As she moved to her trunk set next to an open armoire, she realized why the maid had left so swiftly. Apparently, someone had begun unpacking her trunk but stopped when they’d seen the ravaged clothing within. Only her butchered lynx coat and one tattered evening gown had been hung in the armoire.
Damn vicious bitch, Zelda testily thought. That coat was a favorite of hers, and it wasn’t as though she could have another tailored to size with dispatch. The Russian furs had been rare, one-of-a-kind skins, handpicked by George Campbell at an auction in Novgorod.
Moving to the armoire, she examined the damage to her coat in the hopes it was repairable. On the contrary. Violetta had slashed through the skins with amazing thoroughness. Bloody lunatic.
On the other hand, she reminded herself, no one had been hurt, her clothing could be replaced, and if she required redress, the prospect of unparalleled sexual gratification at the hands of the very accomplished Alec Munro would go far in the way of compensation.
At which point a lascivious tremor fluttered up her vagina and spread outward in skittish little messages of carnal hope. Oh God—how long must she wait? She glanced at the clock on the bedside table.
Two, three hours, four at the most before she’d experience the full hospitality of the sexually gifted earl. Lord, please not four. Especially when the beautiful, hard-bodied Dalgliesh would be more or less continuously within sight and sound and touch.
She restlessly smoothed her skirt, cautioned herself to observe the proprieties in public, and focus instead on the activity at hand—Chris’s jumping lessons. But it took a moment to curb sensibilities that had become addicted to the pleasure Dalgliesh dispensed. And another moment to refocus her thoughts.
That done, restively, but done, she set about discarding her skirt. The black serge slid to the floor and, stepping over the crumpled fabric, she picked it up. Since she’d be wearing it for the interim, she hung it in the armoire.
Now there was a sight—the ugly next to the demolished.
Eventually she’d have to explain her limited wardrobe. But for now—she turned and surveyed her image in the cheval glass. Her deerskin breeches and black jacket were adequate for the stable yard.
Adequate
wasn’t the word that came to mind when Alec caught sight of Zelda approaching the riding ring. Stimulating, titillating, provocative as hell more aptly described her attire. His nostrils flared as he tamped down his lust. There were hours yet before they’d have any privacy. Although, no question, luncheon would be set well forward today.
He wrenched his gaze from the short row of buttons securing her form-fitting breeches and, summoning every ounce of willpower he possessed, he greeted her with well-mannered civility. “You make a fetching figure,” he pleasantly said. “I wish I’d had a riding instructor like you.”
“I’d be happy to give you some lessons later,” she murmured. “If you promise to stop looking at me like that.” She lifted her brows. “Please.”
“Of course. Forgive me.”
She marveled at the instant change in him. His gaze, his expression, his very stance—he’d put a small distance between them—bespoke a bland, sexless neutrality. “Such versatility. You should have been on the stage.”
“Sometimes I am—in a manner of speaking.”
“Are you now?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he repeated with a small smile. “Since I can’t do what I wish to do.”
She blushed.
“Papa, Papa, hurry!” Chris was perched on his pony in the center of the riding ring. “Petunia doesn’t like to wait!”
“We’ll be right there,” Alec replied before turning to Zelda. “Now then,” he went on, temperate and composed, “whenever you tire of this exercise, feel free to stop. Chris can try one’s patience at times.”
“I expect he’ll become bored soon enough.” Zelda used the same polite tone. “Children and lessons aren’t exactly compatible. Although,” she added in a slightly less impersonal inflection, “I need something to take my mind off
other
things, so I welcome the distraction.”
“Indeed. Unfortunately your breeches are
hellishly
distracting for me.”
“I’m sorry. If I had—” She paused, felt her face flush. She’d spoken out of turn.
“Had what?”
Conscious of Dalgliesh’s sudden piercing gaze, she softly exhaled. “I was going to wait to tell you, but”—she shrugged—“as it turns out I have nothing else to wear. Your wife cut up my clothes.”
“She did
what
?” he rapped out.
“She was waiting in my room at Groveland Chase when I came back from speaking to Father this morning. Apparently she’d been busy with my scissors while I was gone.”
“Jesus God,” he said with disgust. A tick appeared over his cheekbone and his voice was terse when he spoke. “I’ll remedy that. Your wardrobe. As for Violetta, I’ll take care of her . . . later,” he added in icy accents.
“Please don’t retaliate on my account. The clothes don’t matter, nor does she, if you must know. She has no impact on my life.”
He wished he could say the same. “I’ll replace your clothes at least. Don’t say no. I insist. Do you shop in Edinburgh or London?”
“Papa! Papa!” A fidgety six-year-old’s strident wail. “I’m
tired
of waiting!”
Zelda smiled. “Should I take the first round?”
“Please do. He’d prefer you.” Dalgliesh held her gaze for a potent moment. “We’ll talk about this other matter later.”
As Zelda walked away, he beckoned to John, who was chatting with the stable master across the yard.
When John came within earshot, he took one look at his employer’s face and raised his brows. “Trouble?”
“Nothing that can’t be resolved.” Dalgliesh delivered several brief, pointed instructions to his groom. “Have Mrs. Drewe waiting as well,” he added at the last. “Find someone to take care of her children.”
And so the jumping lessons commenced, the matter of Violetta’s wickedness left unresolved, the two lovers under duress but determined to master their desires, both directing their attention to a young boy’s entertainment.
Zelda was a superb teacher, patient, kind, never disapproving, and Chris blossomed under her teaching. Before long, he’d mastered the three-point position—standing in the stirrups, leaning forward, and moving his hands up the crest of the pony’s neck on the approach to the jump. He learned when to settle back into the saddle, how to give his pony
more leg
to make him lengthen his stride; he began to understand the concept of riders and horses who have
feel
.
After a time Alec took over, both adults consummate equestrians, their tutelage both a pleasant and successful learning experience for the youngster. Until such a time as Petunia expressed her discontent with further lessons by stubbornly refusing to move.
“You did really well today,” Zelda lauded, helping Chris dismount. “Ponies can be temperamental, but Petunia will be ready to work again by tomorrow. Now, I’ll bet you have some favorite toys.” A diversion to occupy the time was essential. “Maybe you could show them to me. If that’s all right with your father.” She glanced at Dalgliesh.
“I’m at your disposal, Miss MacKenzie.” His voice was placid, his gaze was not. It was covetous, intense.
And instantly triggered a flame-hot response in its recipient.
But before prurient desire had completely overwhelmed Zelda’s sensibilities, Chris grabbed her hand. “I have a big, big,
big
train set! I bet you’ve never seen one so big!” Beaming with delight, he tugged on her hand. “I’ll show you.”
A little boy’s sweaty hand and hurly-burly ebullience effectively curtailed even rash and reckless craving. “I’d like . . . that,” Zelda said, half breathless. “I don’t have a train set . . . at home.”
“Well, you’re a girl, that’s why.” Little boys didn’t notice subtle nuances in breathing.
Big boys did and took pleasure in it. “Girls like lots of things boys do,” Alec volunteered as he guided the pair from the training ring, smiling at Zelda over his son’s head.
“Don’t either,” Chris contradicted.
“Riding for one,” Alec said with a wink for Zelda.
“And hunting,” Zelda offered, having heroically mastered her excitable passions. She shot a playful glance at the earl. “Women are good at hunting.”
“No, they’re not,” Chris rebuffed with childish certainty. “It’s mostly men in the hunting field.”
“Well, what about fishing?” Zelda suggested. “I love to fish.”
“You’re different,” Chris quickly retorted. “You’re not like all the other women. You’re fun.”
Alec resisted the impulse to second his son’s comments in an altogether inappropriate way. Instead, he said, “Don’t forget, Miss MacKenzie was raised with four brothers. She knows what men like—don’t you, Miss MacKenzie?” he gently added, enjoying the blush pinking Zelda’s face.
“I suppose I do. Practice makes perfect, I’ve found,” she sweetly replied with a sportive wink for the earl. “Just like practice will give you confidence to take on any jump before long, Chris,” she mildly added.
While the earl quietly seethed at the thought of
practice makes perfect
in regard to Zelda’s past, Zelda cautioned herself against becoming too enamored with a man who viewed all women as available.
The fact that Crosstrees was less a hunting box than a palace was a potent reminder of the full magnitude of Dalgliesh’s allure. The reigning beauties, bored wives, and young misses playing at seduction all willingly acquiesced, she suspected.
A cautionary tale best heeded.
But a woman who’d braved jungles, climbed the pyramids, traveled the Silk Route by camel caravan wasn’t fainthearted. So fie to all the other women, she decided, and fiddledeedee to caution. This weekend was very selfishly about pleasure—pure and simple. She intended to take delight in every hedonistic second of her visit until such a time as one or both of them brought their little idyll to an end.
Life was to be lived, after all—a lesson learned long ago when her mother had died in her prime.
Chris had run ahead of them, impatient with the adults’ strolling gait, and as Zelda observed him racing up the rise toward the house, she experienced a poignant sense of déjà vu. It felt as though she’d been at Crosstrees before, in these exact circumstances—walking beside Alec in companionable silence, the autumn sun warm, the sky blue and cloudless, her feelings of content beyond measure.
Reaching out, she took Dalgliesh’s hand, as if it were a perfectly natural gesture. Glancing up, she smiled. “Happy? I am.”
“Very.” He smiled back, neither questioning his reply nor the ease with which he made it.
She waved her free hand toward Chris, who was nearing the crest of the rise. “He seems to be enjoying himself, too.”
“You’re good for him. He’s having fun.”
“As am I. It’s nice to have a young child around again.” She grinned. “A general comment only. Nothing personal.”
Alec smiled faintly. “I’m damned tempted to make it personal.”
“But not entirely foolish enough to do so.”
“Unfortunately.”
“We shall live for the moment instead.” Her voice was blithe, full of cheer. “We shall taste all the diverse, beguiling pleasures of the flesh.”
He laughed. “All of them? Now there’s a challenge.”
“But a perfectly delightful one.”
He looked at her sharply. “You know that for a fact?”
“Don’t use that tone with me.” She jerked her hand away. “I’m not your wife.”
“Then don’t act like her,” he snapped, the thought of Zelda with other men maddening. When it shouldn’t be, when it
couldn’t
be. “Forgive me,” he hastily amended, having regained his senses. “I shouldn’t have said that. Your life is your own, of course.”
She shot him a heated look. “Damn right it is.”
He should agree, her statement was perfectly valid. With any other woman, he wouldn’t even consider an alternative. But the world was less doctrinaire than it was two days ago, less certain, and what had always been unequivocal about the position of fuckable women in his life was suddenly in doubt. He softly exhaled, debating how to proceed, whether he wished to, in fact, whether it would be more prudent to remain silent. Or reply with some practiced flattery or mea culpa.
“We need some ground rules.”
Her cool voice interrupted his musing. “I don’t like rules,” he said with equal coolness.
“Perhaps you can’t always do as you please,” she tartly said. “Everyone isn’t impressed by your wealth.”
“Everyone meaning you?”
“Yes,” she said, clipped and narrow eyed, quickening her pace as though to give vent to her spleen.
“I don’t know what money has to do with fucking.”
She snorted. “Surely you’re not that naive.”
“Is this going to cost me then?”
Rude and silken, the query hung in the air for a fraction of a second.
“
This
is over, so
this
won’t cost you a farthing, you insolent prick!” She never should have come. She knew what he was like from the first. A shameless libertine, a brazen adulterer, a man with way too much money!
Bold-faced bitch,
he fumed. Pretending she had scruples. Why the hell had he invited her? He must have been deranged. Then he suddenly heard himself say, “Wait,” as if some mysterious inner voice had nullified rational thought, and grabbing her wrist, he pulled her to a stop.
Bristling, she shook off his hand.
He released her when he wouldn’t have had to. When he could have locked her away if he wished. When a century ago he might have without a qualm.
She glared at him. “I dislike belligerence with my sex. This was a bad idea—my coming here.”
Her acrid voice broke into his intemperate thoughts, and his temper flared higher because he knew what she liked with her sex, knew a good deal of what she liked. “What if
I
think it’s a good idea?” he silkily murmured.