The Last of Lady Lansdown (11 page)

She listened, fascinated. “So you think it could happen again?”

“Yes.”

She gazed out at the River Hulm, a narrow stream not more than thirty feet across, its sluggish current hardly moving. Cows grazed peacefully in the pasture on the other side. In the distance lay the plowed fields and thatched cottage where Meg Twimby lived. “I certainly hope you’re wrong.”

“Uh-oh.” His mood swiftly changed. A twinkle gleamed in his eye.

“What’s wrong?”

“Do I actually see a foot?”

She looked down. Drat! Up to now, she had sat with both legs tucked primly beneath her billowing riding skirt. Distracted by their fascinating conversation, she had allowed her booted right foot, along with part of an ankle, to poke out. Quickly she drew it beneath her. “It was all your talk about floods that made me careless.”

“Lord help us.” He cast a disgusted look at the sky. “Do you remember what I told you last time we were here?”

Every word. “I cannot recall.”

“If memory serves, I massaged your very lovely left foot. I said next time I would do the same for the right.”

“So you did. I just remembered.”

“Of course, you
just
remembered
.” His gaze raked boldly over her, finally dropping to the hem of her skirt. “Stick that right foot out. If there’s anything I can’t stand it’s a namby-pamby woman who is stuck on her own false modesty. There’s nothing sacred about feet, no matter what Mama taught you.”

Without giving the matter another thought, she held her right foot out. What harm would it do? He spoke the truth. Besides all that, she wanted to.

He leaned across the blanket and lifted her foot, encased in its half boot. “Let’s get this off.” Slowly, very slowly, he gripped her ankle with one hand and slid her boot off with the other. He cupped her foot in his hands, one underneath, the other resting lightly on the top. “White silk stockings this time,” he murmured, as if to himself, and began rubbing her foot gently with his upper hand. “Relax. Even a countess deserves a foot rub now and then.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Have you ever had one? From the earl perhaps?”

“Surely you jest.” She giggled.

“I thought not.” For a time, he bent to his task, concentrating on rubbing her foot, the touch of his fingers sending a warming tingle through her. “You did not like being married to the earl.”

“It was horrible. I hated it. I shall never have another husband.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to do
that
, ever again.”

He pondered a moment. “When you say
that
, I take it you mean the sexual act that takes place between a man and a woman?”

“Well, yes.” She felt a rush of blood to her face.

He looked up. “You’re blushing. That’s what this stupid society does to you women. Makes a perfectly normal activity into something shameful, unmentionable.” He stopped rubbing her foot and looked her square in the eye. “Sex can be a beautiful thing, you know.”

Sex
. He had actually said that forbidden word aloud! But somehow she no longer felt uncomfortable. Perhaps because he spoke so honestly, his remark seemed commonplace, as if he were talking about the weather, not intending to shock her at all. “I suppose it
can
be a beautiful thing, but not in this case.” She was proud she managed to sound nonchalant. “I want nothing to do with it, ever again. Instead, I plan to devote myself to riding Beauty, decorating my dower house and planting lovely flowers in my garden ... that sort of thing. I shall be quite content, thank you, without a man in my life.”

“What a lofty plan. Quite admirable, but for a woman as attractive as you, it won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“The men won’t leave you alone. Not with that voluptuous figure and that come-hither look, which is there whether you want it to be or not. Then there’s that marvelous hair and the way your whole face lights up when you laugh.” He sat back, his gaze sweeping over her. “You’re quite fetching, you know.”

“No, I don’t know.”

“Your naivety is part of your charm.”

“I am
not
naïve. I cannot imagine why you would think so.”

He laughed softly. “I’ll tell you something you don’t know. The reason you don’t know is no one will tell you, fearing such an unseemly disclosure will shock your so-called delicate sensibilities.”

“Really? What?” So intriguing. She could hardly wait to hear.

“Have you ever heard of Spanish Fly?”

Spanish Fly
. Hearing the words brought an instant sense of something sinful, forbidden, to be spoken of in whispers. “I’ve heard of it, just vaguely.”

“You do know what an aphrodisiac is?”

“Of course.” Actually, she wasn’t sure, aside from knowing it was not to be discussed in polite society.

“Spanish Fly is a powerful aphrodisiac, used for both men and women to enhance their sexual desire, and in a man’s case to ... shall we say, provide the assistance he needs. Your husband used it the night he died.”

For a moment his words didn’t sink in. When they did, she gasped. “You mean he, he—?”

“A small vial of Spanish Fly was found in the pocket of his dressing gown. Obviously, he took it to enhance his performance. Obviously, it worked. I can only guess, but I suspect his inability to satisfy you must have been driving him wild. I’m sure part of his motivation must have had to do with his wish to produce an heir, but I would wager a lot of his motivation had to do with his wanting to make mad, passionate love to his beautiful countess.”

“How do you know all this?”

“The servants, of course. Griggs is the one who found the vial. He told your housekeeper, Mrs. Stanhope, who couldn’t wait to pass on such a delicious tidbit to her good friend, Mrs. Shelton, who’s Rennie’s housekeeper. Mrs. Shelton told Rennie’s valet, who passed it on to Rennie, who passed it on to me.”

She shook her head with annoyance. “It’s not fair. The servants know everything.”

“Of course they do. By the way, the consensus of opinion is, some of that Spanish Fly was meant for you. If not that night, then probably the next. The earl, being the complete bastard he was, wanted it for himself first. Half of it was gone, so obviously he took too much,
way
too much, and that’s what killed him. Spanish Fly is a deadly drug that should be used with extreme caution. Consider yourself fortunate he didn’t slip a few drops into your wine.” He smiled with amusement. “For more than one reason.”

The very thought that some of the aphrodisiac was meant for her caused her to slap her hand to her mouth. It remained there while she gazed at him with increasing horror. “I’m shocked ... I never dreamed ...” Realization struck. “So that’s why—”

“That’s why the old boy’s flagpole was raised to full mast when he ‘departed this mortal coil,’ as Shakespeare wrote.”

She opened her mouth to say, “That’s not respectful,” but an image of the earl and his flagpole flashed through her mind and laughter bubbled out instead. She couldn’t help it. He started laughing, too. Suddenly, with a movement so swift she was hardly aware of it, he was sitting directly in front of her, his laughter stilled. “You must have been driving him mad. I can only imagine how desperate he was to make love to you and frustrated that he could not. Am I right?”

“I suppose.” His openness had opened the door to a flood of memories. “He tried so hard and got so angry when he couldn’t, you know. It was horrible. He screamed and cursed at me. He ... well,
enough
. He’s gone now. They say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

Douglas nodded with understanding, as if he knew she would prefer to change the subject. In a sudden move, he reached up and pulled off her blue riding hat. “I’ve seen enough of that silly hat.” He held it up and tweaked one of the high-standing feathers. “If I let go, do you suppose it will fly off on its own?”

Again, she had to laugh, all bad memories forgotten. “It
is
a bit silly, isn’t it? It’s the height of fashion, I can assure you.”

“So much for fashion.” He dropped the hat next to her discarded boot. Moving closer, he ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders and gripped them tight. His nearness bothered her so much that she gulped and became aware that she was breathing hard.

She found her voice. “You’re a long way from my foot.”

“Really?” Suddenly his lips were on hers, surprisingly gentle. So surprised was she, she stiffened and didn’t respond. He lifted his lips and murmured, “You
will
kiss me back, Countess.” His arms encircled her, one hand in the small of her back. She could feel his uneven breathing on her cheek. “Let’s try that again,” he said softly into her ear. He pressed his lips to hers again, at first caressing her mouth more than kissing it. The feel of it made her go all soft inside, and instead of pulling away, as propriety demanded, all she wanted was to melt into him. She pressed back, surrendering herself to the warmth of their kiss until he lifted his lips from her mouth and murmured an “Umm” in her ear, then a shaky, “Ah, Countess.”

She slipped her hands behind his neck and murmured an answering, “Umm,” before eagerly locking her lips to his again. Such a delicious sensation, as if she were floating in a dreamy intimacy with this man whom she found deucedly attractive, despite herself. She hardly noticed when with one swift, sure movement he lowered her to the blanket so that she lay prone on her back, looking up at him.

“Why am I doing this?” she murmured.

“Because you like it.” His lips skidded over her chin and down her neck where his tongue found the hollow of her throat. There it halted and swirled in tantalizing circles, sending a warm wave of delicious feeling clear to her toes.

“Sir Archibald would not approve of this.” She spoke without the least bit of conviction.

“Sir Archibald would be scandalized.” His voice was husky. His hand had lain against her side. Now, slowly, it slid up her side and over her breast, where it stopped and rested. The pleasure from its warmth radiated through her jacket and cambric shirt clear to her flesh. He bent to kiss her again. While he sprinkled kisses liberally on her cheeks and nose, she felt his fingers making their way beneath her jacket, then slowly pulling aside first her shirt, then the soft batiste chemise she wore underneath. His fingers found the top of her breast and started rubbing with a feather touch against her bare skin. She really ought to stop him, but it felt too good. Then one finger slid from the top of her breast to her nipple and pulled it gently. An indescribably warm feeling flowed through her as he kept pulling, over and over again and her nipple grew hard beneath his hand.

“I want to see you,” he whispered. She lay beneath him, powerless to move, while he spread open her jacket and shirt. With both hands he slid her chemise down over her breasts so they lay completely exposed. “Beautiful.” His brown eyes were murky with desire, his breathing hard. He bent his head and sucked on her nipple. She gasped with shock and pleasure. Then he placed his warm, wet mouth on her breast and slowly ran his tongue over and over again across her erect nipple. She gripped his shoulders, hearing a low groan coming from her own throat, the feeling so intensely delectable she forgot time and place, forgot everything except a driving need that made her want to spread her legs so he could do what he wished with her.

Still busy at her breast, he reached for her hand and guided it to his manhood. She clasped it through the cloth. How amazingly hard it was, about to burst from his breeches. She couldn’t help but ask, “Spanish Fly?”

“Good God!” Choking with laughter, he raised his head. “When the right time comes, you will find I have no need of Spanish Fly.”

A mooing sound came from across the river. Jane turned her head and saw a row of cows standing behind the wooden fence, all gazing in their direction. A cow at the end of the row mooed loudly, raised her nose high and gave her a look that seemed to say,
bad countess
. “What am I doing?” The mood was broken. Bad enough the cows could see her, but what if somebody came along? She would die. She pulled up her chemise and moved to a sitting position. “Apparently we’ve been entertaining the cows.”

He sat up, too. “We shall find a more secluded spot next time.”

Pulling shut her shirt and jacket, she rose unsteadily to her feet, her riding habit disheveled, one boot off, her hat lying on the ground.
Good
God
. What had she been doing? She, the esteemed Countess of Lansdown, rutting around in full view of every cow in the area. “There won’t be a next time, Douglas Cartland.” She bent to retrieve her hat and started to lose her balance.

He caught her arm and steadied her while she recovered. “So you don’t want to see me again?”

“Never would be too soon.”

“No more picnics? No more riding?”

“I’m going home.” She marched over to where Beauty was tethered to a mulberry bush.

He followed her. “You need a leg up.”

She wanted to refuse but knew better. She could never manage by herself. “Very well.” After she untied Beauty, she lifted her foot so Douglas could cradle his hands and give her a boost. Instead, he clasped her waist. Standing intimately close, he lifted her like a feather into the saddle. From her waist he trailed his hands down her hips, along her thighs and down her skirt. He looked up at her, his mocking smile back in place. “You haven’t seen the last of me.”

“Yes, I have.”

He looked down to where her skirt was slightly hiked up so her boots were exposed and clicked his tongue. “What a scandalous display.” He jerked her skirt down, carefully adjusting it to cover her boots. “That’s better. Gracious me, what would people say?”

“Oh, you are impossible.” She nudged Beauty and rode away, riding crop in hand. She should have given him a good whack with it, she thought as she rode back along the river trail.

When she reached the stables, she hastily dismounted and instructed Timothy to rub Beauty down. Ordinarily, she liked to do it herself, but time was flying and she was later than usual. Hastening up the path to the mansion, she hoped no one was around. If ever there was a time she wanted to slip into the house unobserved, this was it. She needed to compose herself, as well as get back into her mourning clothes.