“Kit.”
She was huddled over at the edge of the bank, kneeling, all except her head from the chin up wrapped inside the blanket in which he had rolled the towels. He swam a few strokes closer to her.
“The water is freezing,” she said. “I cannot do this. Please don’t make me.”
What she could not do, he guessed, was take off that blanket and expose herself to his view, clad only in her shift. He felt his temperature rise a notch, cold water notwithstanding, at the realization that she must indeed have removed most of her clothes. He swam the rest of the distance and stood a couple of feet from her, both his hands outstretched.
“The moment of truth,” he said. “How strong is your desire for adventure? How great is your courage to attempt something new and different? And undeniably daring. This is it, Lauren. Now or never.”
She drew the blanket tighter about herself, if that were possible.
“Take my hands,” he said. “Or go back home.”
Back home, he had said deliberately. Not back to the house. He could see from the look in her eyes that she understood him. If she wished it, the whole charade could be over with this morning, almost before it had begun. She could return to Newbury or to London with her aunt and cousin.
She moved into a crouch and set first one and then the other hand in his, and with nothing left to hold it about her, the blanket slipped to the grass. Her cheeks flamed, he tightened his grasp on her hands, and she jumped—the lesser of two evils, he supposed, since her slim, shapely legs had been suddenly exposed from the knees down as well as her arms and shoulders and a generous expanse of bosom. She looked a good deal younger than usual.
And then she was gasping convulsively and clawing at him with both hands in utter panic. He grasped her waist and drew her under with him until the water covered their shoulders and she would have only its temperature to contend with and not the morning air as well. He was laughing—mainly at the impropriety of what he had coaxed her into. Her bare legs brushed against his and he was very aware that there was almost nothing between his hands and bare, inviting flesh.
“You are not going to drown,” he assured her, “or freeze to death. You will be used to the water soon. It is not so very cold. Hold your breath.”
He drew her down with him until they were fully submerged. He felt her fingernails dig into his arms and saw that her eyes were tightly closed and her hair floating in a dark cloud about her face. He lifted them both to the surface almost immediately.
She surprised him then. She opened her eyes, stared at the bank and at the water, and then into his eyes, droplets gleaming on her thick lashes. “I did it,” she said. And then again, as if it were a moment of immense triumph, “I did it.”
He threw back his head and laughed.
He began her first lesson, teaching her how to put her face in the water without panicking, how to blow out through both her nose and her mouth. She was a surprisingly apt pupil. Though perhaps it was not so very surprising. He suspected that she had always been diligent in her efforts to master whatever she set out to accomplish.
Finally he taught her how to float on her back. Once he had convinced her that she would not simply sink like a leaden weight to the bottom and neither be seen nor heard from ever again, she relaxed and followed his instructions. But she would do it only as long as he had a firm hold on her back beneath her shoulders. The last time she tried, he kept his hands braced beneath her until he knew she was relaxed and buoyant, then he slipped them away. She floated alone, her arms stretched out to the sides, her eyes closed. After a few seconds he stepped away and waded around until he was a little way in front of her feet.
“The sky is lovely this morning,” he said. “There are just enough fluffy white clouds up there to accentuate the blue.”
She opened her eyes and gazed upward. “Yes,” she agreed—and then realized where he was. She sank, came up sputtering, and wiped water from her eyes with both hands.
“I might have drowned!” she scolded. And then she lowered both hands, fixed him with a wide gaze of astonishment from her lovely violet eyes, and . . . smiled. A full, sunny smile that lit up her face and made her suddenly and radiantly pretty. “I did it, Kit. I floated alone.”
She came wading toward him and somehow—his mind did not follow the full sequence of events—her arms were twined tightly about his neck and his about her waist and he was twirling her in the water, taking them downward as he did so, and covering her mouth with his own just before they went right under.
Sounds were muted. Time was suspended. There was body heat and there was mouth heat and for the timeless moments while they were submerged there were triumph and exuberance and pride and even joy all mingled together with raw lust.
And then they broke above the surface and were drawing apart and she was herself again—and he was himself once more.
“Your first adventure, ma’am,” he said, deliberately careless laughter in his voice, “safely accomplished and duly rewarded.”
“ Scandalously rewarded,” she said, eyeing him warily. “But what could I expect from the infamous Viscount Ravensberg? It must be getting late.”
“Lord, yes,” he said. “And any or all of our relatives might be given the impression that you have been out enjoying the morning air with your betrothed. That would be shocking indeed.”
“I came to Alvesley to lend you countenance,” she reminded him, “not to embroil you in further scandal.”
He chuckled and pulled himself up onto the bank. He ran the few steps to the temple and came back with one towel wrapped about himself and the other in his hand. It was devilish cold out of the water.
“Take my hand.” He bent to haul her out.
She might as well have been wearing nothing at all. He was uncomfortably reminded of the nymphs on the frieze inside the folly—and of his reaction to them as a boy. Clothed, she was a beautiful lady. Wearing only a soaking wet shift, which clung to every slender curve, she was woman and wanton and siren—and eminently beddable. He tossed her the dry towel, stalked off to fetch his clothes from inside, and without a backward glance took them around into the trees in order to dress and leave her some privacy to do the same.
They were on their way back to the house ten minutes later, her horse ahead of his. Apart from the fact that her hair was damp and curlier than usual, she looked like the elegant ice maiden to whom he had grown accustomed. Her towel was rolled up in front of her sidesaddle. She had refused to give it to him, probably, he thought, trying not to dwell on the images that came to mind, because her wet shift was wrapped inside it. Which meant, of course, that she was wearing nothing beneath that very fetching riding habit.
It was all very well, he thought, to have agreed to give her a memorable summer and even a taste of passion. It was quite another thing to find himself with lascivious designs on a woman whose avowed ambition was to live an independent existence as a spinster. His mind needed some distraction.
“Did Lady Muir hurt herself recently?” he asked her. “Or is the limp habitual?”
“She was thrown from her horse,” she told him, “while she was married. Her leg was broken and apparently not set properly. She also suffered a miscarriage.”
“And widowhood not long after?” he asked. “She cannot be any older than you.”
“One year older,” she said. “Lord Muir died as the result of a horrible accident in their home. He fell over a balustrade into the hall below. She was with him at the time. As you may imagine, it took her a long, long while to recover—if she has fully recovered even now. It was a love match, you see.”