To Love a Wicked Lord (18 page)

She realized how foolish a thought that was. Annie sat prim and expectant, waiting for the excursion. He said he wasn't a rake but even a rake wouldn't try to shab off a lady's maid who was acting as chaperone. Pippa looked around the blue salon, remembering what she and Maxwell had done in there only a few night's past. She didn't know what she'd do this evening, and suddenly she didn't care. They would have a day together, at last.

A young man appeared in the doorway to the salon. He bowed to them. He was fair and blue-eyed and smiling, and even though he was dressed in servant's livery, he looked dashing. “Lord Montrose is without,” he announced in stately tones. Then with a charming grin he added, “And he says as how to tell you he don't want to walk the horses so if you'd move it quick, he'd be appreciating it.”

Pippa and her maid bounced up and followed the young man out the door.

And there at the curb, in the sunlight, was Maxwell. He sat on the driver's bench of a handsome two-seat carriage, reins held easily in his hands. A team of roan horses waited for his signal to move. Maxwell wore tight buff unmentionables, high
black boots, a brown jacket, his linen was white, and a beaver hat was set jauntily on his dark head. He saw Pippa and his smile was sudden and bright. He extended a gloved hand to her to help her up to his high seat.

Pippa forgot her doubts and fears. She went to the carriage and immediately took his hand. After all, it was the only thing she wanted. She clambered up and settled next to him.

The young fellow in livery helped a dazed and delighted, pink-cheeked Annie climb up to sit next to him on the backseat.

“All set?” Maxwell asked.

Pippa nodded.

“Cozy as clams,” the young servant in back answered.

Maxwell shook the reins.

“Ready for adventure?” he asked Pippa.

She nodded, and answered. “Never more so,” she said.

“Then adventure you shall have,” he said, and laughed as the carriage rolled off down the street.

“And luncheon,” she said. “Don't forget that, please.”

They were both laughing as they drove away.

T
his,” Pippa said in wonder as Maxwell helped her down from the high driver's seat, “is amazing.”

Once on the ground, she shook out her skirt and looked around. There was new, fresh greenery as far as she could see. Stately trees flanked long neatly cropped lawns bordered by banks of shrubbery in bloom. Meandering pebbled walkways wandered off through the trees.

“This is still Paris?” Pippa asked.

“For a certainty,” Maxwell replied.

Pippa stared. This lovely green manicured landscape was within the city of Paris? And yet there was no one else in sight, anywhere.

The other parks they'd driven through or passed: the Bois de Boulogne and the gardens at the Tuileries, had been so filled with people enjoying the mild spring day it had been difficult to
see the grass. She'd seen whole families, servants and children, elderly people, working men and women strolling along or sitting on benches or coverlets they had tossed on the grass. There were noble-looking horsemen and fine carriages on the roads through the parks. And everywhere there were pairs of lovers—many pairs of lovers. They made Pippa stare. Lovers in England held hands in public, sometimes. They did far more here.

There were picnics on the grass and picnics with tables and chairs. And since it had been a long time since her meager breakfast of a croissant and dark coffee, Pippa couldn't help her stomach grumbling when she saw the long golden loaves of bread and pots of butter, wheels of cheese, and strings of cured meats being laid out for various luncheons.

But “Too crowded,” Maxwell had said at one park. “Congested as a market day,” he had commented at another. “There's scarcely room to sit,” he'd complained as he drove on. “But never fear, I have a better destination in mind.”

They had ridden through the crowded streets of Paris, and then they took a turn to a smaller road with rows of pleasant houses at its sides. They turned again, and rode down a narrow road a long
way until they had to stop because of a pair of high iron gates that blocked their way. There was no one about, but there was a quaint cottage by itself at the side of the road.

Pippa was about to make a wry comment until she saw how patiently Maxwell was waiting. She heard nothing but birdsong and saw nothing stirring, until an old woman in an apron stepped out of the cottage, came to the carriage, and bowed to Maxwell. He handed the reins to the curly-haired boy in livery and jumped lightly down from the driver's seat. He spoke to the woman in low tones Pippa couldn't quite make out, but she saw him reach into his jacket and hand the woman something. She bowed again.

Then he came back to the driver's seat, and took up the reins. He waited for the woman to produce a key from her apron pocket and unlock the gates. Then Maxwell waved to her and drove on.

Pippa looked her question at him.

“It's a deserted estate,” he said. “There's a walloping big castle miles from here. Empty, except for a few rooms where the caretakers live. The owners left with the revolution, as my own mama did. Being dedicated to keeping a head on their shoulders, none chose to come back and live here.
But the absent owner keeps the place up. I've been here before and, you'll grant, that's a perfect place for our picnic.”

“Why didn't the government confiscate it?” Pippa asked.

His smile was tight. “Because the old owner played both sides of the game. He had some political power. And the new owner pays taxes.”

“Are you sure we're welcome here?” she asked.

“Never more certain of anything,” he said with a laugh.

They drove for a bit, then Maxwell stopped the carriage. “Do you fancy this spot?” he asked Pippa.

“What is not to fancy?” she asked softly. “This is lovely.”

They'd come to the edge of a long green lawn surrounded by trees and edged on one side by a burbling stream that banked a bluebell-carpeted forest.

“So I thought,” he said, leapt down from his seat, and went around to help Pippa down.

By the time she alit, his servant had hauled two wicker baskets from the backseat. Her own maid carried the blanket taken from there. Before Pippa could wonder where to put it, they'd spread it near the stream and under the trees.

“There's bread, cheese, and wine,” Maxwell said. “That's if you want to be a purist. But we've also got sliced meats and pâtes, aspics, and little cakes, or so I was told.”

“Perfect,” Pippa said, watching as the servants spread the feast on the blanket. But then she hesitated. “Where do we sit?”

“On the ground like true picnickers,” Maxwell said. “Unless, of course, you want to do it in high British style, and then we'll have to drag some boulders over to sit on, because I didn't bring chairs.”

“No, this is fine,” she said, looking at the blanket with trepidation and wondering how she could sit down without exposing and embarrassing herself. “But I haven't done this since I was a girl.”

He smiled, and held out his hand. She took it, and carefully lowered herself to the ground. Once here, she arranged her skirts and grinned up at him. “Done!” she said.

He smiled and lowered himself to sit beside her. “Now,” he said, “we shall dine. Samson,” he told his servant, “I think we can manage on our own from here. Do you want to go for a stroll in the wood to find your own picnic spot? There's a feast packed for you too.”

Pippa looked up to see his servant exchange a
longing glance with hers. “You can go as well, if you wish,” she told the girl.

Annie blushed, curtseyed, and then took the young man's proffered arm. “I'll be within calling distance if you need me,” she assured Pippa. “Won't I?” she asked Samson.

“Aye,” he said, patting her hand. He picked up the other basket and strolled off with her down a path though the wood.

“Will she be?” Pippa whispered to Maxwell.

“Of course,” he said. “Samson gave his word.”

When Annie and Samson were out of sight, Pippa felt a moment of panic. She was utterly alone with Maxwell now. But it was broad daylight. She relaxed.

They drank rich red local wine, and the music they dined to was the sound of the singing waters as they tumbled along the rocks in the stream bed, accompanied by the bright songs of the birds in the trees.

“I can't eat another thing,” Pippa said at last. “That was delicious.”

“Because it was flavored by fresh air,” Maxwell said. “Now,” he said, “in many countries the right thing to do is to nap for an hour or so. But you don't have to if you don't want to. You can just shut your eyes and rest awhile, if you wish.” He smiled
at her, lay back on the blanket, folded his arms on his chest, and closed his eyes.

She looked down at him. His expression was serene. It was warm here in the spring sunshine. The air was fragrant. She was full of good food and red wine. So she eased herself down and lay beside him, balanced on one elbow, her head held up on her hand. She looked down at him. His skin was clear; his expression serene; his eyelashes were so long. She sighed and finally lay down and closed her own eyes.

But she didn't doze. She listened to the birdsong and the tumbling water of the stream, and wondered what she was doing here, with him. Or rather, what he was doing here with her, because she didn't trust this odd moment of peace for a moment.

And then she heard him move, and felt the light touch of his breath on her hair. Her eyes opened to see his looking down into hers.

“Don't feel like sleeping?” he asked softly. “We can do other things.”

“We're in broad daylight,” she whispered.

“With no one around,” he assured her. “No one comes here. Martin won't be back for another hour. I told him to take his time. We have more privacy than we would at an inn or hotel. Only the birds will know, and they certainly don't care.” He
dropped a light kiss on her mouth. “And so?”

And so, she thought suddenly, why not? If they didn't make love now when would she have the chance again? Certainly he had every right to expect her to, because surely, in the back of her mind, she'd known what he was up to since they'd arrived at this deserted estate. She could have stopped this long before this moment. But she hadn't because she wanted him and had promised herself this.

“And so,” she whispered as she closed her eyes, “yes.”

They kissed for a long time. She drank in his kisses, squirmed under his hands and was glad she'd shut her eyes when she felt him begin to pull up her gown. She helped him by raising herself; she encouraged him by holding his shoulders tightly, she spurred him on by sighing and shaking as he kissed each hidden part of her body as he slowly uncovered it.

His hands skimmed her legs, her abdomen, and her hips, setting silken fire wherever he touched. His mouth saluted her breasts, her stomach. He lingered over parts of her body she herself had been taught never to touch. She had never felt anything so wonderful, except perhaps, for the feeling of his sun-warmed broad back, which her hands
slid over, the solidity of his chest, his taut abdomen, and then the shocking, thrillingly wondrous long warm velvet part of a man that she'd never touched before. She could not see any of it except through her fingertips, because she kept her eyes so tightly closed.

“But look,” he said at last, laughter in his voice, ”and see. You're beautiful.”

She opened her eyes to see only that she was stark naked in the open sunlight. She slammed her eyes shut again. Brazen was one thing, but this was quite another. She was as excited as embarrassed. “But you're completely dressed,” she said breathlessly. “I feel like a wanton.”

“Good,” he said as he dragged off his neckcloth and cast it off. Then he pulled his shirt over his head.

“You are beautiful too,” she whispered, seeing his lithe, lean, unblemished torso, his chest lightly dusted with dark hair.

“Thank you,” he said a little breathlessly as well, and reached down between them to fully unfasten his breeches and push the flaps apart. “And now,” he said, raising himself on his elbows and looking down at her, “are you ready?”

“Oh yes,” she said, flinging one arm over her eyes and lying back.

There was a moment of silence.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice unsteady.

She opened her eyes to stare into his. “Yes, what's wrong?”

He drew back with a frown. “You're ready to make love to me?”

Her brow furrowed. “Yes, I said yes. What do you want me to do?”

He shut his eyes. She saw the tendons in his arms straining. “Damnation, Pippa, are you serious?”

“Yes,” she said in confusion. “What is it you want of me?”

“You don't know,” he said, but not as a question.

She stared at him. “Of course, I do,” she said. “You want to make love to me.”

“And you say you're ready?”

“Of course,” she said, now a bit unnerved.

He threw back his head. “The woman doesn't know,” he told the air. He flung himself away from her, turned his back, and sat up. “You've never done this before,” he said flatly.

“No,” she said.

“And so why then did you say you couldn't wear white to Almack's, and that you weren't an ingénue?”

She saw her gown on the blanket beside her, snatched it, and clutched it to her breast. “B-be
cause I'm four and twenty and I'd look foolish in a young girl's white gown, of course. And because at four and twenty, I'm certainly no ingénue. What's the matter?”

“You're a virgin,” he said with loathing.

She nodded, though he couldn't see it. “But I want to make love to you,” she insisted, though the desire to do that was fading by the minute.

“I don't despoil virgins,” he said through tightly clenched teeth.

“I wouldn't be despoiled,” she argued. “I want to do it.”

“I told you,” he said, pulling his shirt on over his head, “that I'm not a rake. I don't take advantage of women. You don't know what you want.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked in a somewhat muffled voice as she struggled into her gown again.

“Because a woman who is ready to make love doesn't lie back like a corpse, tight and tidy. You didn't even part your legs.”

“Oh,” she said, ashamed of not knowing that she had to do that, before she realized it was a strange thing to be ashamed of. “But you could have asked me. I would have.”

He did up his breeches, but didn't move away.

“I went too fast,” he said bitterly, “faster than
I should have because I thought it was what you wanted. I didn't know you didn't know what to want. And what if I did oblige us, and my usually impeccable timing had failed me?” he asked angrily. “You moved me greatly, you know—or rather you don't know.”

“What?” she said.

She saw his back heave as he sighed. “What if I couldn't stop in time, and you found yourself encumbered? Blast it, Pippa, an experienced female would know what to do before she made love, as well as what to do if a lover left her with bread in the oven.”

“Oh!” she said. “That. But that never happens the first time.”

“Good God,” he said.

They sat in silence.

“I can't get up now,” he said in a strained voice. “Not without embarrassing you. But listen, Pippa. I had no intention of seducing an innocent. I wish I did. But I don't want entanglements, and charming and delicious as you are, you would certainly be that.”

She didn't know what to say. She didn't know where to go. The breeze seemed cooler now, and she shivered.

“Here,” he said, “sit back to back with me, as
though we were a pair of bookends. That way, I can talk without the distraction of your face and form. I think we need to talk, because not only did I not want to seduce you, I didn't want to hurt your feelings. I just wanted us to share some moments of pleasure on a fine spring day. But we can't. It's not your fault, either.”