Lord Carlisle’s Enticing Lure (Scarlett Affairs #5)

Chapter One

Brighton, England

Clive Davenport couldn’t believe his eyes.

He took a few steps closer to the vision in pink and lavender.

She stood silhouetted against the sweet blue sky, motionless, facing the sea, her head thrown back, her midnight hair billowing around her as the wind off the Channel buffeted her whole, slender body.

But she did not move. Arms out, she fought the force, then let it sway her.

She seemed so determined and yet so ethereal that she did not even seem to breathe.

“Papa! Papa!” His daughter of three gazed at the lady, too.

He was certain, however, what attracted Annabelle was the lady’s kite.

“Birdie!” the child exclaimed, tugging on his hand. She flapped one arm as if she would fly away.

“Well, my poppet, I’d introduce us, but we do not know the lady.” Only I know of her. And only by her actions. When had she come to Brighton? And where were her sketchpads and pencils? She always had some to hand. “We’re going for cake and ices, remember?”

His little girl pouted. “I want t’ fly.”

He winced. He hated to go, now that he had sight of this lady and an opportunity to make her acquaintance.

He’d been intrigued by this beauty when first he saw her.

Spotting her near his Richmond country house on the Thames, he’d been drawn by her elfin form.

Black hair, large, gamin eyes, dainty limbs—she’d appeared on the banks of the river most mornings in fair weather and in not so fair.

Arriving early, before nine usually, she’d set up her chair, easel, a few large palettes, and basket of paints about her on the grassy knoll above the flow of the river.

Before she began her sketching, she’d walk to the river’s edge and, bending, trail her fingers in the ripples of the water.

February was no time to be outside for long.

The forest along the Thames could be thick and sheltering, but the wind could cut through one’s coat and make one yearn for a cozy fire and hot tea.

Yet this lady, petite as she was, had fortitude.

Braving the cold, she had remained to sit and paint for at least one hour, more often two.

She would snuggle in a sturdy coat, a forest-green redingote that draped about her legs as if she were receiving subjects.

The coat blended so well into the evergreens that even with his superb binoculars, Clive, at first attempt to spot her, often mistook her for part of the woods.

Still, he’d had to hunt for her each morning.

He’d walk along the Thames. Find her newest spot.

Then debate with himself if he should introduce himself.

But then one morning as February turned to March when she had come closer to his house, sighting her through his magnified lenses, he saw she painted a verdant forest. Watercolors of pale limes and verdant greens, browns and umbers, adorned her canvas.

Her forest along a silvery, flowing river was a dark, deep mystery.

Even from afar, he was called to it. Yet propriety had pulled him back, resisting the pull of her artistry.

Then as days passed, he noted something odd.

Two things, really. The first was that she switched from painting her forest scenes to using charcoal to draw towns.

Buildings. Nothing he could identify. It was as if she practiced a town upon a coastline, sketching quickly a house, a cottage, a shop nearby, then a Palladian mansion.

The second thing that surprised him was that as the days warmed, she came to the river only every other day. In late March, she disappeared. He had mourned her loss and his failure to introduce himself.

Certainly, it would have been a pleasure to meet her. Of course, it would have been the polite thing to introduce himself in Richmond.

Even now. He could use his daughter’s attraction to her kite as the excuse.

Yet he had stayed back, arguing with himself that he did not need to engage a stranger. Besides, he had work to do. His daughter to amuse. No time for folly. The lady pursued her hobby of kites, amazingly. No need to disturb her.

Now, in warm and sultry June, he admired her for another rare reason.

Her abandon to the bounties of sun and sky and sea stirred a growing elemental need in his own life.

One he could not define except to say he needed something new and invigorating to his days.

Something to amuse and fulfill his lonely nights.

“Papa!” His daughter tugged at his hand in the direction of the lady. “Fly!”

He should take Bella’s interest in the thing and introduce himself. Finally.

Yet the reason he’d stayed away from her, the reason he did not introduce himself, was clear. Simple and frail.

Then and now, her looks should mean nothing.

Five years ago, he’d sworn off any attractions to pretty women.

Bitter experience had taught him lessons he vowed to follow for the rest of his days.

This woman might lure him, but he had no illusions about how a gorgeous pair of eyes could tempt and a pretty set of lips could lie.

He preferred humble girls. Plain, with education and a small measure of wit.

That first time he had noticed her and every time thereafter, she had her drawing supplies with her.

Every time thereafter, she put pencils, paper, or a tray of a few watercolors to dedicated use.

Today, though, she was without. He could question why, but then his head and his heart—like his daughter’s—were filled with her amusement of her kite.

A small bit of red and yellow, the thing remained aloft.

As if she too marveled at her abilities, she suddenly shook herself to awareness. She turned toward him and Annabelle.

Had she felt his eyes upon her?

No, how could she? I am nothing to her. It’s the kite she’s concerned about. Or Bella’s interest.

His daughter grunted, then stamped her little foot and pulled at his hand.

“Yes, yes. We’re going.” If he left this shore now, would he find this lady again? He hated to turn toward the town.

But Bella had a different idea. She broke away from him. Wobbling toward the lady over the treacherous little rocks, she stuck out her chubby little arms as if she were a ballerina, and good Lord, was she fast. Certainly, she was quicker than Clive, who was utterly surprised at her!

To his shock, the lady crouched down and threw a huge smile toward Bella. She knew what his baby wanted, and held out the lead to the kite.

Bella raced up and grabbed it. Children this young took what life offered, didn’t they?

Her pudgy face up to watch the red paper in the sky, Bella pointed toward the thing that flew like a bird. She giggled as the wind carried her along, her eyes on her only desire.

“Come back!” the lady shouted at her as Bella tried to navigate the rocky beach—and teetered and shook.

He jolted in alarm.

The winds blustered and blew, far stronger than his little girl.

No! Stop! “Bella, come back,” he called, but he knew she did not hear him nor have any inclination to obey. He ran toward her, stumbling along the stony shore.

But Bella was enchanted, oblivious to the waves and the danger as she tramped into the water.

A white-capped wave loomed like a monster. Angry, another appeared, five times as tall as his little girl.

“No!” he shouted. His hat flew away. He trudged into the rush, the pull of the undertow battering his legs as he trudged forward to get his girl.

The woman sprang forward, running after Bella, straight into the water.

Bella stumbled, but rose up, smiling and showing it all great fun. She followed the kite and her fascination. She giggled, caring not that she was in the ocean. But then a wave—foamed in white like a wild beast—rose up and rolled over her.

Nooo! Clive tripped. Damn the stones.

A second wave, big as the one that took his girl, rolled toward him. Freezing water filled his boots and soaked his breeches. But he stood, weaving, shaken…struggling to keep his footing.

Determination had him stepping toward the last spot he’d seen his daughter. But…no! He saw no one!

He could not lose her! Never!

He dashed deeper into the water, the waves threatening, icy and heavy against him. He saw a sprig of blue and knew it was Bella. A patch of pink and lavender shot up…and stood.

Sodden, reeling, the lady crushed Bella in her arms.

Clive lost his breath. Yet hope swamped him. He struggled to stride nearer to them.

The lady crooned to his daughter, her lips in Bella’s wet hair.

He heard her. Nonsense, her words resembled some foreign language, but Clive knew the soothing sounds of love and caring any adult bestowed upon a child, scared and alone.

Bella clung to the lady, her chubby arms clasped tightly around her rescuer’s neck.

If she cried, Clive could not tell.

“Thank you, thank you,” he managed over and over when he got to them.

Bella left her rescuer’s arms and came to his. “Papa.” She nuzzled her sweet little face into the hollow of his shoulder.

“I know, sweet one, I know. You’re safe.” He reached out to the lady, and though she shook, she grabbed his hand. “You are both safe. Let’s go in.”

Struggling against the lash and pull of the waves, they trudged out of the water up to hot, dry land.

“You’re soaked,” he said to the lady.

She picked at her muslin gown, but no amount of that would save her from the way the dress clung to her generous breasts and the elegant line of her torso and legs.

His daughter clung to him, soaking the front of his frockcoat.

But he had to provide whatever warmth he could for both of them.

He put Bella to her feet. “Stand here, my girl.” Then he shrugged out of his frockcoat and wrapped it around her.

The garment was so huge that the still-dry part of the garment enveloped her. A good thing.

Clive turned to his mystery lady. “Let me give you my waistcoat, miss.”

Her teeth chattered and she had trouble saying, “Non…non, monsieur. It is not necessary.”

“But it is.” He already had the thing off and around her. The act covered the fact that he saw her, once more silhouetted against the sunlight, as God had made her. She was wet, perfectly formed, a naked nymph.

She clutched the edges of his waistcoat and closed her eyes, her cheeks coloring in embarrassment even as she shuddered in her sopping-wet clothes.

“Come, allow me to escort you. Where do you live?”

“I have rooms at the Old Ship Hotel. But you should go home, monsieur. Your daughter needs attention.”

“Annabelle and I are at the Old Ship, too.” Relief swamped his senses. “Let’s go up.”

“They will wonder at our condition.” French, was she? Her accent gave levity to the positive result of their encounter with the elements.

“Indeed!” He laughed at their success and offered his free arm to her to help her navigate the stones and sand. “But I think if we go in together, fewer will decide we are quite mad to have gone for a swim.”

She gave a laugh and looped her arm around his. “I agree. Let’s hurry.”