And then she ended it, softening each movement, showing him she could lead him where she wished, then peeled her lips away from him with a hot breath. He strained his neck for more, to catch her up again, but she pushed him away, sent him sailing into the water, stunned. Then she swam after him.
And slapped him. The hard sting of her hand etched into his cheek.
“It seems I left a rule out, Mr. Keats. You do not touch the women here. And that includes me.” She swam off, and when she reached the bank, she did not hesitate to rise out of the water, her shift molding to every perfect curve of her body. She stepped into an abandoned gown and shoved her arms into the sleeves. One lift of a fine, golden eyebrow was all she offered him by way of a farewell before she disappeared into the woods.
Keats sank under the water. Did this lake, perchance, possess any monsters? Multi-tentacled beasts who might rise out of the depths and swallow him whole. He’d throw himself into its maw. Because shame weighed his limbs down, suffocated his heart. He was an earl, would be a marquess one day. She was a farmer’sdaughter, a radical. But she was better than him, and he would never deserve that kiss he’d tried to steal.
And he would feel her slap’s sting across his cheek till the day he died.
Four
Lucy guided the baker’s daughter into Hawthorne House and up the stairs. Mrs. Beckett waited in an empty room for them both. A baby’s crib sat low by the narrow bed, and the fresh bouquet of flowers in a white vase brightened a chamber lit only with the early morning gloom.
Miss Thea Caplan clutched her large belly like it was a lifeboat in a tossing sea, her gaze darting from one corner of the room to the other. Her bright-red hair poked out from beneath her worn bonnet, and she took the hesitant, stumbling steps of a woman terribly unsure. When her gaze fell on the small crib, her hesitance evaporated. She flew across the room and knelt with a grunt beside it, running her fingers along the edges. She glanced up at Mrs. Beckett standing beside Lucy in the doorway. “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you.”
Lucy’s time to leave. Mrs. Beckett handled things from here. Lucy must head to her brother’s home, curl up in bed with a pair of stockings she’d been embroidering, sleep if she could, and attempt—if she could—to forget how the blue-eyed stable boy had looked at her when she’d helped Miss Caplan out of the coach, how his lips had felt crashing into hers a month ago, wet and warm and firm and perfect.
Heavens. Amonth, and she still could not purge her memory of his kiss. Perhaps this was what turned men into rakes—unhealthy obsessions with pleasure and those things that most quickly provoked it.
Perhaps it was merely her—impulsive and passionate Lucy drawn to yet another mistake like a moth to a flame.
She’d avoided him, mostly. And he’d avoided her. They met only at midnight and dawn, as she left and returned from London. And during those brief moments, she could not look away. He wasn’t as lanky and smooth as he’d been when he’d arrived here. A month of country living had put muscle on his frame and whiskers on his chin. His dark hair inched toward his collar, always untamed and falling across his eyes. But when their gazes caught, he would brush it back, sending the muscle of his arm and shoulder tightening against the linen of his threadbare shirt. Without fail, she’d drop her gaze to his lips and feel, even through the distance separating them, their firm warmth.
She had to hide in the coach to break the connection, to avoid her own desires. Tonight, she’d been alone. No Peggy to keep her company. There had been, however, a blanket, a basket filled with bread and cheese, and, curiously, wine. Unusual. Yet, all but the wine had proven useful once she’d had Miss Caplan in her care. She must tell Mrs. Beckett to make the basket and blanket a regular occurrence.
A cry careened down the hallway behind her. She whirled and ran back into the bedchamber she’d just abandoned. Miss Caplan leaned against the bed, her arms wrapped round her belly. Mrs. Beckett stood above her, a hand on the young woman’s back, a growing puddle at her feet, dribbling from beneath Miss Caplan’s skirts.
“Lucy,” Mrs. Beckett said, sparing her a fleeting glance, “Miss Caplan needs the doctor. Quick. The babe’s coming.”
Lucy fled, her legs flashing against the deep slit in her skirts, her men’s boots, fitted to her own feet, pounding hard into the marble and then into gravel as she left the house and sped toward the stables. A light mist had begun to fall from gray skies, wetting tendrils of her hair to her forehead.
“I need a horse!” she cried, skidding around the edge of the doorway. Morning sun had not yet broken through the gray shadows. The air was still with the smell of hay and horse and electric with the startled snorts of its occupants. And with the sounds of running boots.
Keats appeared, wearing only breeches and untucked shirtsleeves. “Miss Jones. What do you need?”
“A horse.” Laughter almost broke through the urgency.
He winced but set to work, entering a stall with the mare she usually rode. “You did say that. What’s happened?”
“The lady I just brought—her babe is coming.”
He froze, his arms dropping to the side as if the bit and harness he held were suddenly too heavy. “God.” The single word choked out before his body broke into a frenzy.
“Mr. Keats.” She stepped closer. “Are you well? We should make haste, but babes take their time coming. Usually. She’s going into labor, not dying.”
“Could be dying.” Mr. Keats’s face had gone pale as a newly laundered shift. He led the horse out of the stall and wrapped his hands around Lucy’s middle.
“Wait!” She clasped his wrist before he could release her. “Not a side saddle.” She parted her skirts to show the slit, her pantalets and embroidered stockings peeking through.
Lightning stuck inside his eyes. “Bloody hell. You’re trying to kill me.”
“I’m trying to be practical. A man’s saddle, please.”
“Very well.” He switched out the saddles and wrapped his hands around her middle once more.
She slapped them away. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you mount.”
