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  He repeated the procedure with his left boot. It was an exquisite torture.

  “You’re a slim young man, Simon,” he said from behind her. “When you’re a bit older, you will fill out and put on more muscle.” Was he studying her derrière? She quickly sat.

  By the time his lordship stood in his stocking feet, Hetty’s face burned so hot it must have rivaled the logs in the fireplace. Adding more, she raised a cloud of sparks with the hope they would last the night. Then she pulled off her boots before he suggested he might help.

  When he stood to loosen his trousers, she spun around and fussed over the arrangement of the horse blankets on the bed. She turned back as if compelled to watch him as he ran a hand over his chest beneath his shirt.

  He winced in pain. “I might have bruised a rib. Have a look, will you?”

  “I doubt I can be of much help, my lord,” she said. “I doubt there’s a bone broken. The pain would be more intense.”

  He unbuttoned his waistcoat and lifted his shirt. “I doubt that, too, but just look, will you?”

  She had never seen a grown man’s naked chest before. Sucking in a breath, she bent to examine him. Small brown nipples jutted from his sculpted chest, and his stomach was ridged with muscle. A soft mat of dark hair disappeared into his breeches. Her stomach clenched as his manly smell teased at her and her fingers curled into her palms with the need to touch him. What would happen if she did? Her tentative finger traced a rib. She’d never expected a man’s skin to be so smooth. The desire to sweep it over the planes of his chest caused her to pull away. “You’re right. There is a bruise here.”

  “Thought as much.” He yawned then yelped, cradling his forehead. “Devil plague it!” He patted the cot. “We can throw those blankets over us and sleep top to tail. Not ideal, but ’twill do, will it not?”

  He looked so trusting he made her ashamed of her dishonesty. “I can sleep anywhere. Curled up on the mat by the fire will do, ’tis all the same to me,” she said in a tight voice. That she found him so attractive surprised her when she wasn’t sure she approved of him. But then, Byron’s transgressions only served to make him more charismatic.

  He patted the cot. “I won’t hear of it. There’s plenty of room here.”

  She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

  “You’re a gentlemanly fellow for a groom, Simon,” he said. “I haven’t got you into trouble, have I? No doubt your colonel will think you’ve absconded with that horse.”

  Hetty knelt at the foot of the cot. “I’ll set that to rights in the morning.” She suffered a pang of guilt. Simon would be worried. But he would have to wait for the storm to pass before he could search for her.

  She’d ride to Rosecroft Hall for help at daylight, even though it would risk revealing her identity to Williams, the head groom. Williams seemed a decent sort of fellow. If she pleaded for his silence and made a quick getaway before her godfather, Eustace, saw her. Her disguise wouldn’t fool him for a minute. She must arrive home before her father came back from London. Heaven knew what the servants would tell Papa if he arrived before her. Simon would be forced to take the servants into his confidence. Some knew she rode The General, and would rally to protect her, but she hated to make them witnesses to her deceitful behavior.

  “You look most uncomfortable.” He spread his greatcoat over them, then lay down with his hands clasped behind his head. “Aren’t you going to take off your hat?”

  “Keeps my ears warm,” she mumbled.

  “No man wears a queue these days. You should get your hair cut short like mine. Short hair is de rigueur.” He ran his hands through his hair, careful not to disturb the makeshift bandage.

  Frenchmen were far too concerned with their appearance. Fops, many of them, she decided, warming to the idea. It was uncharitable of her and possibly unfair, but it helped her keep her distance.

  “I haven’t been accused of snoring. Do you?”

  “I don’t believe so.” She wished her voice didn’t sound so strained. The gruff voice made her throat hurt.

  He raised his head to gaze at her with those blue eyes, his well-defined lips stretched into a grin. “You do not know?”

  She shook her head.

  “Even in this poor light I can see your cheeks are smooth as a juene fille. I take it you are not old enough to have enjoyed feminine company?”

  Hetty shifted her gaze to the cobwebs on the ceiling as she tried to work out a way to extricate herself from this mess of her own making. “Old enough yes … but no.”

  His deep laugh made her catch her breath. “We men are always old enough, are we not? You have much to enjoy when you do throw a leg over. Ah, mademoiselles.” He gave an appreciative sigh. “What would we men do without them? I’ve known some great beauties in my time.”

  How boastful! She wished she wasn’t so intrigued.

  “You must become a good lover, my friend. It is a skill that requires much study to perfect.”

  “In what way?” Oh, why had she asked that? She’d just invited him to tell her. She bit her lip, half wanting to hear it and half fearful of what he would say.

  “By listening,” he said, surprising her. “What lies beneath her words can give you clues.”

  “And if you learn nothing?”

  “You ensure the woman has her pleasure before you take yours, using all of your body, your hands, your tongue, and lips, as well as your cock. When she comes, you will hear it, see it, feel it, and delight in it.”

  Hetty dipped her head to hide her hot cheeks as he elaborated on what he liked a woman to do to him. He must notice her rapid breath. Women would need little encouragement she was sure. She slanted a glance at him under her lashes as he ran a careless hand across his broad chest. A desire to move closer, took her by surprise. Such an arbitrary thought horrified her. There was far more at risk here than her reputation.

  “But don’t fall in love with the first one you bed.” His fingers rasped over the beginnings of a beard. Would it be prickly against her cheek? “I don’t allow my cock to rule my head.”

  Startled, her wayward thoughts vanished. Aware she gaped at him, she shut her mouth.

  “I’m aware of my obligations,” he continued, “particularly since most of my family has been wiped out. The only male left, apart from me, is my English relative who has been caretaker of the estate these past years.”

  “Mr. Fennimore is well known hereabouts, my lord. A friend of the colonel of long standing, he often dines at the manor.”

  “I have not warmed to him in our correspondence, but the English are known to be reserved.”

  This surprised her. She was very fond of her godfather, who was a gregarious soul. “Were your father and Mr. Fennimore close at one time?”

  He frowned. “No, but I owe him a great debt of gratitude for his care of the estate in our absence. I am keen to marry and make my home here.”

  “I expect you shall seek your bride from the debutante’s during the season, my lord. I’ve heard Almack’s is the perfect marriage mart.”

  He smiled. “I might find one prepared to live with my bad habits.”

  “You take after your father, my lord?” Was he bragging about his rakish ways? Annoyed, Hetty yearned to put him in his place.

  His eyebrows rose at her impudence, but he laughed good-naturedly. “Papa was fond of the ladies, and it got him into trouble when he was young. But when he met my mother, he knew what he wanted.”

  “And was he faithful to her?” An even more impertinent question, but she was compelled to ask it.

  His gaze roamed over her, and she bent to smooth the blanket. She must hold her tongue and be more careful. Had he become suspicious?

  “I saw no reason to doubt it.” His eyes remained on her, and she resisted tugging her hat lower. “But there are many fillies who will wish to snare you, so beware, Simon. A handsome jeune homme like you …” His voice drifted off, and his dark brows rose.

  She held her breath.


  He propped his head in his hand. “Do I embarrass you, young Simon? This knock on my head has addled my brains.”

  “Not at all, my lord.” She dropped her gaze to her hands, to find herself arranging the blanket like a maid would do. “You must be tired. I shall allow you to sleep.”

  He turned on his side and closed his eyes.

  With some small measure of relief, she settled ramrod stiff on the cot, determined not to touch any part of him, but it was so narrow it proved impossible. Her feet ended up settled against his back while his stocking-clad feet were somewhere behind her head. He smelled pleasantly of Bergamot soap, overlaid with male, leather, and horse.

  He was soon asleep, his breath slow and even.

  What would it be like to lie in his arms, safe and comfortable? Well, perhaps not so comfortable. Or so safe? She nestled her feet close to his warm back, she listened to the creak of the roof timbers and the snap of frail branches breaking under their burden of snow. The General shuffled in his makeshift stall. No doubt, the horse was hungry. She was, too, and a little light-headed from the whiskey. She must be gone at first light before the baron saw her in broad daylight. Now that he had recovered his wits, it wouldn’t take him long to realize she was a woman.

  Hetty doubted she could sleep in such proximity to a man who made her pulse leap when he smiled. She tucked her cold hands between her legs. Such powerful emotions this man stirred in her. Tomorrow, she would leave. How could she ever view life in the same way again?

  Chapter Four

  Hetty woke to find she was spooning the baron’s lower back. She eased herself away and sat up. Gray morning light struggled through the small square of dirty windowpane. The blanket had fallen away. He slept deeply, his lips parted, and his strong chin darkened with a day’s growth. A fringe of thick dark lashes lay on his cheek. Why did men have fuller eyelashes than women? She liked the shape of his nose and the way his nostrils flared above a generous mouth.

  His bandage had unraveled during the night to reveal his wound, which had clotted nicely. She studied his big hands and the swell of his muscled arms beneath his shirt. Her gaze ran the length of him, studying his strong thighs and the contour of his trousers. His very maleness tempted her to consider what it would be like to lie on his broad chest and press her body against his… She jerked upright. She had slept overlong and must leave before he woke.

  Her hat had fallen off, and her hair had escaped its bonds, spilling over her shoulders. Her chilled fingers tangled in the knots as she attempted to draw it back. She managed to braid it into what she was sure was a bird’s nest at the back of her head then eased her feet to the floor. She located her flattened hat beneath her hip and jammed it on. The blanket stirred, and dust motes rose. She sneezed.

  His eyes opened.

  “Zut! It is cold.” He sat up and blew on his hands, rubbing them together. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Annoyed with herself, she bent to pull on her boots. “I hope you did also?”

  “Quite soundly. Shared body heat was an excellent idea.”

  She flicked a glance at him. “You feel better, my lord?”

  “I do. Hungry though.” He grinned. “I could even consume a big English breakfast.”

  Sometime during the night, the fire had gone out. The room was so cold that steam floated out of their mouths when they spoke. Hetty stood and wound the green scarf around her neck and the lower part of her face. She stirred a log in the fireplace with a toe. “I’ll light the fire before I leave.”

  “You do not intend to abandon me here?” He pushed up from the cot.

  She raised her head to glance at him. How tall he was. Now that he’d recovered, his masculinity filled the room with an almost overpowering presence.

  She turned toward the door. “I’ll ride for help. The sooner I go, the quicker someone will come for you.”

  “No need for that.” He snatched up a boot and sat to pull it on. “We can double up on that big horse of yours. Mr. Fennimore expects me. My letter will have reached him several days ago. Because of the storm, he might have sent a search party out for me.”

  She watched helplessly as he buttoned his waistcoat and shrugged into his coat. He reached for his cravat. “You can have something warming to eat and feed your horse before you return home.”

  Hetty’s heart sank. Not only would her godfather recognize her in broad daylight, the baron would learn who she was. If she took him into her confidence now, could she trust him to keep silent about her escapade? She couldn’t be sure. Neither could she dispute his suggestion, for it made sense. There was very little dry wood left, and in daylight, the hut had lost any pretensions to comfort. Not only was it a miserable place to be cold in, it was dirty and smelt of mold. She chafed, wishing to be gone. She would travel much faster alone, but as a lowly groom, she must obey him. With no option but to take him with her, she pulled her hat down over her eyes. “As you wish, my lord.”

  He dressed quickly, and they left the hut. The stallion snorted his impatience and shuffled, unhappy with his makeshift stable.

  “I’m sorry, boy. It has been a long chilly night.” Hetty patted his neck.

  “He will be glad of a feed and a warm stable.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Hetty pulled off the blankets and saddled The General, relieved that long practice made it appear easy.

  She mounted the horse and removed her foot from the stirrup for the baron. He threw his leg over the rump of the horse and sat close behind her, his thighs rimming hers. As she returned her foot to the stirrup, his hand settled at her waist, driving the air from her lungs. “Do you know the way?” His voice sounded close to her left ear.

  She threaded the reins through her hands and moved the horse on. “I do. I roamed these woods as a child.”

  “Did you?” He sounded surprised, and she realized she’d become so relaxed in his company that, for a moment, she’d forgotten she was a groom. She bit her lip. How could she remain on guard with him so close?

  She forced a laugh. “I should not admit my trespass to the owner, perhaps.”

  “You have my permission to roam my woods for the rest of your days, Simon.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  She tried and failed to ignore his muscular thighs and the warmth of his hands at her waist as she turned the horse. The trees were heavily laden with snow. As they rode along the woodland trail they brushed against branches, scattering snow over them.

  She was surprised by how overgrown the woods had become, thick with bracken, fallen trees and dead branches. Had her godfather lost his forester? Several seasons ago by the look of it. Might he be short of money? There’d been no sign of it, for he dressed well and still enjoyed the London season in his Mayfair townhouse. The arrangement with the baron’s father was not her business. For many years during October, London society had come for the grouse shoot. The village had come alive like a parched plant given water. Some very important personages attended Eustace’s dinner parties and balls. But two years ago, they had ceased because of his health–or that was what she had been given to understand. Since then, Eustace had not entertained in even a small way.

  “I know a shortcut. If it isn’t too overgrown, we’ll be there in an hour or so.” And the sooner the better, she thought, as his arm reached around her to push away a pine branch and his warm breath stirred the hair at her nape.

  As they negotiated a rise, The General stumbled over a rock hidden beneath the slush. The baron’s thighs gripped hers, and his tight hold on her diaphragm sent a wave of heated anxiety through her. Distracted, the reins slipped through her grasp. She steadied herself and urged the horse on. They had to reach the house soon.

  “What did you like to do when you roamed these woods as a child?”

  “Oh, I collected robin’s eggs. Climbed trees and picked wild flowers.” She went rigid with horror as her mind searched for an acceptable explanation. “My aunt liked to press them into books.”
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  He dropped a hand from her waist and shifted away from her. Chilly air rushed into the space where his warm body had been.

  There was a long pause as the horse crunched its way through the snow. The icy wind stung her nose while she berated herself for her stupidity. The more familiar with him she became, the more difficult it was to pretend. At least he was no longer so close.

  “Do you prefer the company of men, Simon?”

  She almost missed his quietly spoken question. “I have several friends,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding. Might he now suspect her to be one of those Romans Catullus spoke of in his poems? She clamped her lips shut on a nervous giggle. In India, she’d found a French translation in the library of their rented house. Her French was good enough to make some sense of them. Those poems had shocked her, but she couldn’t help continuing to turn the pages. There had been a collection of Persian literature, too, some with pictures, and she’d smuggled them into her room and poured over them late at night by candlelight.

  “We play cards and hunt when we get a day off,” she said.

  “But you are of an artistic persuasion, no?”

  “There is artistry in many things, my lord,” Hetty said with a shrug. “The skill in crafting a fine saddle, for instance.” The comment would not stand up under scrutiny, she knew. But fortunately, it had the effect of silencing him. Were doubts now planted in his mind? When next he met her, as he was sure to do soon enough, would he recognize her and be angry enough to denounce her?

  They continued with just the creak of saddle leather and the cry of the birds wheeling overhead in the frigid, gray sky.

  “We seem to have reached the main thoroughfare,” he said with obvious relief.

  Hetty could only agree.

  She guided The General out onto Rosecroft Hall’s rutted gravel drive lined with knobby, aged oaks. The hall sat in queenly, if shabby, grandeur on a rise, its clusters of blackened chimneys highlighted against the sky.