Virtue and Vice (2 page)

His throat tightened and his stomach churned, as happened each time in the month since the betrothal contract was signed and he allowed his thoughts to wander towards his impending nuptials. While he’d been in London, his mistress had tried her damnedest to distract him with her bountiful charms in her boudoir, with little success.

Frustration had led him back to Cornwall, if only to sneak a peek at his bride-to-be. If he was to have any peace of mind for the next month, he needed to put his deepest fears to rest. His father claimed his betrothed was rumored to be a great beauty, but what beautiful woman remained unmarried at the advanced age of two and twenty? Of course, it was not just her looks that alarmed him. Many a man married a plain woman to advance his position. But this particular woman had spent a good portion of her life in exile, with the current monarch’s courtiers, and their immorality was well known. It was his betrothed’s character that truly worried him. His need to see her grew with every passing day as the wedding fast approached.

The wet crunch of the mud-laden gravel beneath his leather boots ended as he strode up the stone steps that led to the massive wooden entrance. His father’s butler opened the door and peered at him as if he were a stranger. At least Hawthorne’s predictability brought a small smile to Ram’s face.

“Where the bloody hell is everybody, Hawthorne?” He stepped past the butler and into the dim foyer beyond. “There are no grooms in the stable. My father would have their heads if he knew.” He noticed the empty place against the wall at the base of the staircase. “And where are the footmen?”

“Apparently you’ve spent far too much time enjoying the frivolities of London, my lord.” Hawthorne sniffed with disdain. “Today is the first of May. Do they not celebrate such a rustic holiday in our great capital city?”

Ram grinned. It had forever miffed the staid Hawthorne that the Earl kept another butler in his London household, forcing Hawthorne to remain in perpetuity in the country. “Surely you wouldn’t want to be in the congested and polluted city when you have the grandeur of the Cornish countryside at your disposal?”

The butler made a sound that suspiciously resembled a snort, his stiff frame straightening beneath his Chesworth livery. “I’ll find a boy and send him out to see to your horse, my lord.”

“No need to pull anyone away from the festivity, I’ve already seen to it.”

How could he have forgotten? May Day celebrations were a staple from his youth, yet many had been the years since he’d even contemplated the holiday. Cromwell had forbidden such practices, nationwide, more than a decade ago due to the heathen roots of the festival. It was an ancient fertility celebration, said to hearken back to the days of the Romans, a reminder of the time when Pagans had inhabited the land.
Always a bloody fun day.

“Is my father in his study?”

The silver-haired butler shook his head and gave a discreet cough. “Nay, my lord. He’s in Bodmin.”

Bodmin. Of course. With his mistress. It was almost as if his father knew he’d return from London today, armed with new arguments against this betrothal, and so he’d gone to ground to avoid a confrontation. Ram’s mood deteriorated further.

“May I get you some refreshments, my lord?”

“Thank you, but nay.” He peered closer at the butler. “No desire to dance around the maypole today, Hawthorne?”

The man came close to a laugh before he caught himself. “My missus would have my head, sir.”

Ram chuckled. As a lad, he’d always enjoyed the sheer revelry of the holiday; girls and boys dancing around the may pole in merry abandonment as the May Queen looked on from her lofty throne. And then, later, when the moon was high and the children abed, men and women would mate with wild abandon; behind a bush, in the stables, against a wall. It had never been hard to find female companionship amongst the villagers during the celebrations. In fact, he and his friends had wagered each year over who would be the seducer of the May Queen into his bed.

“You make a fine point, my friend. Wives can be quite shrewish about such things, can’t they? Perhaps I should take my last opportunity as a bachelor to engage in a bit of debauchery.”

Hawthorne grinned. “If your father happens to ask upon his return, I’ve not seen you.”

Ram smiled at his co-conspirator. “You’re a good man, Hawthorne.” His mood lifted. It had been a while since he had engaged in a celebration of any kind. Unexpected excitement coursed through him at the thought of joining in the merriment. His betrothed could wait; he would investigate her on the morrow. Today he would enjoy himself to the fullest.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he strode toward the chambers he used when he came to Chesworth House. The luxurious suite of rooms where he’d spent precious little time in the course of the last decade had hardly changed since his childhood.

The muted light of the early morning sun struggled to penetrate the heavy blue and gold brocade drapery that covered the tall windows. His glance skittered toward the ornately carved mahogany bed of inviting proportion. Travel weary as he was, the idea of May Day revelry overshadowed the notion of sleep. He shed his clothing and stepped to the washbasin, using the pitcher and the cool water to clean away the grime of his journey. Then he padded across the thick blue rug to his wardrobe, contemplating what to wear.

Though the Civil War had ended with the restoration of King Charles II, Cornwall had been one of the few counties to remain fiercely loyal to the Stuart cause throughout the long years of exile. It was no secret Ram’s father had been a staunch Parliamentarian, and Ram would likely receive an icy reception should his identity be apparent. Though it
had
been years since he’d spent extended time in the county. Likely no one would even recognize him. But to be sure, he’d leave off the trappings of nobility and go to the village dressed plainly. Perhaps, as in his younger days, he’d find some pleasurable companionship for the evening.

Wearing a simple white shirt and a pair of worn, tan breeches, he returned to the stable and chose a fresh mount. He saddled Mercury, his favorite chestnut, and swung into the saddle. Perhaps the stallion sensed Ram’s excitement to leave behind his cares for the day, or perhaps the notion of escaping the confines of his own stabled existence pleased him, but at the first squeeze of Ram’s heels Mercury leapt beneath him like bottled lightning. Ram threw his head back and let the smells and sights of Cornwall fill his senses.

He’d forgotten how beautiful the countryside could be. The frigid fingers of winter had begun to release their grasp on the landscape, which in turn began to bloom, bathed in the life-sustaining warmth of the late spring sun. Fragile flowers unfurled their petals, perfuming the air with the sweet smells of bluebells and primrose, while birds chattered in the trees as they prepared their nests. 

With his lagging spirits lifted by the beauty of the day, Ram made his way down from his father’s manor toward the small village, a journey of less than a mile. He followed the bank of the River Camel, marveling at the lengths to which his father would go to find favor with the newly restored King.

Oh, he understood his father’s motives, and he couldn’t truly fault his sire, not all that much, at least. It was the manner in which the Earl had gone about conducting the betrothal— behind Ram’s back— as if he were a lad barely out of the schoolroom rather than a man of thirty, which rankled most. It was Ram’s duty to marry well, and he was prepared to do just that, but to a bride of his own choosing. His father had known that when he’d betrothed him to a young lady who’d spent the whole of her adolescence in the courts on the Continent and occasionally with the young, exiled King. Ram had absolutely no use for a courtier as a bride- a woman who knew the fine nuances of flirting and giggling and scarce else.

“Whoa, boy!” He pulled hard on the reigns as a flash of white caught his eye.

Mercury was almost atop a girl on the riverbank. The stallion did some fancy footwork, somehow managing to avoid trampling her. The lass had hiked up her skirts, as though about to wade into the water. She dropped them as she jumped away from the horse, but not before he glimpsed a tantalizing view of nicely formed, pale calves.

On closer inspection, though she was quite short, it was apparent this was a woman full grown. The lass was no girl. Dressed in peasant clothing, a long full skirt flowed to her ankles, covered by a white apron. An equally white blouse peeked from beneath her close-fitting dark bodice. A kerchief draped around her neck and shoulders. All the layers of clothing couldn’t hide her tiny waist and gently flaring hips, or the generous swell of her bosom.

Out of place was the unbound mass of chestnut curls flowing in a riotous wave over her shoulders and down her back, reaching almost to her hips. As she turned to face him, the rays of the mid morning sun sent red and golden highlights dancing through her hair.

Her face was as delicate as the rest of her. Even from atop his horse he observed her skin was the smoothest he’d ever seen. Winged brows the same shade as her hair were raised over eyes whose color he couldn’t discern from his vantage point. Her full lips were slightly parted in surprise at his intrusion.

His loins thickened. With any luck, he’d just stumbled upon his companionship for the evening.

He dismounted, tossed Mercury’s reins into a bush, and noticed right away the source of her problem. She’d lost her cap and it was snagged upon some reeds in the water.

“Allow me to retrieve your cap, Madam.” Without waiting for her assent, he stepped off the bank into the cool stream. His boots filled with cold water, but he paid them no mind as he waded towards the reeds. He had two dozen pairs of boots at home; one pair ruined in the pursuit of enjoyable bedsport was no great loss.

With white cap in hand, he returned to the bank, triumphant. Instead of looking as overwhelmingly pleased as he expected, she looked… amused. One delicate brow arched over eyes he could see now were a dark blue color that brought to mind sapphires.

A wry grin tipped up the corners of her sensuous mouth. “My thanks, sir, for your aid. That was most…chivalrous.”

Taken aback, Ram paused. Sarcasm? Most maids of his acquaintance would have responded with simpering gratitude. She could have at least flirted with him in reply! Still, his interest rose another notch at her unexpected response. “Aye, it was that.” He couldn’t stop the slow grin that pulled at his lips. “I would have hated to see you ruin your skirts to retrieve it.”

“I am quite sure you would have. You are a knight without shining armor.”

Her sarcasm rankled, until he caught her taking his measure, looking him over from head to toe. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. She liked what she saw.
A good start.

As she took the cap from his hands and twisted her mane to stuff it back under the wisp of fabric, he nearly protested the loss of all that abundant shimmering hair. No matter. He’d have her hair down once more before the day ended, spread around them as he buried himself deep inside of her and fucked them both into oblivion.

He cleared his throat. “Are you on your way to the May Day celebration?” He motioned to his horse. “Perhaps I could escort you. A lady shouldn’t be alone in the wild where all manner of predators abound.”

She blinked. A sculpted brow rose. “Tell me sir; does a predator have me in his sights?”

***

Izzy tried to contain her delight at the banter between her and the deliciously handsome man before her.

Her May Day disguise emboldened her. Dressed as she was, she didn’t have to act demure and restrained. She could be herself and not be deemed unladylike. With this costume came a freedom she’d rarely before experienced. It hadn’t been hard to talk one of her maids into fetching the ensemble she now wore, as they were accustomed to her oft-eccentric requests.

She took a closer look at the man standing before her, but didn’t recognize him. Then again, she’d been gone so long during the war there were many local people she didn’t know anymore.

A blacksmith perhaps, if the generous width of his shoulders beneath the simple white cambric shirt he wore was anything to go on. Or perhaps a stable hand, based on the quality of horseflesh he rode. Yet his speech was not the rough dialect of the peasantry. Mayhap a footman from a nearby manor? He was tall, towering over her by at least a head, his long legs encased in snug brown riding breeches that came to the knee, emphasizing his fine musculature. The stockings beneath disappeared into high black riding boots. Wavy black hair hung long, tied back in a queue. He wore no hat.

A very handsome man, indeed. He must be a footman; they were hired for their height and good looks.

While she openly examined him, he seemed to recover his decorum. “I daresay you
might
have been in extreme danger had I not stumbled upon you when I did. Don’t you know wolves and other beasties prowl these woods, seeking fair damsels to prey upon?” His gray eyes twinkled as he cast one hand in the direction of the trees.

Utterly charmed, she went along with his banter. “But I have always been warned that wolves oftentimes come disguised as sheep. Your intentions seem noble, but tell me, good sir, how do I know you are not a wolf in sheep’s clothing?”

He grinned, leaning closer. “I can be both wolf and sheep, should the situation warrant it.”

The husky tone of his voice curled her toes. His features were so handsome, a thrill coursed along her spine.