Chapter Three
Escape.
All Miss Sylvie Mason wanted to do was escape.
Just a few blessed minutes of peace — away from her mother’s constant twittering, away from Lady Cabbot-Leigh’s steady flow of snide remarks, away from all the thinly veiled questions whispered in her direction, each one laced with hope of a scandal.
How had she captured the Duke of Blackmoor?
Where had they been introduced? Was it truly only a week ago?
Why such a hasty wedding? Had she tricked him?
Bewitched him? Or, heavens forbid — seduced him!
It was all utterly exhausting, and it wasn’t even she who was to be wed. Ever since the Duke had announced that he was going to marry Miss Vivien Fox, her beloved cousin, the speculation had been relentless.
Vivien, of course, couldn’t care a jot. Blissfully happy, she allowed nothing to dampen her spirits. Not the choice of flowers, nor which gown she would wear, nor the agonies of seating arrangements, all of which had sent her Aunt Anne, Sylvie’s mama, into a complete fit of the vapours.
Smiling at the memory of her mother’s puffing and blustering, Sylvie stole through the great wrought-iron gate and crept into the walled, wildflower meadow. Pausing, she exhaled deeply and stood a moment. At last, she was alone.
No one ever seemed to come in here save the gardeners, and they were far too occupied with the grand wedding preparations to intrude.
Making her way over to the familiar little wooden seat beneath the giant oak, she trailed her fingers over tall wildflowers nodding prettily in the light breeze.
She simply loved this place; no rigid structure or symmetry like the formal gardens, just wild abandon, a riot of colour and form.
Nature simply left to paint her own masterpiece, apart from a few carefully tended grassy tracks and the little clearing under the oak.
Sitting, she kicked her slippers from her feet, then carefully peeled off her stockings.
Feeling utterly wanton, she wriggled her unencumbered toes in the air for a moment before finally succumbing to temptation and sank her scandalously naked feet into the lush, cool grass.
The thrill, so intoxicating, she leapt up and spun with arms outstretched, head flung back, twirling faster and faster like some naughty, woodland nymph, as wild and free as…
“Ooofff!”
“What the devil?” murmured a deep, masculine voice, as if remarking on nothing more interesting than weather.
Tumbling to the ground with such a thud, it knocked the very breath from her lungs. Blinking, dazed, her hands scrabbled over the obstacle that had felled her. Not earth. Not stone. A lap? A distinctly male lap.
With a horrified gasp, she realised she was sprawled tummy-down across a stranger. A very male stranger. Frantic, she started squirming, trying to crawl free.
“Ouch, erm, elbow… your elbow… digging… ow… ugh… stop,” the man rasped, seizing her firmly by the shoulders. “Just stop. Hold still.”
Half wild with fright, unable to twist around to get a look at her attacker, she struggled harder. “Please, please, do not hurt me… I’m… I’m the future Duchess of Blackmoor’s cousin…”
“I know who you are.”
“Then… then you must know what they will do when they find out you broke in here and… and attacked me… and… tried to kidnap me… and…”
“Attacked you?” His incredulity was unmistakable. “I was taking a nap.”
“A… a nap?” spluttered Sylvie.
“Indeed. Until you flung yourself atop me.”
“I… I did not fling myself on top of you!”
“No?” His tone grew dry. “Then would you care to explain why you are currently sprawled across my lap, wriggling like an overturned beetle?”
Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. A hot flush spread across her cheeks.
“Now, hold still,” he murmured calmly as one of his hands slipped from her shoulder and slid between them.
“No… no…” she gasped, “please… I… I’m still… I’ve never even been kissed and…”
“And that is the way you shall stay as far as I am concerned. I have no interest in little girls. Now hold still. All this wriggling has your dress caught on my coat buttons.”
“Little… little girl!” spluttered Sylvie indignantly, instantly forgetting her predicament.
Never mind the fact that her face was only inches from being squashed into this unknowns armpit, nor that his hand skimmed ever closer to her heaving bosom.
“I may be small in stature… and, and only in my first season… but…”
“Aye, a little girl,” he said flatly. “Right, there, that should just about…”
“Pha!” So unreasonably offended, she violently jerked backwards. “I’ll have you know… Oh!” she cried, as the delicate fabric of her neckline tore, and one of his coat buttons popped off.
The man simply groaned.
Struggling to a sitting position — still in his lap mind — he watched as she finally looked up at him, her eyes suddenly as round as saucers, her cheeks flushing hot as her plump, rosebud lips silently mouthed, “Ohhhh no!”
“Oh no, indeed,” he murmured, slightly amused by her sudden inability to speak, though more relieved that the unfortunate incident had only resulted in a little lace coming free of her neckline and did not, in any way, expose her.
Admittedly, she looked somewhat more dishevelled than she ought, with her pale golden locks coming loose, her bodice slightly askew, her skirts tangled up past her ankles, and — what the devil? Where in God’s name were her stockings!
“Right,” he said dryly, setting his hands to her waist to lift her clear — then froze at the shrill cry behind them.
Sylvie stiffened. Westland’s grip tightened.
Slowly, they both turned their heads towards the source of the outrage.
Lady Smythe and Lady Seymore stood mere feet away, eyes wide, their gloved hands clutched to their bosoms in unrestrained horror.
“Upon my word! My Lord Westland, of all the things. Have you no shame? Oh, oh my goodness, it is Miss Mason!” Then, as if remembering their sacred duty was to spread scandal, the two ladies spun on their heels and scuttled away like hens set loose in a marketplace.
Sylvie and Westland could still hear the duo clucking and fussing as they picked up their pace towards the entrance.
Sylvie let out a strangled sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper. “That… that cannot be good.”
Westland exhaled with measured calm, his eyes narrowing just enough to convey that life, with its endless trivialities, required patience beyond measure.