Chapter Seven
Her cheeks were so red that Freddie thought he ought to hold off on teasing her anymore, and so he tried to make polite conversation about the weather, and the planned picnic the following day, and whether or not Miss Trowbridge rode.
But her answers were very stilted, and he rather thought he had offended her.
He didn’t like that. Making her blush—even making her angry—that was quite fun. A bit of a challenge, to liven up the house party. But he didn’t want the girl to hate him. Nor did he wish to make her miserable.
They split after dinner, the gentlemen heading to the library while the ladies withdrew to the parlor. Lord Bradford was a good-humored fellow, and the five gentlemen quite happily quaffed the port and laughed together until it was an appropriate time to rejoin the ladies.
He watched the duchess as she talked with her daughter, and then flitted around the room, speaking with each of her guests.
She was known as a matchmaker, a meddler—but what was her intention with this house party?
She didn’t have a child to marry off, so did she see a potential pairing among this group?
As a duke, he was the highest-ranking single male, and he was used to having young ladies placed in his path.
Perhaps she thought Lady Phoebe would be an appropriate match for him—although he had to admit he found her very dull.
If she wanted him to take an interest, there would have to be a spark—like the one that had briefly shone between himself and Miss Trowbridge. Well, a spark of anger, at any rate.
But he rather thought Miss Trowbridge was intended for one of the untitled gentlemen, if that was indeed the duchess’s plan.
And perhaps one of the other ladies was intended for Darty.
One certainly heard of house parties where every guest ended up on their way down the aisle.
Although sometimes that was due to improprieties taking place—improprieties Freddie could not imagine happening under the duchess’s roof.
Although he supposed they already had, in a way. After all, the young and innocent Miss Trowbridge had seen him without a stitch of clothing on. That was certainly indecent—enough to ruin her reputation, if anyone in London found out.
Perhaps it was fair that she was annoyed at him for teasing her over it, he thought, as he watched her talking rather animatedly with her mother. Perhaps he ought to tone it down a little… or make it clear to her that he had no intention of making the knowledge public.
*
The next day was perhaps the hottest and stickiest of the entire summer.
Elizabeth had struggled to sleep with the night so warm, and knowing that they would be out in the sunshine for their picnic—albeit with parasols and quite possibly a tent of some kind—only made her feel warmer.
She had felt hot and bothered since seeing the duke naked, but now she found herself thinking of the moment regularly for another reason: she was wondering how refreshing it would be if she could slip into the water herself. Just for a few moments…
She certainly was not daring enough to dip in the water in the middle of the day, like the duke had.
And she couldn’t even swim—well, at least she didn’t think she could.
There had never been an opportunity for her to try.
But the thought of submerging her body in the cool water, enough to feel some relief from the heat of the day, was undeniable.
So that evening, as dusk fell, after they had eaten, she claimed a headache and disappeared to her room, intent on sneaking away.
She had been thinking about it all day. While they picnicked, and she struggled to make conversation, it was the thought of finally cooling off that kept her going.
And through dinner she was planning the best way to go about it.
She was not, of course, going to strip off entirely like the duke had done.
But she rather thought she could simply wear her chemise, and then either throw on a cloak and hurry back wet, or remove it and put her dress on with nothing underneath.
It was all rather scandalous, but since the duke had done it, it seemed slightly less so.
Of course, he was a man and could get away with far more than she could.
But no one would see her anyway. She had waited until the sky was growing darker, and all of the duchess’s guests would be occupied in the library, drinking and playing cards and chatting for hours to come.
No one need even know that she was not in bed.
It felt incredibly daring as she donned her cloak and slipped out of the servants’ entrance, sneaking as quietly as she could through the hallways.
She could hear the servants in the kitchen, presumably having their supper, and she kept her head down and hugged the shadows, hoping she would not be seen.
Although dusk had fallen, the air was still oppressively hot, and her plan seemed like a good idea still.
It didn’t take long to reach the rocky steps that led down to the beach, and she took them carefully, heeding her mother’s warnings—even if she did not follow her bidding not to descend the steps alone.
Once on the beach, she could not resist slipping off the satin slippers she wore—which were most unsuitable for walking, anyway—and feeling the sand underneath her bare feet.
It really was like nothing she had ever felt before.
She laughed out loud, a bubble of joy rising inside her, and hurried down to the water’s edge.
The cove where the duke and Lord Dartington had swum was accessible, and so she walked round to it, thinking it seemed a sensible place to swim. Or to bathe in the water, at least.
She hid behind a rock, removing her cloak and dress quickly, both to avoid detection and so that she wouldn’t lose her nerve. Then, clad only in her chemise, her hair pinned up in an intricate crown atop her head, she ran toward the water and let the cold sea envelop her.
At first, it took her breath away. It was colder than she had expected, but it soon felt refreshing. She did not go out of her depth, but merely stood where it was deep enough for her to keep her shoulders under without much effort, and looked up at the stars, feeling wholly free.
She experimentally started to move her arms, but she had no real idea how to stay afloat, and she knew she could not cut through the water like the duke and his friend had been able to.
But still, even without being able to swim, she was glad she had done it.
She felt cool for the first time in days, and rather pleased with herself for doing something so totally unexpected.
Why, what would they think of quiet Miss Trowbridge in London if they could see her now?
Not that she wanted anyone to see her. Her eyes flickered up to the path where she had stood, just in case—but she could see no one.
The full moon hung low in the sky, lighting up the surroundings, and she realized it probably made her visible to anyone who might take a walk at this time of night.
With a sigh, she thought she ought to make her way back—before Mama decided to check on her, or even went to bed herself.
As she exited the water, the fabric of her chemise clung to her body, and she thought she would probably just wrap her cloak around her and rush back, dealing with the wet clothes once she was home.
But before she could reach her things, she realized the tide had moved quicker than she had expected.
The path back to the main beach was entirely covered by water, and she could not tell how deep it was.
Her heart raced, and at that moment a cloud covered the moon, surrounding her in darkness.
She panicked and shivered a little, despite the warm evening air.
She would have to walk through the water and hope it was not deep enough that she would need to swim.
Because she did not know how to swim. And she would have to carry her clothes, which would inevitably get soaked—or weigh her down.
Oh, what a foolish idea this had been.
She wrapped her clothes in her cloak and tied the bundle over her arm, hoping she might have a chance of keeping them out of the water, as she would otherwise be walking back in sodden clothing and having to sneak in soaking wet. That was, if she managed to get back at all.
She took a deep breath and then stepped into the water, which was colder than she remembered from moments earlier. It no longer felt freeing and exciting; it was dangerous and uncontrollable.
At first, the water swirled around her knees, and she had no issues walking through it.
But she could not ignore the fact that it was getting deeper, even as she tried to stay in the shallowest parts, tripping over rocks that were now unseen under the water.
It reached her waist, then her breasts, the parcel of clothes around her arm soaking up water and weighing her down.
And when the water reached her neck, forcing her to stand on tiptoe to keep her head above the surface, blind panic really set in.
She was over halfway back to the main beach. If she turned around, she would be stranded in the cove until the tide went out. And she didn’t even know whether the cove remained above water, or whether the tide eventually swallowed it.
But if she continued, she thought she was at high risk of drowning. And she did not want to die. Her trip to the sea had not meant to be risky. It had been meant to be fun.
She couldn’t stand there waiting, thinking—for the tide was coming in faster than ever, and she was realizing just how far out the pathway between the two beaches became once the tide was fully in.
Why had she not thought of such a possibility?
As the water became too high for her to stand on tiptoe, she took a deep breath, and her head went under. She tried desperately to propel herself in the direction of the main beach.
She did not know how long she was thrashing in the water before a hand gripped her wrist and pulled her above the waves.