But with a few words and one awkward, innocent kiss, Charlotte Howard had devastated him.
It was clear that Charlotte had changed from the girl her parents, friends, and Radnor himself had known. She had become accustomed to living in the moment, with no thought given to the future. The knowledge that she was being hunted, that her days of precious freedom were limited, should have made her bitter and disillusioned. And yet she still threw pins into wishing wells. A wish. The flicker of hope that implied...it had struck at his soul, when he had believed he had no soul left.
He could not give her to Radnor.
He had to take her for himself.
His hand closed around the painted wood casement, gripping hard to assure his balance. Otherwise, he would have staggered from the violent surprise of his discovery.
"Sydney."
The sound of Lord Westcliff's voice startled him. Nick was not pleased to realize that he had been so absorbed in watching Charlotte that his customary alertness had vanished. Keeping his face blank, he turned toward the earl.
Westcliff's features seemed even more harshly cut and uncompromising than usual. His dark eyes contained a hard, cold gleam. "I see that you've taken notice of my mother's companion," he remarked softly. "An attractive girl, not to mention vulnerable. In the past, I have sometimes found it necessary to discourage a guest's interest in Miss Miller, as I would never allow any of my servants to be taken advantage of."
Nick returned Westcliff's steady regard, aware that he was being warned away from Charlotte. "Am I poaching on your preserve, my lord?"
The earl's eyes narrowed at the insolent question. "I have advanced my hospitality to you with very few conditions, Sydney. However, one of them is that you leave Miss Miller alone. That is not open for negotiation."
"I see." Suspicion ignited inside him. Had Charlotte confided in her employer? He had not thought that she would trust anyone, even a man as honorable as Westcliff. However, if she had taken that chance, then the earl would undoubtedly offer strong opposition to her being removed from Stony Cross Park. It was also possible that Charlotte had earned his protection by sleeping with him.
The thought of Charlotte naked in another man's arms brought an acid taste to Nick's mouth, and he was suddenly filled with bloodlust.It must be jealousy , he thought incredulously. Christ.
"I'll leave the choice to Miss Miller," Nick said flatly. "If she desires my presence-or absence-I will abide byher preference. Not yours."
Nick saw from the warning gleam in Westcliff's eyes that the earl did not trust him.
The man had good instincts.
CHAPTER 4
The English celebration of May Day varied from village to village. It had been derived from an ancient Roman festival honoring the goddess of springtime, and over time each region had added its own customs in addition to the standard Maypole dance and a-maying songs. Nick had vague childhood memories of the May celebrations in Worcestershire, especially the man dressed as "Jack-in-the Green," who cavorted through the village completely covered in fresh greenery. As a small child, Nick had been terrified by the sight of the plant-festooned man and had hidden behind his older sister Sophia's skirts until he had gone away.
It had been a long time since Nick had seen a May Day celebration of any kind. Now, from his adult perspective, the sexual connotations of the holiday were more than obvious...villagers dancing with the phallic staffs, the May King and Queen going from door to door and sprinkling "wild water" on the household inhabitants...the streets adorned with hoop-shaped garlands featuring pairs of marigold balls hanging in the centers.
Nick stood on a hill near the manor house with a crowd of other guests, watching the riotous dancing in the center of the village. Hundreds of lamps and blazing torches lit the streets with a golden glow. A cacophony of laughter, music, and singing filled the air as women took their turns at the towering Maypole. Blasts from hunting horns frequently punctuated the din. Young men danced with ropes woven of tail hair from cattle, which would later be dragged through the night dew to ensure a good milk supply for the next year.
"I expect good hunting tonight," came a masculine voice from nearby. The speaker was Viscount Stepney, a brawny young man with a well-known penchant for skirt-chasing. His companions, the lords Woodsome and Kendal, broke into lusty laughter. Seeing Nick's questioning gaze, Stepney explained with a chortle. "The village girls will go a-maying until morning. Catch one of them in the woods, and she'll let you do anything you want. Even the married ones do it-they're allowed to remove their wedding rings for this one night."
"And their husbands don't object?" Nick asked.
That question made the lords laugh in unison. "Why no," Stepney explained, "they are too busy chasing fresh young tails themselves to give a damn about what their wives are doing. A pleasant holiday, is it not?"
Nick smiled slightly, making no reply. Clearly Stepney and his companions considered it great sport to spend ten minutes coupling with peasant girls in the woods. "A poke and a wiggle," as Gemma Bradshaw had dryly described the lovemaking style of most of the men who frequented her establishment. They had no conception of real sexuality, no requirement of a woman save that she spread her legs. Obviously a quick mating between strangers afforded a certain kind of release. But that was too simple, and too easy, to satisfy Nick. Thanks to Gemma's tutoring, he had developed a complex palate.
The image of Charlotte's face, her dark eyes and pointed chin and sweet mouth, hovered at the back of his mind. Let Stepney and his friends go in search of a quick tail-tickle. Nick had far more interesting prospects.
"Come, Sydney," the viscount urged. "The village girls will become available immediately after the betrothed of May is chosen." Seeing Nick's unfamiliarity with the phrase, he explained, "A lad of marriageable age lies on the green and pretends to sleep. The girls who are willing to marry him race to be the first to awaken him. The first one to kiss him will be able to claim him as her betrothed." He smiled lecherously and rubbed his hands. "And the other girls-all in need of consolation-scatter into the forest, waiting to be caught by enterprising fellows such as myself. You should have seen the one I captured last year-black hair and red lips-ah, what a fine little mount she was. Come, Sydney-if you're fleet-footed, you'll catch one for yourself."
Nick was about to refuse when his gaze was caught by a new cluster of girls grasping the Maypole ribbons. One of them seized his full attention. Like the others, she wore a white peasant dress, her hair covered by a red cloth. At this distance her features were difficult to discern, but Nick recognized her at once. A rueful smile curved his lips as he recalled Charlotte's saying that she intended to stay in her room with a book that night. No doubt the Westcliffs would disapprove of her attending the village festival, and so she had chosen to go in disguise. Fascination and desire swirled inside him as his gaze tracked Charlotte's slim figure. She wound in and out of the Maypole circle, her hands flung exuberantly high over her head.
"I believe I will join you," Nick murmured, accompanying the eager rakes down the hill.
Laughing recklessly, Lottie joined the mass of maidens who waited in tense readiness to race to the village green. From what she had been able to deduce, the betrothed of May was an exceptional catch this year-the butcher's son, a handsome blond lad with blue eyes and a fine physique, and a guarantee of inheriting a profitable family business. Of course Lottie had no intention of trying to reach him. However, it was fun to join in the game, and she was entertained by the excitement of the girls around her. The signal was given, and Lottie was carried along with the village girls in a frantic rush. The wildness and noise was such a contrast to her quiet existence at Stony Cross Park that she felt a jolt of exhilaration. She had spent so many years learning proper comportment at Maidstone's, and struggling to remain inconspicuous as a companion to Lady Westcliff, that she couldn't remember the last time she had raised her voice. Caught up in the moment, she howled with laughter and screamed as loudly as the determined brides-to-be around her as the group swarmed over the green. From somewhere ahead, a jubilant cry rang over the crowd. The victor, a robust red-haired girl, clambered onto her new fiance's broad shoulders, exultantly waving a bouquet of wildflowers. "I did it!" she crowed. "I got 'im, 'e's mine!"