Page 39 of Guilty Pleasures

“Thank you.” He bowed to her. “I shall endeavor to be as charming as my nature will allow.”

She looked at him with doubt. “I do not know if that is enough, your grace.”

Anthony gave a shout of laughter, but his humor vanished as she scooted over to make room for him on the blanket. The movement caused the hem of her skirt to ride up, revealing her bare feet. Very pretty feet they were, but his mind led him upward, thinking of delicate ankles, rounded calves and smooth, taut thighs.

“Are you all right?” she asked, staring up at him, her eyes wide behind the lenses of her spectacles.

All right? God, no. He was making himself insane.

Anthony drew a deep breath, feeling as if he were dragging himself out of quicksand. “Of course,” he said, and moved quickly to join her on the blanket before she could notice what was so close to her eye level, grateful that she was still looking into his face. “I am perfectly well, thank you.”

He pulled off his jacket and draped it as carelessly as he could manage across his hips as he stretched out his legs. He loosened his cravat, then leaned his weight back on his arms, noticing her brown leather boots placed neatly at one corner of the blanket, each one holding a rolled-up white stocking. He stared at them, trying to think of something to say. He took refuge from his own lust in the only thing he could think of—teasing her.

“So this is how you decided to spend your day out,” he said, with mock disappointment. “You spurned my company for a picnic basket and a day of sketching?”

“I am afraid so,” she said, mirroring his injured demeanor with a pretense of apology in her tone. “But you would have made me work.”

“And you prefer to idle away your day in such frivolous pursuits as these?”

“It is worse than that,” she told him gravely. “I also went into the village this morning and did a bit of shopping. I bought a set of gardenia-scented soaps and a box of chocolates.”

“I had hoped you would choose to buy a new dress.”

She leaned toward him in a confidential fashion. “I did that, too.”

Surprised, Anthony glanced at the dun-colored cotton fabric of her skirt. But that made him think again of her legs, and he fixed his gaze on the lake and gardens spread out below them. “If you bought a new dress, then why in heaven’s name are you not wearing it?”

She hit his shoulder with her pencil. “I bought an evening gown!” she cried, laughing. “And do not tease me about my clothes.”

“An evening gown? Miss Wade, every moment I spend with you is filled with surprises. What color? Do not tell me any shade of brown, for if you do, I shall go to Mrs. Avery myself and order you a different frock, thereby ruining your reputation for the remainder of your life.”

“It is not brown. It is pink. Rose-pink, and made of silk.” Her breath escaped on a dreamy little sigh, and he turned his head again to look at her. On her face was an expression of pure bliss.

Like men everywhere, he did not understand how something as trivial as a mere garment could engender such joy in women, but he did appreciate the effect. A woman could be as beautiful as she felt herself to be, and it seemed as though even the efficient and sensible Miss Wade was not immune to the magic of a pink silk frock to help that feeling along. But then, the woman who sat beside him was not the same Miss Wade he had known a month ago. “You have relieved my mind.”

He watched as she bent her head over her sketchbook again, and he caught the golden glint of sunlight in the intricately braided crown of her hair. “I also note that you have taken my advice.”

“Advice?”

“About your hair.”

She did not look at him, but he saw a tiny blush creep into her cheeks as she tucked a loose tendril behind her ear in a self-conscious gesture. “Ella helped me. She was a lady’s maid once.”

“Ella?”

“Third housemaid. Do you not know the names of your servants?”

Anthony shook his head. “Only the upper servants. I have seven estates, most of which I only visit for one week each year to tour the park and meet with the steward. Each has its share of staff, and I do not hire any of them myself. That falls within the purview of butlers and housekeepers. I could not remember all the names of my servants if I wanted to.” He gave her a rueful look. “I suppose you are now going to reprove me and say that I should know all their names.”

“Perhaps I was,” she admitted, and gestured to the groom who was standing motionless about thirty feet away, ready and waiting to obey any command given him. “Do you know his name?”

“No, and I do not wish to,” he said, feeling almost defensive and wondering how he got that way. “It would not be appropriate. A man of my rank only speaks with upper servants unless absolutely necessary. He is a groom.”

“He is a man.”

“He is not a man, not to me. He is a groom. If I knew his name, if I knew anything about him, he would become a person to me, and that begins to narrow the gap between my rank and his. Over time, I might even begin to regard him as a friend.”

“And that would be a bad thing?”

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