Racing with the Wind (Agents of the Crown) Page 5

  “Thank you for inviting me,” Mary replied as the butler took her cloak. “My mother sends her regards.”

  Peter Hastings, Earl of Huntingdon, enthused heartily to his wife, “The weekend has become a livelier event now that Lady Mary is with us.”

  Mary knew the earl to be a man of letters and fond of debates, and though he had raised only sons, he was not afraid of an animated discussion with a woman. Seeing him again, she recalled their last conversation about the classics, how she’d hated having to learn Latin but loved the antiquated volumes. A servant was summoned to show her to her room, and Mary followed the young maid upstairs, content she had accepted the invitation to the house party. It might be a good weekend after all.

  * * *

  As the Duke of Albany’s son, Hugh had social obligations, including the house party to which he now headed. Rather than take a carriage he had ridden his favorite Thoroughbred, for there would be a hunt on Sunday, but as he dismounted at Lord Huntingdon’s very comfortable country estate he considered the thick gray clouds above him and hoped that they would be favored with sun by then.

  His prior business had taken more time than he allowed, leaving him hurried and in a foul mood as he handed the reins to the stable boy. Shaking off the road dust from his greatcoat, Hugh gave the young man instructions for his horse. His things had been brought ahead by his valet earlier that day, and he was grateful to think he would soon have fresh clothes.

  The earl’s longtime butler, Harris, a very proper older manservant, greeted him. “I’ll ask Francis to show you to your room, my lord. The earl and the countess are indisposed at the moment. Dinner won’t be served until eight, so there is time for a bath and a brandy.”

  Ah, the man knew his tastes. “Wonderful, Harris. I have been thinking of nothing else for the last few miles.”

  If he were to admit it, that wasn’t quite true. He had been thinking about the lovely Mary Campbell and her luscious lips and long legs. But he shoved those thoughts aside and followed the footman.

  The room assigned to him was reminiscent of his library in London, apart from its heavy four-poster bed. Decorated in dark burgundy and browns, it had a stone fireplace and dark wood furniture. A man’s room. A fire was already burning nicely as Hugh sank into the comfortable chair.

  “Do you need help with your boots, my lord?”

  “No, Francis, this I can do.” He pulled them off, dropping them to the side of the chair.

  “I’ll have some brandy brought, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Francis. That would be most appreciated.”

  The footman was a good sort, he decided amiably as he stood and began to peel off his clothes, already feeling the day’s tensions draining from his body.

  * * *

  Mary fidgeted as the young maid struggled with the long line of small, covered buttons on the back of her green velvet gown. The girl had been eager to assist but was not as swift at dealing with the frippery of female attire as Milly.

  Twisting around, Mary could see the frustrated look on the girl’s face as she worked. The servants would have a difficult time attending to the added burden of weekend guests, and she wanted to cause no one hardship. “I’m sorry this gown is being so difficult,” she said.

  “I’ll soon have them done, milady.”

  “What’s your name?” Mary asked.

  “Amie, milady.”

  Mary held still to allow the young girl to secure the last button. “Well, you have been a great help to me, Amie.”

  “Thank ye, milady.”

  Mary stepped back to see the effect in the oval mirror. The gown was the same color as her eyes, a warm jade. That had been her mother’s idea, and she was pleased with her appearance. The low neckline fitted well just below the upper swell of her breasts, but the long row of buttons had set back her determination to be on time for dinner. When her unruly locks were finally tamed into a simple chignon at the back of her head, Mary descended the stairs to the lower level, smiling to herself at the conversation she’d just had.

  She was still smiling when she entered the large parlor already crowded with the guests. Brandy, sherry and hot spiced wine were being served, and the conversations were boisterous. Mary breathed in the inviting aroma of spices mingled with the scent of the logs flaming brightly in the great stone fireplace. The surrounding draperies were rich fabrics in shades of green, brown and yellow—the colors of the countryside—and they blended well with the dark oak paneling. A huge pair of stag antlers hung over the fireplace to complement the paintings of hunting dogs and horses. Mary appreciated the countess’s efforts to make the room warming to her guests.

  She recognized several people immediately, including the young man she had danced with at the ball: Arthur?—yes, that was right—Arthur Bywood. A nice young man, if perhaps a bit too enthusiastic. Though he was a few years older than Mary, her time with her uncle and her uncle’s colleagues made him seem very young. She would have to be careful not to unduly encourage him.

  Scanning the room, she saw several young women she knew, including Lady Harriet Wilby, though they did not have much in common. Lady Harriet and her friends were among those girls who seemed silly to Mary, those giggling females who tittered at every handsome male. Their presence only reminded her how much she missed Elizabeth.

  Mary’s eyes came to rest on the fireplace and the familiar face of the Earl of Huntingdon. Leaning one shoulder against the mantel, dressed in a brown velvet coat and a gray waistcoat, the earl blended well with the room. Sipping from his drink, he had fixed his attention on a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair in a coat the color of coal, and he did not see her. The second man had his back to Mary.

  The earl raised his head as he spotted her, and the warm smile on his face told Mary he was happy to see her arrive. The man talking to him turned, and Mary’s knees suddenly sagged.

  Lord Ormond.

  Her knees. How could that happen at the mere sight of him? More importantly, how was she going to get through the weekend if this sort of thing kept happening? Ormond had a way of unnerving her. Instantly, though, she resolved she would not be undone by a man, and especially not this one.

  Squaring her shoulders, she smiled as the earl strode to her side.

  “Lady Mary, how lovely you are this evening!” He bowed over her hand.

  Ormond was just behind. Dropping his head in a graceful gesture, almost a bow, the man straightened and gave her an amused smile. “It’s good to see you again.”

  The earl’s eyes shifted. “Have you two met?”

  “Yes,” Mary offered. “At Campbell Manor last week. It seems Lord Ormond knows my uncle.”

  “Why, yes, that would make sense,” Lord Huntingdon was quick to reply. Mary could not say what the older man was thinking, but it seemed he had some knowledge to which she was not privy.

  Lady Huntingdon appeared. “Mary,” she announced, “you’re just in time to walk with us. Shall we, husband?”

  “By all means, dear.” The earl then offered his arm to his wife and looking back into the room announced to his guests, “We are being summoned to dinner!”

  Everyone began moving toward the dining room, and the aroma of the evening’s meal drifted into the hall to entice them.

  Lord Ormond offered Mary his arm, which she took.

  “You do look fetching tonight, Lady Mary. Green becomes you.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Mary tried not to be unnerved by the wink he gave her, or by the warmth of his arm beneath her hand, but his very presence made her shiver.

  They followed the Earl of Huntingdon and the countess into the dining room. A long mahogany table was set with crystal and Spode china painted with birds and flowers; and the center of the table held an attractive arrangement of greenery from the garden. Though the room was elegant and the smell of the waiting meal inviting, Lord Ormond’s scent of brandy and the woodlands was more inviting still. Mary’s stomach would not be calm.

  She hop
ed for relief with the seating arrangements, but no, she was directed to a seat that put Ormond on her left. Arthur Bywood was on her right, however. Though she would not have sought him out, the talkative young man from the ball now held her full attention—or tried to. There wasn’t much opportunity to interact with Ormond, whose every moment was taken up with Lady Harriet on his left. The girl, who had a sweet round face with brown eyes and curly hair, was all smiles and gazed adoringly at Hugh Redgrave. Well, that was just fine with Mary. She had better things to do than giggle at the rake.

  Much to Mary’s chagrin, once the food was served, despite her anticipation of the sumptuous meal prepared by Lady Huntingdon’s new cook, her appetite disappeared again. The beef roast with a dark rich sauce and fowl accompanied by roasted vegetables smelled marvelous, but Mary managed only a few bites. She did move her food around her plate in what she thought was a rather convincing imitation of eating, however, and by the time dessert was finished and the men rose to retire to the library for port and cigars she had consumed more wine than food and more than enough of Mr. Bywood’s charm. Her only thought was to escape for some fresh air.

  Familiar with the estate after visiting with her mother the year before, Mary was anxious to be on her way. She bade Arthur Bywood good evening, and avoiding Lord Ormond, who was still the subject of Lady Harriet’s adoration, hurried down the hall, past the game room and library to the French doors leading to the terrace.

  She was glad her velvet gown was heavier than the ones she usually wore, for she was confronted by cold air as she stepped outside. Moving across the terrace in the dim light, she descended the steps into the gardens before becoming aware of the sound of boots on the stone terrace behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Ormond striding after her.

  “Are you intending to walk in the gardens, Lady Mary?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I wanted some air.”

  “May I join you?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course, my lord,” she said as he caught up with her on the stairs, but she was thinking oh, no.

  “We didn’t get much of a chance to talk at dinner.”

  Mary detected no smirk on his face from the corner of her eye. “No, but we were both pleasantly occupied, were we not?”

  “You might say so,” he allowed.

  They walked side by side down the stone path, without saying anything, and at the end entered a small hedge-framed alcove nestled deep in the gardens where the first roses of spring had begun to bloom. Mary was glad there was a full moon; otherwise the gardens would have been quite dark.

  Ormond broke the silence. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you about your last trip to France with your uncle.”

  “Yes?” She wasn’t about to discuss France in detail with this man, not even if he did work for the Crown. But he did not push for details. Instead, he sighed.

  “It’s dangerous for you to be in France just now, Lady Mary.”

  “Really?” His attitude was most irritating. She had done just fine in France, which was why her uncle was going to take her with him when he returned. Why was it that men who did not even know her felt obliged to warn her against things she wanted to do? “And what concern would that be of yours, my lord?”

  “I’m simply concerned about any possible impediment to the Crown’s work. A young woman would require protection—and of course I wouldn’t want you subjected to unnecessary danger.”

  Impede her uncle’s work? The man was insufferable! She had been helpful before and could be again. Certainly she would not allow Lord Ormond to hold her back, not when life was finally offering both excitement and purpose. She had no intention of staying behind in England if her uncle would take her with him.

  “You know little of me, my lord, even less of my ability to confront danger. And I am certainly not under your protection.”

  “Nevertheless, perhaps you should consider not going with Lord Baynes on his next trip.”

  Mary stared at Ormond, feeling her anger rise up into her throat. “Surely you realize, my lord, that you have no say in the matter.”

  She went to step around him then, but his broad shoulder blocked her way. Trapped in the alcove by that powerful body, she felt his coat press into her gown, and though Mary was tall, she was forced to look up to see Ormond’s face. As she did, prepared to give him more of her thoughts, she made the mistake of gazing into his eyes. They were dark pools in the dim light. She stared, her lips parted. As if that were invitation, he bent his head to hers.

  He hesitated. She could not move, fascinated as she was by his eyes, his mouth. Apparently that was all the approval he needed. Before Mary could object, the man’s lips descended on hers.

  Too startled to voice the objection her mind was screaming, Mary was caught up in the kiss. Lord Ormond’s soft warm lips teased hers. Quickly he deepened the kiss. The intensity of the heat between them rolled over her, and she gasped as his tongue plunged into her mouth, unintentionally parting her lips farther.

  He slid one hand around her waist, and the other moved to the nape of her neck as he pulled her to him, crushing her breasts against his chest. She had intended to push him away, but when she raised her hands to his chest they involuntarily moved to his shoulders and from there to the waves of his dark hair. A soft moan sounded from her throat. The scent of his masculinity intoxicated her, and she melted into his heat. Instinct replaced all, guiding her tongue to duel with his.

  Her hunger for him was shocking, her driving need to draw him closer. Her mind protested, but her body succumbed. Mary’s mind raced as she returned his kiss. Not this man! she told herself. He is dangerous and much too experienced. But still she was unable to tear herself away.

  It was Lord Ormond who ended the kiss, resting his forehead on hers, giving her time to draw breath. Her hands dropped to his chest as she tried to still her pounding heart, and he brought his hands up to cradle her face, tilting her head so that she was forced to look at him.

  “Lady Mary,” he whispered, his lips close to hers.

  Mary released a ragged breath. “You should not have done that. Someone might have seen. And it was most ungentlemanly.”

  She could see his wry smile, even in the dim light. “No one has seen us. And I never said I was a gentleman. Given the way you just responded, I would not think you want one.”

  Fury consumed Mary, its sudden heat making her cheeks burn. She was angry with herself for still craving his arms around her; she should have steeled herself against his seductive charms. How could she have allowed herself to forget her resolve? “You are most presumptuous, my lord, to believe you could know what I might want!”

  She pulled away, and they stood for a long moment looking at each other. Then a self-satisfied smirk appeared on his face, causing Mary’s anger to shift.

  With an abruptness that suited her resolve to escape, Mary simply said, “Good night,” and left him.

  She walked briskly back to the terrace.

  * * *

  Watching Lady Mary retreat, Hugh was at a loss for words. He had not meant to kiss the blonde minx, but he had been drawn to her, to the low cut of her gown, to that creamy golden skin and those full breasts—and to those parted lips. Her gown was the same soft green as her eyes—eyes he could get lost in. All during dinner he had smelled her scent of gardenias, a smell that was to him more potent than the best brandy. A heat had flowed unbidden between them. By the glazed look in her eyes and her slight shiver when he took her hand, he knew she had felt it, too.

  Yet, nothing had prepared him for how he had responded to the feel of her lips. How could anything as simple as an intention to warn her turn into something threatening to upset his world? Damn. He was an experienced man, a man usually of great self-control, yet this headstrong young debutante had just undone him. Her innocent passion had ignited a fire that still smoldered within him. One impetuous kiss had nearly driven him to cross a very clear boundary he had set for himself long ago.

  “G
ood night, Lady Mary,” he said under his breath, aware she could not hear him.

  He did not follow. It was best to let her return without him so that no one would suspect they had been alone together.

  So much for keeping his distance.

  * * *

  Mary flew up the steps to the terrace, her mind and heart racing, her only thought escape. She had been kissed before; there were always boys around Campbell Manor, and a few had stolen kisses. Then there was her sixteenth summer and Ian McAllister. The memory was still painful.

  Ian had been the most handsome man she’d ever seen, tall and lean with sandy blond hair, flashing blue eyes and a smile that stirred her heart each time he looked in her direction. She had become instantly infatuated with him, and in her young mind it seemed he felt the same. One afternoon he kissed her as they walked along the river. She had maintained her virtue, but she’d thought she might be losing her heart. The more she saw him, the more she believed it.

  One cool morning Ian was to join her for a ride. After waiting for more than an hour, impatience had taken over and Mary informed Hudson, their butler, that she would be riding near the river and asked him to send Ian to join her whenever he arrived. She had gone to the stables knowing her horse would be saddled and ready.

  Upon entering the building, her eyes searched the gloom for the stable boy who was nowhere in sight. Pausing only briefly, she headed for the reins of her dark bay gelding but froze when she heard a moan coming from the last stall; a stall she knew held no horse. There came a rustling in the hay, followed by a man’s groan. A female voice responded.

  “Oh, Ian. Oh, yes!”

  The voice was familiar, too. She recognized it as that of the daughter of one of the neighbor’s servants, a girl whom Mary had seen around Campbell Manor a great deal that summer.

  Another moan followed. Already fearing what she would find, Mary trod silently forward. The wooden door to the stall was ajar, allowing her to see the servant girl lying on the hay, her camisole drawn down to her waist and her skirts drawn up to reveal bare legs wrapped around Ian McAllister’s thighs, his shirt still on and his breeches pulled down to his knees. He was perched above the girl, kissing her, as his movements became more rhythmic. Mary did not have to imagine what they were doing.