Ripe for Pleasure

CHAPTER 20   



… and though I have often heard him called a brilliant speaker in Parliament, one could have wished to have found him brilliant in other areas. Alas, both his wife and I were doomed to disappointment.Viola signed the final t with a flourish and placed the period with such satisfaction that she nearly punctured the sheet of foolscap. That did very well for Sir Hugo. A niggling bit of disquiet stirred within her. She was very nearly done with her manuscript. She brushed the feather tip of her quill across her chin.

When she was done, there’d be no reason to stay on at Dyrham. She could return to London, to her friends, to her life. She could pick up the strings of gossip, superintend the replanting of her garden…

Viola sighed and caught the feather between her teeth. She would buy a horse when she returned to London. Her afternoon ride was something she was entirely unprepared to give up when she returned to town.

And then there was Leo himself. The very fact that her feelings had become involved at all was something more than worrisome. It was mortifying and untenable.

She was growing too comfortable at Dyrham. It was becoming hard not to think of it as home, as hers. And it had happened with alarming ease. Something about the haphazardly furnished house had simply laid claim to her. Only last evening, she’d caught herself niggling with the idea of a house party, mentally matching up her friends and Lord Leonidas’s, planning whom to seat next to whom at dinner…

She dipped her pen into the inkwell, resolute. This was the final section, the final story, and when it was done, so too was her time at Dyrham.

“Deliver him to Dyrham tomorrow. Mr. Pilcher will be expecting you and will have your payment ready.” Leo let his hand linger on the chestnut’s withers. Fine-boned in the way of Thoroughbreds with a great deal of Arab blood, the gelding had a beautifully sculpted head and a thick, heavy mane. He was the perfect mount for a lady, and he’d suit Viola to a tittle.

The gypsy’s nut-brown face crinkled with a smile as he nodded and led the mare away. The man called out something to his fellows in his own tongue, and one of them raced up to take the horse from him.

“Come. Watch the duck racing.” De Moulines waved him over. “It is outrageous. Only the English would do something so ridiculous.”

Beside him, Devere shook his head, raising his eyes briefly heavenward. “What? Are you trying to tell me the French have no country traditions?”

“Bah.” With a flourish, de Moulines took a snuffbox from his pocket and carefully raised a pinch to one nostril. “You can eat French traditions: cheese, wine, paté. Only the English enjoy being made sport of for their fellows. It is a mystery.” He shrugged and slipped the enamel box back into his pocket.

“Oh, do shut up, my fine frog.” Sandison poked de Moulines in the ribs with his crop and then gave him a comical sa-sa, wielding it as though it were a sword.

The Frenchman made a face, idly brushing a speck of snuff from his coat sleeve. “An appropriate enough weapon for you, Sandison.”

The Englishman burst into laughter. “Given your talent with a blade, I’m not likely to attack your person with anything more serious. Now do come along, both of you. There’s a filly on the far side I think Vaughn should see. Got a rump that will lift her over a hedge like she has wings.”

De Moulines waved them off and wandered away with Devere to watch the duck races. Sandison smiled at Leo and tucked his crop smartly under his arm. “Do you think that showy chestnut is up to Beau’s weight?”


“He isn’t for my sister.”

Sandison raised one brow and stared him down. “So you’re buying Mrs. Whedon a horse? Because that delicate creature certainly isn’t going to be carrying you.”

Leo felt the first hint of embarrassment burning up his neck. He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding against one another till he thought he might crack a molar. Down by the river, a cheer went up as a sopping man emerged, holding a madly flapping duck aloft. A nearby horse tossed its head in protest, and there was a sudden scuffle as its groom was dragged a few feet before regaining control.

“Don’t you think she’d rather have something a little more…” Sandison paused, hand circling about dramatically as he hunted for the right word. “Pawnable? Or at least more traditionally lover-like?”

“I think it’s none of your bloody business,” Leo ground out. Sandison continued to stare at him, a woeful, supercilious expression on his face. Leo flexed his hand, allowing himself the indulgence of at least imagining the satisfaction of sending Sandison sprawling across the grass.

His friend shook his head and heaved a heavyhearted sigh. “What do you think’s going to happen when she finds out just why you seduced your way into her life and her bed? Do you even remember that you set this all in motion with a purpose? That you’re not really her protector? Good God, man—”

Leo spun about on his heel and strode off in the opposite direction.

“She’ll shoot that chestnut, that’s what!” Sandison yelled after him.

Leo yanked his hat from his head and swiped his hand over his forehead, rubbing away the itch where the straw had sat too long against the skin. He squinted as the sun slid out from behind a cloud, gilding everything in shimmering heat. If Viola found out what he’d done—why he’d done it—he’d be lucky if she didn’t shoot him.