The Madcap Masquerade (17 page)

She looked startled by his question. “No. I’ve never been to a formal picnic. I can’t even imagine one.”

“I have.” Theo pulled a blade of grass and chewed it thoughtfully. “Three summers ago, when I was on leave from the Peninsula, I was invited to a ‘picnic’ at the home of the Duchess of Manchester. It was quite an affair.

“Twenty tables, complete with crystal, silver and three foot high epergnes, set beneath striped canopies. Plus a butler and a hundred or so liveried footman. A dead bore as far as I was concerned. As the dowager has often been heard to say, I have the taste of a peasant.”

He grinned. “Not that I don’t like service.” He handed Meg his plate. “I’ll have one of everything please, ma’am. I need to build up my strength if I’m to row you across the lake once we finish eating.”

Maeve’s eyes widened with obvious astonishment. “You’re going to take me out on the lake…in a boat?”

Surreptitiously, he crossed his fingers. “It’s an ancient Ravenswood tradition. Whenever two lovers picnic on one of the Ravenswood lakes, the man must row his lady back and forth across that lake three times.”

“Why?” Maeve passed him the plate of food he’d requested.

Theo demolished one of cook’s dainty cucumber sandwiches in a single bite. “To assure them the blessings of long life, true love and a brood of happy, healthy children. Of course, it also gives the fellow a chance to show off his manly muscles.”

Maeve’s smile was disturbingly enigmatic. “But, as you may remember, I’ve already seen your manly muscles. And since we’re not lovers—”

“Ah, but we are!” Theo leaned forward and brushed her lips in the gentlest of kisses. “In spirit, if not yet actuality. And I give you fair warning, Meg Barrington, I fully intend to change the nature of our relationship before much more time has passed.”

A
fter enough grumbling to lodge a protest at what she saw as another of his autocratic summons, Maeve finally agreed to let Theo row her back and forth across the lake. Not that she had any choice in the matter. He flatly refused to take no for an answer, so obsessed was he with this Ravenswood lovers’ tradition of his.

She wondered if adhering to it had brought any of his sour-faced ancestors whom she’d viewed in the portrait gallery the “long life, true love and many children” it promised. As far as she could see, his father had come up short on all three counts. But the very idea of the austere countess sitting in a rowboat seemed so ludicrous, Maeve couldn’t help but laugh at the picture she conjured up.

She sobered quickly, however, when it occurred to her that if it was truly a traditional Ravenswood ritual, she’d be participating in it under false pretenses. She was superstitious enough to wonder if such irreverence would bring a new epidemic of bad luck crashing down on her head.

Still, it was almost worth the risk. It would be her first time in a boat—another first to which Theo would introduce her. She’d never realized, until she’d met him, how narrow and restricted a life she’d led. If nothing else, she’d gained a taste for adventure from their brief association.

Theo watched the laughter come and go on Meg’s expressive face and wondered what had occasioned it. Had she guessed the Ravenswood lover’s tradition was merely something he’d thought up to introduce a little romance into his seduction plan? He wouldn’t put it past her, clever minx that she was. But at least she was cooperating.

With her hand in his, he headed for the spot at the water’s edge where he remembered the boat was always moored. To his surprise, it was gone. “Somebody’s moved my boat,” he complained, searching the grassy area in vain. Meg stifled a grin, and he had to admit, that considering the fact that some twenty years had passed since he’d last looked for it, he did sound a bit ridiculous.

“Maybe that’s it,” Meg suggested, pointing to a small, grayish object half hidden in the reeds.

Theo shrugged. “I sincerely doubt it, but I suppose we should take a look. With Meg trailing close behind him, he worked his way through another twenty feet of high grass and reeds, and sure enough there it was—the boat that had once been his pride and joy. To say the relic was a shock, would be the understatement of the century. In truth, had it not been for the faint outline of the word
Starfire
—the name he’d lovingly dubbed it so long ago—on the weather-beaten hull, he’d have never recognized it.

He stared at the sorry little craft with disbelieving eyes. If he didn’t know it was impossible, he’d swear the blasted thing had shrunk since last he’d seen it.

“It’s somewhat smaller than I remembered it,” he said apologetically.

“You’re undoubtedly somewhat larger than when you and your nanny picnicked here.” Maeve studied the decrepit little boat. “It looks to be mired in the mud, as if no one has used it in years. Are you thinking you can’t wrench it free?”

“No, I’m thinking of the dressing down I’ll get from my valet when I return home with my boots covered with mud.”

She raised a questioning eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware a mere valet was allowed to dress down an earl.”

“Albert Figgins is not the ordinary run of the mill valet. He was my batman on the Peninsula. I owe my life to the stouthearted fellow. Twice, old Figs dragged me off the battlefield and patched me up when I’d been left for dead. Naturally I felt duty-bound to keep him with me when I sold out my commission, and I’ve never regretted it. He’s my most loyal friend, as well as my servant. Though to be truthful, he’s not much of a valet. Can’t tie a decent cravat to save his soul. His only talent lies in keeping a mirror-sheen on my boots.”

Theo gritted his teeth. “Well, I’d best get on with it.” So saying, he waded into the gooey muck surrounding the little boat, though if the truth be known, the idea of rowing on the lake was fast losing its appeal.

He’d come up with the myth of the “lover’s tradition” on the spur of the moment. Now he was stuck with it. His romantic fantasy had been of his ladylove reclining in the stern, parasol in hand, while he rowed them across the sparkling blue waters of the lake. There was no room for her to lounge in this dilapidated little dinghy; she’d be lucky to find enough space to sit bolt upright—and he’d seen mackerel boats plying the murky water of the Thames that looked more romantic.

Muttering increasingly vile obscenities under his breath, he tugged and pulled at the mired boat, which in turn made odd, creaking sounds as if protesting being roused from its long slumber. With a final monumental effort, he freed it from the tenacious mud and dragged it into the water.

“There,” he said, as he removed his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped off the plank on which he intended his betrothed to sit. Wading through the shallow water, he lifted her in his arms and settled her in the stern of the boat. Then, taking his place on the plank spanning the midsection between the oarlocks, he dipped the oars in the water and began rowing.

Meg instantly opened her parasol and gazed about her with a look of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He’d forgotten what joy she took in the little things that a woman of his own class would despise. Maybe this impromptu excursion would turn out all right after all…if he could just master the knack of rowing.

He’d assumed it was one of those things that automatically came back to one, no matter how long one was away from it. Apparently it wasn’t. He’d never before realized his right arm was so much stronger than his left. He had the choice of zigzagging across the lake like a demented dragonfly or making two dips of the left oar for every dip of the right—neither of which projected the aura of manly prowess with which he’d hoped to gain Meg’s admiration.

Luckily the lake was relatively small and somehow he managed to cross to the other side in his lopsided fashion. He kept waiting for Meg to tease him about his lack of skill as an oarsman. She never did. In truth, from the excited gleam in her eyes when she pointed out the giant willow at the far end of the lake and the pair of black swans floating beneath its trailing branches, he began to think she was blissfully unaware of his embarrassing ineptitude.

He silently congratulated himself. Once again the phenomenal luck with which he’d always been blessed was standing him in good stead. Despite all odds, this romantic interval he’d arranged looked to be a happy success.

Rowing in a straight line was difficult enough; turning around was even trickier. Somehow, someway he managed to swivel the boat around and head back toward the spot from which they’d embarked without too much trouble. He was beginning to get the hang of this rowing business after all. At this rate, he’d be plying the oars like an expert by the end of the next lap.

No sooner had he come to that comforting conclusion than the right oarlock tore loose from the rotting wood of the hull, leaving no place to anchor the oar. Cursing under his breath, he decided there was nothing for it but to haul in the left oar and use the right one as he might a canoe paddle. “We have a little problem,” he said tersely.

“We have a big problem,” Maeve corrected him. He glanced up from his thankless task to find her look of rapture had mysteriously changed to one of utter dismay. “Are you a strong swimmer?” she asked somewhat warily.

Grimly, he wielded his oar first on one side of the boat, then the other. “As a matter of fact, I am, but why do you ask?”

“Because I can’t swim at all, and I think it entirely possible the boat may be sinking. My feet are beginning to get very wet.”

He surveyed the inch or so of water sloshing around his boots. “Not to worry. There’s always a little water in the bottom of a row boat,” he said reassuringly.

But even as he watched, the water rose to two inches, then before he had time to blink an eye, to ankle deep. “What the devil?” he exclaimed. “You’re right. The blasted boat is leaking like a sieve and there’s not a thing in sight we can use as a bailing bucket.”

“Oh yes there is.” Meg dropped her parasol, whipped off her bonnet and began frantically scooping up water and throwing it over the side. He could see it was a losing battle, but he blessed her for trying, and for abstaining from the usual female hysterics.

“Good girl,” he said approvingly and immediately began plying his makeshift paddle with a vengeance. Their only chance of avoiding a dunking was to reach shore before the boat took on so much water, it could no longer stay afloat. For a few hopeful minutes, he thought that between her bailing and his paddling, they might make it, but just when he needed it most, his luck failed him.

They were still some fifty feet from the lakeshore when the little boat sank to the bottom. He made a lunge for Meg as she went under, tucked her into his left arm and keeping her face above water, swam for shore as best he could with one free arm, and feet encased in boots that had suddenly grown as heavy as lead anchors.

A few breathless moments later, he planted his feet on the bottom and stood waste deep in the water, cradling her shivering body in his arms. He waded ashore, carried her to where they’d eaten their picnic lunch and wrapped her in the carriage robe.

She was shaking in earnest now—a delayed reaction, he suspected, to the terror she’d just endured. Cursing himself soundly for conceiving of such a harebrained scheme, he wrapped his arms around her in a desperate attempt to warm her chilled body.

“I’m so sorry,” he said contritely, “I should have known better than to take you out in that miserable excuse for a boat.” He fully expected her to push him away or at the very least, berate him for his stupidity. She did neither. She buried her face in his shoulder and made odd little snuffling noises while her body shook even more violently than before.

Tenderly, he brushed away a lock of lank, wet hair that was dripping water down the front of her bodice. “I’m so sorry,” he said again. “It was supposed to be a—”

“A romantic interlude,” she interjected, peeping up at him with eyes brimming with mischief. “I can’t say it was terribly romantic, but it was by far the most diverting experience I ever remember having.” Her shoulders still shook, but he suddenly realized she was laughing—not sobbing, as he’d believed.

“Diverting? You think that…that catastrophe we just experienced was
diverting
?” he sputtered, stepping away from her, only to find his boots so full of water, he made an odd, squishing sound with each step he took.

“Very!” she declared. “More diverting by the minute, in fact.” Wrapping her arms around her middle, Maeve laughed until tears ran down her cheeks. “Are you aware you squish when you walk?” she gasped.

Theo gritted his teeth. He had no choice but to drop down on the ground beside her, pull off his boots and pour out the collected water—a process which immediately sent her into new gales of laughter.

“I suppose you find the destruction of a pair of Mr. Hoby’s handmade Hessians equally amusing?” he asked sourly.

“Not the Hessians; the look on your face. It’s almost as comical as when you got your first good look at that impossible little boat you’d claimed was part of an ancient Ravenswood legend.” She wiped her brimming eyes. “But the funniest look of all was when you realized we were actually sinking.”

“Bloody hell, woman,” Theo growled, “must you rub salt in the wound? I’m having a little trouble, at the moment, seeing the humor in this miserable situation.” He was having even more trouble cramming his feet back into his wet boots.

“Oh, don’t be such a stick. Granted, you have a rather unique method of courting a woman, but there’s no harm done except to your pride—and you’ve such a surfeit of that, you can afford to lose a little.”

Her brows knit in what might have passed for a thoughtful frown if he hadn’t caught the twinkle in her eyes. “Still you should do something about your appearance before you return home. You are a member of the nobility, after all, and have certain standards to maintain. To put it bluntly, my lord, you are a soggy mess. The dowager will probably faint dead away at the sight of you, and your valet will have more than your boots to complain of this day.”

Theo laughed in spite of himself. “I’m a soggy mess? Have you taken a good look at yourself, Meg Barrington?”

The pins were gone from her hair and it hung, a dripping mass, down her back. The robe had slipped from her shoulders, revealing a gown that was molded to her slight figure like a sheet of wet paper. Beneath the muddy hem, he could see two equally muddy stocking-clad feet. God only knew where her slippers might be. Yet, the crazy woman proclaimed her unexpected dunking “the most diverting time she could ever remember having.” He couldn’t believe his ears.

He couldn’t believe his luck.

He could face anything life had to offer with a woman like this at his side.

There was nothing for it but to kiss her. Leaning forward, he grasped her shoulders, pulled her from her perch beneath the tree and onto his lap.

“Laugh at me, will you, little hoyden? I’ll teach you to show some respect for your lord and master.” He captured her soft, laughter-parted lips in a hot, possessive kiss that branded her wholly and unconditionally his. Her response was a mixture of laughter and passion, tenderness and teasing that sent waves of heat rippling through his chilled body.

Long, mind-shattering moments later, he raised his head. “I love you, Meg,” he said softly. “I always will.”