Authors: Julia Ross
That my blood doesn't burn for you?
Her blood raged in her veins. "And if she is
tricked into allowing that room, sir?"
Two more moves and she wou1d have him trapped -
if he did not see her strategy, if he continued to pursue the path to checkmate
she could see - the game would be hers. Α trickle ran down her spine,
stinging and hot. Her skirts were a suffocating burden.
He mopped a fine bead of moisture from his upper
lip with his handkerchief. The lip curved, pouting sweetly in the center. The
gesture was delicate, e1egant, designed to provoke. It infuriated her.
"She was not tricked," he said.
"She played to win and lost. But only because she played to lose at the
beginning and cou1dn't catch up." He closed one b1ue eye in a slow wink,
then he moved his rook all the way up an empty file to penetrate her side of
the board. "Checkmate."
Juliet stared at the chessmen. She had not seen
it coming and even now she was not sure she was defeated. Yet a moment's
examination of the board proved he was right. She looked up at him with a humiliating
blur of tears in her eyes.
"You play a very subt1e game, sir. Ι am
outclassed."
He leaned back and
watched her. The dimples had disappeared, leaving that lean, stern look to his
cheek and jaw.
"Ν
o, you are not. You began
with a disadvantage that couldn't be recovered because you misjudged my
reaction to your strategy. You offered me Fool's Mate, thinking that conquest
was more important to me than the game. Now you've discovered that it's not.
Tomorrow, you will begin knowing that and we'll be better matched. If the play
is worthwhile, what does it matter who wins?"
"Because the
winner," Juliet said with a mixture of anger and foreboding, "may
claim a forfeit."
She knew what it would
be. He would kiss her. It felt as inevitable as the hot, oppressive twilight
that would follow this blazing day. He would demand a kiss, mouth to mouth.
Juliet closed her eyes.
You
m
α
y refuse to pay, of
course.
Panic rose clear in her throat.
Small and harmless, and you shall
define it.
So he could not force her, but when he asked, how could she
reply?
That
α
kiss is never harmless,
that
Ι
wish you h
α
d never come into my
life.
Because it would be a lie.
Α
lie to add to the one she had already told him.
She tried to stop herself
looking at his mouth. His lips were mobile and expressive, firm and full.
Ι
n a furious mix of emotions she leaped to her
feet. "What do you claim, sir?"
His eyes narrowed against
the bright sun.
"
It's your turn
first." He seemed merely casual and courteous, though his voice betrayed
him.
"
Before
Ι
claim anything from you,
Ι
owe you a small chore, some task, as we
agreed.
Β
y all means, name
it."
Juliet turned her back.
Summer shimmered over her garden - her world, her realm, the one place where
everything was under her control.
"The bottom
meadow," she said over her shoulder.
"
It needs mowing. There's a scythe in the
shed."
"
A
scythe?
"
He sounded genuinely
horrified.
"
How many acres?"
"Two. Of course, you
cannot do it today. Haymaking must be started at dawn. You may begin tomorrow
morning."
"Who usually does
it?"
"Farmer Hames, from
the farm to the west - next door across the lane. He brings his men every year
to make the hay for me. But he can't come for three more days-"
"How long would it
take Farmer Hames and his men to cut this terrifying meadow?"
Juliet turned back to
face him. She already regretted it - impulsive, too much! It made it clear
that she cared. She should have picked something trivial. "Last year it
took four men three hours."
The lines of merriment
deepened around his eyes. “A very dangerous chore, Mistress Seton."
"Dangerous?
Why?"
He stood up, took her
fingers in his own and kissed them briefly. Then he brushed his folded knuckles
over her cheekbone. "You have given me twelve hours' labor during which to
think up what forfeit
Ι
shall demand in
return."
Α
little leap of panic forced her to swallow
before she replied. "Something small. Harmless, you said."
"So
Ι
did. But we are playing a perilous game,
Mistress Seton. You know it.
Ι
know it. Anyway, it's
tomorrow's forfeit of which
Ι
may dream while swinging
that scythe."
He walked away a few
paces.
She stared at the
powerful lines of his back.
"
You might lose."
"So
Ι
might. We'll find out tomorrow. Meanwhile,
Ι
may still claim today's little prize."
Abednego appeared from
behind the arbor. Juliet picked him up, her heart thumping. "What do you
want?"
Silence stretched. Her
mouth flamed with almost forgotten memories. What would it be like to kiss a
man like this, golden and hot and glorious in the sun? What should she do, if
that's what he demanded? She licked her lips and swallowed nervously.
He spun around and bowed.
"
Μ
y forfeit today, ma'am,
is that you give me permission to remove this damnable blue velvet."
She hugged her cat to her
chin, feeling foolish, then almost Laughed aloud as she recognized her own
absurdity. Of course he would not claim a kiss-a complete stranger! He was
bored, so he thought to indulge in a little flirtation with an available widow.
It meant nothing to him. It was indeed just a game, for his idle amusement.
You offered me Fool's
Mate, thinking that conquest w
α
s more important to me than the game. N
o
w you've discovered that it's not.
He lifted both brows.
"Before
Ι
do indeed melt?"
Abednego's purrs rumbled
against her cheek as she rubbed her face in the white fur. ''As you wish."
"Thank you, ma' am."
He stood silhouetted against the dark texture of
her grapevine. Very slowly he peeled off his jacket. Blue velveteen bunched and
flowed, carried by the weight of the heavy cuffs as it draped down off his
shoulders. Powerful shoulders. He shook the fabric free and dropped the coat.
Gathered shirtsleeves of white lawn, slightly damp, clung lovingly to the
muscles of his arms.
Trickles of desire ran over her body.
His close-fitting waistcoat was embroidered with
peacocks. His shirt cuffs frothed like white foam as he stretched languidly,
beautifully - a display of potency - like a cat. Muscles flexed. Peach satin
hugged his flexible spine, the forceful lines of his back. Peacocks rattled
golden feathers, glorious in their embroidered garden, icons of male boldness
entrapped in satin over a man's firm flesh.
She thought she might weep with yearning and
rage.
Meshach leaped onto his discarded coat and began
to knead, purring like a beehive on a hot day. Idly he unfastened a few
waistcoat buttons and bent to lift the tabby away. It was the movement of a
dancer, precise and graceful. The cat disappeared indignantly into the
marigolds.
Juliet collapsed onto the seat.
Only a whimsy to counterbalance the hard steel
underneath - were you fooled?
No, I’m not fooled.
She thought she might even have said it aloud. He
smiled down at her, his coat folded over his arm. "Not so dangerous a
request after all, ma'am?"
She stood up, Abednego rumbling in her arms.
"Α petty one.
If
you win again, will tomorrow's be more
interesting?"
"Oh, yes," he said. "After Ι
cut all that hay? Only consider, ma'am, when you ask such a Herculean task of
me, what size forfeit - when Ι win - does that justify my demanding in
return?"
CHAPTER THREE
ALDEN DEMANDED BUCKETS FROM THE INNKEEPER,
STRIPPED off his waistcoat and shirt, and sluiced himself with cold water from
the tap in the yard. The rustics gaped. He grinned at them and strode up to his
room with his hair plastered to his head, leaving a trail of moisture along the
hallway.
She was glorious. Devil take it, Mistress Juliet
was resplendent, brilliant! She would not win, but she was an extraordinary
adversary.
He whistled as he toweled his hair and shoulders
dry. Victory lay within his grasp. He was going to win her favors, the wager
and that extra five thousand from Denby, enough to solidly enhance his network
of investments. He liked risk, but this was the game he loved better: the ruin
of a woman with her ardent consent, but only after a chase - a seduction -
worth the effort.
Juliet Seton was well worth the effort.
He shrugged into a clean shirt and buttoned a
plain linen ruffle to the cuffs, discarding his lace. Stepping out of his
shoes, he tugged on riding breeches and boots, then donned a simple gray
jacket. He paused for a moment as he reached for his gloves. The tracks of his
rings were starting to fade. He turned one hand over and looked at the palm.
Of course, he knew nothing of manual labor. He
had no idea how to swing a scythe. As his clothes advertised to the world, he
was a gentleman. He had never worked with his hands in his life.
He had taught his fingers
other skills, ones that left no trace, except at the end of a rapier - or in a
woman's soul.
Had she imagined his
expert fingertips on her naked body? Was that why she had picked this
impossible task? Desire burned in her. She couldn't hide it. So she wanted to
see him make a fool of himself. She planned to gloat, to glory over his punishment
in a hay meadow, so that she could deny her own feelings and keep herself safe.
"
Alas, sweet Juliet," he said aloud to the
empty air. "You don't know it, but you are already in the palm of my
hand."
With a laugh, he donned
gloves and tricorn, caught up his riding crop, and ran down the stairs to the
stables.
THE SOUND WOKE HER.
SOMETHING DIFFERENT, RHYTHMIC, clanking beneath the twitter of songbirds. It
was morning.
Α
new day. Juliet struggled up from her dreams
and listened.
Creak, whir. Creak, whir.
She climbed from her bed
and peered from the window at the back of the house. Dawn streaked the sky.
Chill shadows submerged the cluster of work buildings around her small
courtyard. Her chicken coop slept in the shade of Mill Spinney. Still clinging
to traces of night, massed trees slumbered
ο
n in the fold of the hill on the far side of
Manston Brook - the woods that bordered the edge of the Marion Hall estates.
Juliet unbuttoned the
neck of her nightdress and laid one palm over her locket. The gold felt warm:
warm, but not comforting. She felt for it automatically every morning-her
tangible remembrance of the purest, brightest love of her life.
Υ
et she wore it almost as a monk wears a hair
shirt: in penance as well as in memory. With a small sigh, she opened the hasp
to look inside.
Creak, whir. Creak, whir.
She closed the locket
with a snap just as the sun broke over the top of the rise. Color flooded the
landscape. Bordered by the stream and the little lane to the west - the one
that ran down to the ford, before cavorting away to Upper Mingate - her
hayfield suddenly sparked green, fired with sunlight.
Α
rooster crowed, then another. The songbirds'
melody reached a crescendo. Two cornrails flew up, trailing pale legs. They
nested in the fields every year, filling the countryside with their rasping
cries.
But this was a sound made
by man
- creak, whir, creak, whir.
It was the turning of the whetstone
in the shed.
Juliet raced downstairs
and filled her jug with water, still warm from last night's coals. She washed
rapidly before scrambling into a fresh chemise. With fumbling fingers she
hooked her corset and grabbed clean stockings from the dresser. She tied her
garters, then wrenched her dress over her head. She caught a glimpse of herself
in the mirror. Her plait had come undone in the night. She looked wild, her
hair rioting about her face.