Chapter One
Miss Gwendoline Summers crossed her legs together urgently, praying her bladder did not betray her now. According to her aunt, they were about to arrive ‘any minute,’ but the minutes had ticked by and they were most certainly yet to arrive.
“Aunt Mary,” she said desperately.
“These are the woods that surround the estate,” Aunt Mary said, a trifle smugly, as though she had curated the woods herself.
“And we have been going through them for the past ten minutes,” Gwendoline said. “I really, really do need to relieve myself.”
“Can you not wait?”
Gwendoline shook her head. She had been waiting for the past two hours, and her need had only become more urgent. “I won’t be long,” she said. “I promise. Please.”
Aunt Mary sighed, her pinched face becoming more disapproving—an impressive feat.
Gwendoline was reasonably sure that if Aunt Mary could have forbidden Gwendoline from having any bodily functions at all, she would have done.
A lady did not sneeze, she did not relieve herself or use a chamber pot, and she certainly did not bleed every month.
How mortifying to think that one’s body continued to work despite one being a woman.
A bead of sweat trickled down her spine. There was absolutely no denying that she possessed all the regular bodily functions. Such as her current pressing need.
“Please,” she said again.
Aunt Mary used her cane to rap smartly on the roof of the carriage, and they came to a stop. Gwendoline barely waited for the door to open before she rushed down the steps and into the bushes. The moment she was out of sight, she bent, hoisting up her skirts.
The relief was instantaneous and overwhelming. She crouched there for quite some time, knowing that a lecture would be forthcoming the moment she returned to the carriage. The coachman, too, would know what she was doing, but she refused to feel ashamed.
This was entirely her fault for being so thirsty and drinking so much at lunch. That the last time she made such a mistake before a long journey.
Finally done, she used a convenient piece of moss to wipe herself and rose, letting her skirts fall back down around her.
Just as she was about to return to the carriage, she caught a glimpse of the view through the trees.
Earlier, she had been so focused on relieving herself that she hadn’t noticed the building peeking through the undergrowth.
Stepping forward, she pushed the branches aside and came face to face with a large house sitting in a small valley. She was at the very edge of the woodland, atop a grassy knoll that met a large, glassy lake.
The view took her breath away.
She had known, of course, that the Earl of Canterbury was wealthy—that was one of the many reasons her mother had sent her to attend his house party, in the hopes that he might fall in love with her and offer for her hand in marriage—but she had never seen such ample displays of wealth before.
A balcony ran along the second floor, and golden sandstone steps rose to meet it from the gravel below. As she watched, a horse trotted around the side of the grand house, a gentleman perched atop it.
“A staggeringly beautiful view,” a male voice said from behind her.
Gwendoline gasped, whirling and preparing to scream.
But instead of some unkempt groundskeeper, she came face to face with a tall, aristocratic gentleman sprawled on the grass of the hill.
His coat was a deep navy, golden buttons polished to a sheen, and his cravat was the fashionable waterfall style that her younger brother, Harry, constantly tried and failed to perfect.
This man had perfected it, however. In every way, he was the height of fashion, but she could not have called him a dandy.
His face, too, had the unmistakable advantage of being handsome without being either too soft or severe. His cheekbones were stark, but they were softened by the idle curve of his lips, and his brows were dark above eyes like pitch. Amber glowed in their depths where the sunlight caught them.
He was, in short, a man of contrast, and he tipped his head back curiously as he looked up at her. It was very clear that she had disturbed him rather than the other way around.
“Do you not think?” he continued as though they were acquainted and discussing a painting in a drawing room. “Say what you like about Canterbury, but he has excellent taste.”
“Who are you?” she managed.
“I? I’m a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” His lips curled into a smile, revealing twin dimples, but although they were unexpectedly disarming, they did not save his smile from appearing cold. “What about you, little lamb? Another lady sent for the slaughter?”
She regained her voice. “Excuse me?”
“Did I offend you? My mistake.”
“Sir, I—”
“Canterbury does like his games,” the man mused. “I have to wonder what he thought he would achieve with them.”
“This is a house party, sir, not some kind of elaborate scheme.”
“Are not all house parties elaborate schemes? Canterbury is looking for his second wife, and he is hoping to do it here. Thus, he has invited a selection of ladies and gentlemen to his humble abode in the hopes that the lady of his choice—he naturally already has a lady of choice—is of a mind to accept him.”
Gwen frowned down at him. He looked as though he might have been sent by the heavens to dazzle the female population, but there was a cynical cast to the curl of his lips, and his words held more than a trace of bitterness. “Are you a fellow invitee?”
“To my chagrin,” he said. “Although I am not aspiring to the earl’s hand.”
The statement shocked a laugh out of her, and his smile widened, turning genuine for the fraction of a second, as though her amusement delighted him in unexpected ways. A second later, however, the expression had vanished, and he hopped to his feet, towering over her.
The height difference between them briefly disarmed her.
He was tall, more so than average, and she had always been especially short.
Her mother had assured her that to be such a height was eminently feminine and desirable, but face to face with such a tall gentleman for the first time in her life, she felt vulnerable.
The gentleman’s smile turned predatory. “Tell me, little lamb, where is your shepherd?”
Gwendoline raised her chin. “I’m no lamb.”
“You look like one to me.” He leaned in a little closer. “I happen to like lamb.”
“Step any closer to me, and I will scream,” she warned. “And I can assure you, you will not like my aunt.”
Yet more genuine amusement broke through the wickedness of his smile. “The lamb bites,” he murmured. “Intriguing.”
“I’ll be going now,” she said, but although she knew she ought to move, she couldn’t quite bring herself to step away. Aunt Mary would be waiting, but remaining here with this strange man—however inappropriate such a situation—was preferable to Aunt Mary’s lectures.
The stranger’s gaze traveled over her face, those tar-like eyes sucking her in.
There was danger here, she was certain—good men did not lie in wait for unsuspecting young women and engage them in conversation.
If he were a true gentleman, he would have excused himself or offered to escort her back to her carriage.
Instead, he stood there and waited, watching her as though he expected her to run.
She didn’t. She remained exactly where she was, both feet planted on the ground, the sun warming her face. If she wasn’t careful, she would freckle. Or worse, burn. The last time she had stayed in the sun too long, her nose had peeled.
“Are you not afraid of me?” he asked when she didn’t move. “You ought to be, you know. A maiden encountering a lone gentleman in the woods.” His smile flashed, quick and cruel. “I could be a monster.”
She tilted her head. “Or you could be a man.”
“Could I not be both? A monster wearing a man’s face?”
“What makes you a monster?”
“Hm.” His hand shot out, faster than she could follow, and he took hold of her chin, tilting it with gentle fingers.
If she had wanted to break free, she could have done.
Ought to have done. His gaze dropped to her lips, and at her acquiescence, his smile widened.
“This,” he whispered, and he brought his mouth down on hers.
A kiss.
Gwen sucked in a sudden, deep breath, and the man took advantage of the slackness of her mouth to slide his tongue inside, hot and wet.
She ought to have hated it—she did, she truly did, she had to have done—but a small part of her burst alight at the sensation.
His kiss lit the fuse, and now she exploded with new sensations.
The gentle pressure of his mouth, the soft warmth of his lips, the way they moved slowly, unhurriedly, against hers.
As if he knew she would not pull away.
He had sensed her weakness, and like an asp, he had struck.
And she was… Oh, heavens above, she was enjoying it.
More than that. Tingles ran from the place they were in contact all the way to her feet.
The warmth was intoxicating, and she wanted more—to learn what would happen if she tilted her head or deepened the kiss or pressed closer to him.
His fingers were still on her chin, but they were no firmer than before, certainly doing nothing to hold her in place.
Finally, her mind caught up with her body, and she stepped free, raising a hand and bringing it in a stinging slap across his cheek. Her own cheeks burned, and although he had not touched her dress, she felt hopelessly disheveled.
“How dare you?!” she hissed.
Rather than angry, he looked amused by her blow, although already, his cheek was reddening where she had struck it. “Rather like that, I’m afraid. I did warn you I might be a monster.”
A monster, in her private opinion, would not have kissed liked that. It was, undoubtedly, the kiss of a man. A hot-blooded, very real man.
“An excellent blow,” he said offhandedly. “That would deter any ordinary man.”
“But you are not an ordinary man, I suppose?”
“Not in the slightest.” He sounded entirely at peace with this.
“Gwendoline?” Aunt Mary called peevishly from behind them. Not far away, either. If she were to come and find Gwen with this stranger, she would be so outraged, she would probably turn the carriage back around and take her niece home again.
“I’m coming,” Gwen called, never looking away from the man. She took a single step back. He did nothing to stop her.
“Goodbye, little lamb.” His lips curled, and Gwen was horrified to find her attention caught on the shape of them and the fact that they had, so recently, been on hers. “I do hope we will meet again.”