evil
!”

“I only think what my eyes tell me,” he growled. “What is he—forty? The lecherous bastard! Playing his little games with you…”

“He’s thirty-eight,” she snapped, wondering why she had to defend Arthur.

“And you?” His eyes swept her coldly. “Twenty-one at the most, I’d guess. And so young and green that a man could soft-soap you into anything!” He jerked his chin in the direction of the wine decanter. “Even without that to lull you into complacency!”

“You
do
have a vulgar mind! Arthur was fully dressed, and I”—she felt herself blushing, remembering her shameless skirts—“I…was never in any danger!” she finished hastily. “Whereas you—look at you! Don’t you even button your shirt in the presence of a lady?”

He laughed sardonically. “He was fully dressed? Christ! Do you think sex is like those pretty pictures in the museums—all those handsome, naked bodies so tastefully arranged? My God, Willough, he can have his cock in you without unhooking his gaiters!”

She gasped in horror, her hand going to her mouth. She scarcely understood what he meant. But there were dark shadings in his words and his eyes. Frightening. Mysterious. “Stop it, Nat!”

“No! I want you to listen and understand, so you won’t let it happen again! He wouldn’t even have to undress you! You ladies with your split drawers make it very easy for a man like that.”

She was beside herself. “How
dare
you speak of my underpinnings!”

“Oh, God!” He ran an impatient hand through his sandy curls. “They’re your
drawers
, Willough, and damn little protection from what Arthur had in mind! He would have hurt you, Willough. Hurt you badly.”

She was shaking like a leaf. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I suppose I’m
trying
to frighten you. I want you to be on your guard with men like that.”

She could feel the tears starting to burn beneath her lids. “Disgusting,” she repeated. “Disgusting and horrible and vicious and…” The words choked in her throat.

He stepped closer. “Willough…”

She looked up. Without her shoes, she was far shorter than he. He seemed to loom above her—the broad shoulders and barrel chest, the shirt falling open to his waist. She could smell his sweat, a musky headiness that was frightening and repelling and strangely seductive all at once.

She thought, I don’t care what he says. Arthur is a gentleman. But this creature…with his masculine scent, his overpowering body…this is a…(she found it hard even to
think
the word)…a sexual animal.

“Willough…” he said again, and put his hand on her bare arm.

Her eyes widened in panic. She sucked in a terrified breath and cringed away from him, feeling her flesh burning at his touch.

His amber eyes registered pain. Then anger. “Christ,” he muttered. “You little fool.” Turning on his heel, he pounded down the stairs.