The footman flirted with her. The guy couldn’t be a day over eighteen and might even be jailbait. But Chloe didn’t want to waste a minute, no matter how flattering the situation.
Finally he slid her muddied pink ballroom slipper into the stirrup.
Shaking, Chloe hoisted her gown up to her knees and flashed her silk stockings at the footman as she swung her leg over the horse.
The cameraman came closer to her, and she knew she was breaking every rule in the book by riding western style in her ball gown, but—Mrs. Crescent was having her baby! Her gown had ripped, but she clenched the reins and squinted, barely able to make out the torchlights in front of Bridesbridge. She brought the horse to a gallop as she hunched down low, near the horse’s warm neck.
The horse seemed to go nowhere, like in a nightmare in which you’re running and running but not moving at all. She had to get to Mrs. Crescent. She had to! Her hands sweated in her dance gloves and her calves cramped up as they squeezed the horse’s sides.
The moonlight cast an eerie glow on the muddied road, and the dark trees seemed foreboding. When she finally arrived, she patted the horse on the neck with her quivering hand. Her reticule and fan, intact, swung from her wrist.
“You did it, boy. Good job. Good job.” There was no footman, nobody at Bridesbridge, so she tied the horse to a tree.
Her hair and ribbons had tumbled to her shoulders and she wiped sweat from the back of her neck as she took the steps at Bridesbridge Place two at a time. Even the night watchman was missing in action.
A single candelabrum, with stubs for candles, burned in the dark foyer. How was that for a fire hazard? Did the place even have smoke alarms? Why didn’t Chloe see these hazards before?
She scampered out of her totally ruined slippers, chucked them under the neoclassical credenza in the foyer, and grabbed the candelabrum. She slid a hand along the mahogany railing, padded up the staircase, and stopped at the landing, where, if it weren’t dark as hell, she could see the lineup of casement windows.
Okay, so if Mrs. Crescent was giving birth, why was it so quiet and dark?
The soles of her feet flattened against the warm Oriental carpet at the top of the stairs. She felt her way to Mrs. Crescent’s door and opened it a crack. A flicker of candlelight leaked out and spilled onto the threshold.
“Mrs. Crescent?” Chloe knocked on the doorjamb.
“Come in.”
Chloe nudged the door open with her hip. Mrs. Crescent, propped up with plum-colored pillows in her great sleigh bed, dropped her nineteenth-century newspaper on her nightgowned belly like a tent. The headline read: HUNDREDS OF BRITISH SOLDIERS FALL IN FRANCE.” She wiggled her bare toes. “Can the ball be over already?”
Panic seared through Chloe. She thought about Fiona, in her gold gown and white plume as she urged Chloe to leave. “You’re not—having the baby?”
Mrs. Crescent was petting Fifi, scrunched on the edge of the bed. “Oh, I’m having the baby all right. Just not right now, dear.”
Fiona had lied to her.
Chloe steadied herself with a hand on the Chippendale bookcase, sending her reticule and fan swinging. But why? Was she after Sebastian?
“Did you know that Lady Grace finished her fireplace screen? You’ll have stockings to mend tomorrow. And how did you rip your gown?”
Chloe fingered the rip in her dress, took a step back into the dark hallway, and creaked the door closed.
“Miss Parker?” Mrs. Crescent struggled to sit up in her bed. Her voice sounded muffled, as if Chloe were hearing her from deep underwater. Her reticule and fan slid off her wrist to the floorboards. She swooped up both, grabbed her walking boots from her room, yanked them on, and headed for the front doors, where she swapped the candelabrum for an oil lantern abandoned by the night watchman.
“Miss Parker! Chloe!” Mrs. Crescent called after her.
Chloe finally stopped running when she felt the ground under her rise up in a mound. Then wham—she stubbed her toe on what felt like a huge rock.
“Ouch! Damn flimsy boots!” She dangled the lantern at a brick chimney capped with a wooden hatch door protruded out of the ground in front of her. Last week she might’ve thought the chimney was part of a picturesque little summer home with an earthen roof, but now she figured it was probably a smokehouse. Pig carcasses hanging from meat hooks flashed through her brain.
Flat-footing her way down the slippery side of the earth mound, she breathed deep and held back the tears. She should’ve known that Fiona was conspiring against her. That line about her fiancé being on military duty was, no doubt, a lie. Her pelisse trailed in the mud behind her while the moonlight sparkled kaleidoscope-like in her teary eyes. Fiona couldn’t win any of the money, though. Only the contestants could. What would Chloe do without that cash infusion? She and Mrs. Crescent needed that money more than anyone. And just because Fiona was after Sebastian didn’t mean the feelings were reciprocated.
Down at the bottom of the mound, wooden double doors stood tucked into the earth, each with great iron hinges pointy as daggers. She pressed up against the doors and buried her face in her arm. The wood felt cool against her shaky hands.
Back home it was seven hours earlier, and it was the Fourth of July. Abigail would be in the bicycle parade and everybody was playing badminton and croquet and packing the lemonade and buttermilk-fried chicken in picnic baskets for the fireworks. Here—there were no fireworks to speak of. Not even a spark.
Something crunched on the forest floor behind her.
“Miss Parker, is that you?”
The lantern almost slipped from her hand. Henry swooped down from his horse as if out of nowhere. “I didn’t mean to startle you. What are you doing here?”
“That’s a very good question. Good question!” She sniffled. “I suppose I might ask you what you’re doing here! Anytime I’m where I shouldn’t be, you show up.”
He smiled. “The footman at Dartworth informed me you’d taken one of my horses to Bridesbridge. When I got to Bridesbridge, Mrs. Crescent told me you thought she was having her baby, and stormed out. I saw the lantern light from the road.”
He guided her over to an old tree stump and she sat down, unable to talk. In the flickering light of the two lanterns, he looked concerned. Worried, even. “Are you quite all right?”
“Not really.” Chloe looked down at her ripped gown, collapsed in the middle like a popover that didn’t pop. The tips of her boots pointed in at each other. She clasped her hands between her knees and squeezed her fingers against her knuckles as if that would stop the tears. She and Henry shouldn’t be here together unchaperoned in the dark, but nobody else seemed to be playing by the rules, why should she?
“Well, for one thing, I’m a little homesick. Today is—” She bit her lip and looked up at the stars. Red, white, and blue stars.
“Your Independence Day.”
Another chunk of hair fell from her updo. “Ha! My Independence Day. Hardly.” A white star shone brighter than the rest. “I hardly feel independent.”
Henry gathered stones into a circle and marked the beginnings of a fire. “I disagree.”
“Please.” Chloe stood up and picked up sticks for the fire. “I’m in a gown I didn’t even put on myself, chasing around some guy I thought I knew, thinking he’s going to be my happy ending and solve all my problems. When am I going to learn?” She tossed the sticks into the stone circle.
He lit a fallen branch with the flame from Chloe’s lantern. The dry branch sputtered and sparked. “I think you’re quite independent. Here you are halfway around the world. On your own. In another culture—and navigating another time really.” With the flame on the stick, he lit the fire in the stone circle and flames danced up all at once. “All this during a national holiday that marks your country’s break from ours. It’s got to be difficult.”
“It’s not difficult.” She poked at the fire with a stick. The aroma of a campfire brought back memories of all those summers at camp out on the East Coast. She lifted her stick from the fire and watched a flame flicker around the end of it. “I never liked hot dogs. Or baseball. I liked my grandmother’s crumpets. She was from England, you know. I liked the song ‘God Save the Queen.’ As for fireworks—well—”
Henry tossed a small log into the fire and it crackled and snapped.
“I love them. You can never have enough fireworks.”
“It must be a little conflicting to be an American and an Anglophile all at the same time. Is that why you’re here at the ice-house at this hour?”
Chloe’s legs turned to white soup. She stood up and leaned against the wooden doors of what she thought was a smokehouse. “Ice-house?”
Henry kicked mud on the fire to put it out. “Yes. Whatever are you doing here? I didn’t even get a chance to dance with you.”
The fire dwindled under clumps of mud. Chloe looked behind her at the hinged wooden doors. Her torn ball gown and muddied boots flashed in the last flickers of firelight. Sebastian might show up any minute. “This is the ice-house?”
“Yes. Yes. Now, why not go back to the ball?”
Chloe stepped back from the wooden doors and picked up her lantern. Limestone blocks surrounded the wooden doors.
She caught her breath. “I thought this was a smokehouse.”
Henry lifted his lantern and splashed the ice-house doors with light. The doors shone a lacquered red that Chloe hadn’t noticed until now. He pulled a ring of keys from his coat pocket, unlocked the doors, kicked them open, and a wave of cool, earthy air spilled out and over Chloe. What was he doing with the ice-house keys, anyway?
“Come and see,” Henry said, his voice echoing.
She looked over her shoulder into the forest, but Henry’s words lured her in.
“Look, they built the inside with laced brickwork more than a foot thick.” He held the lantern up to the ceiling and Chloe could suddenly see him, years from now, decades even. He’d point out things like the friezes at the Parthenon or baguettes in a Parisian bakery window to his wife, somewhere in the fuzzy future.
As Chloe ventured into the domed, beehivelike cove, the sad smell of melting snow enveloped her.
Henry tipped his lantern toward great, huge blocks of ice covered in straw. A trickle of water went down a drain somewhere within. The cool floor penetrated her calfskin boots and her legs grew cold.
Henry nudged the wooden doors nearly closed. “You would think they’d have used the ice-house to keep their meat and fish, but they didn’t. They would cut ice from the ponds in the winter, cover it in straw, and then use it to make ice creams, cool drinks, and syllabubs during the summer. If a house could offer such luxuries during the summer, it raised the owner’s social status—”
And this little history lesson would’ve been interesting if Chloe weren’t wondering when Sebastian would show up. She pushed the wooden doors back open and Henry dropped his arm, his lantern falling to his side.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry to bore you—”
“No—no—you’re not boring me. Not at all! It’s just—”
“Allow me to escort you back to Bridesbridge.” He held the doors open for her, then locked them behind her and slipped the keys back in his greatcoat pocket. He untied his horse and walked him over to her. “Let me help you up on the horse.” He bent down and laced his fingers together, offering her a step up. The horse bent his head down, and his mane flopped into his eyes, as if he, too, agreed she should go back.
But Chloe didn’t step up. “No! I mean—no, thank you.” She curled her fingers around the lantern handle.
She thought she heard the sound of hooves in the distance. The fire barely glowed now. Henry bent to pick up his lantern and held it up to the dark forest. He heard a horse, too. He mounted his horse and looked down on Chloe. “You’re meeting Sebastian here, aren’t you?”
A breeze rippled around her. She looked into the orange-and-black embers of the fire. She had to think of Abigail and William.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
The hooves sounded close now. A lantern bounced behind the trees.
Henry yanked the reins on his horse, turned him, and looked back over his shoulder, bowing his head, his eyes looking past her, at the ice-house. “I bid you farewell.”
She licked her lips to speak, but his horse spun, its tail swished as if Chloe were a fly that needed brushing away, and the horse carved up clods of mud as he galloped off. Henry was gone—poof—into the blue moonlit darkness.
Much as she wanted Henry, she couldn’t have him! She was meant to have Sebastian.
She pressed her back against the cool wooden ice-house doors and goose bumps raced up and down her arms. In one fell swoop, Sebastian entered her circle of flickering lantern light, dismounted, tied up his horse, approached her fast and sure. He cupped her face in his warm hands, but she turned away.
“What is it?”
It was only everything. But she did have something to hang her bonnet on. “It’s Fiona. Is there something going on between you and Fiona?”
Sebastian laughed. “She’s only a kid. I think she has a little crush on me. I just danced with her. That’s all.”
“That’s not all.”
“So I flirt with her a little bit every now and then. I could say the same—or more—about you and Henry.”
Touché. She didn’t want to blow this chance with him, and a squiggly smile skirted across her lips.
“I’m so glad you joined me here.” He kissed her, and kept one hand on her neck while another hand expertly reached down—into his pocket for keys.
His mouth tasted like hard liquor. A flickering of tongue, a clinking of keys, and she practically fell backward into the ice-house. Her reticule and fan fell to the brick floor.
He ringed her waist, steadied her, and set her down so gently, so gallantly—on an ice block covered in straw. A chill penetrated her thin silk pelisse and gown and her butt went numb.
“This is so hot,” Sebastian whispered into her ear as he dug in his pocket for something. “Isn’t this hot?”
Chloe nodded, feeling rather chilled. How naive of her to think he would propose. She looked up at the laced brickwork, remembering Henry’s strong fingers laced together. Mostly she remembered the look on his face when he realized she wouldn’t be going back to the ball with him. She winced.
Sebastian’s fingers glided down her stocking and he slid her gown up to her thighs. And it would’ve been hot if it weren’t so damn cold! His other hand slipped out of his pocket, and in the faint lantern light, Chloe caught a glint of silver, heard a click, and a knife blade flashed dreadfully near her neck.
She sprang up and catapulted toward the doors. He beat her to them, barricading them with his wide shoulders.
She froze. She already was frozen, but she froze some more.
He smiled. “It’s just my penknife.” He held the knife in the palm of his hand and it did look small, now.
Chloe stepped back until her calves hit the block of ice. She grabbed her elbows, pulling her pelisse in around her.
“Relax.” He spoke and his voice was as soothing as cough drops. “I have a great idea. You’re going to love it.”
She leaned on the ice block, clenched her fists, and wondered how far this would go. No matter how attractive Sebastian was, and how he held everything she wanted and needed in the palm of his hand, she felt as if she were forcing herself. Danger, too, rippled through the air.
Sebastian edged in next to her and massaged her neck with one hand. She had to admit, it felt good. He chipped off a piece of ice with the knife in his other hand. He flung the knife to the door, where it stuck like a dart.
“Bull’s-eye!” He looked at her with smiling dark eyes and she could see the little boy in him. Playful, but playing with things he shouldn’t have been, like knives.
“Now, where were we?” He turned her face toward him with a brush of his finger along her cheek. The piece of ice dripped in his hand.
What was she so afraid of?
He traced her jawline down to her neck with the ice. He licked his lower lip, glided the ice along the crescent moons of her breasts, which peered out from her bodice. Her nipples hardened and she began to grow warm.
He kissed away the melted ice in her cleavage. He slipped off her pelisse. Puh-lease. He was smooth, she had to grant him that.
She melted. She combed his tussled hair with her fingers. With every lick of his lips, her breath grew shorter, shallower.
He was adept at unbuttoning her gown, unlacing her stays.
She untied his cravat, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and feverishly untied his breeches.
The drop-front pants took her by surprise. She didn’t realize Regency men didn’t wear underwear.
She was horizontal on the ice block. Drip, drip, drip . . . the melting ice trickled down a drain somewhere in the darkness.
Her shoulder blades stung from the ice. She propped herself up on her elbows.
“Wait a minute.” She pressed her hands into his muslin shirt and felt the throbbing of his heart, or at least the bulging of his pecs.
“I have protection,” he said.
“I hope it’s not made of sheep’s gut.”
He looked confused. Very confused.
“You knew Regency condoms were made out of sheep gut or fish membrane, didn’t you?”
He shook his head. “No. I really don’t care—” He slid her gown higher up.
The bricks. The straw. The ice! What kind of a sadist would’ve picked a place like this for a tryst, anyway?
“This just isn’t right. I can’t do this. A Regency lady would never find herself in this position.” She looked him straight in the eye.
His hands gave up on her back laces and he looked hurt. “What position?”
“The horizontal one.” She pulled herself up to sitting and straightened her stays. “In an ice-house. Like a common trollop.”
He tenderly leaned over and devoured her with a kiss that could make a trollop forget everything—almost everything.
He whispered just under her earlobe. “You’re so excited you’ve got gooseflesh.”
“They’re goose bumps. And I’ve got them because I’m freezing. Now stop!” She pressed her hands against his shoulders and stood up. The laced brickwork closed in on her. It smelled like dank dog. “This is not how it’s supposed to go.” She picked up the lantern.
He yanked his shirt down over his rapidly shrinking shaft. Still, he managed to look somehow manly in his long white shirt, bare legs, and riding boots. “How what’s supposed to go?”
“You. This. Everything.” She thrust her arm up at the arched brick ceiling and paced the cold brick floor in her boots. She felt her torn gown billow behind her; the lantern swung and tossed light randomly around the dark brick like broken glass.
“Wait!” he said just as she aimed for the doors.
He was down on bended bare knee, his shirt, and everything else—dangling. He stretched out a hand toward her.
She stopped, set the lantern down, took his hand, and put her other hand on her hip. “This better be good.”
He kissed her hand as if it were about to disappear forever and looked up at her.
Something as warm as oil burning in a lantern came over her.
“Miss Parker, will you marry me?”
“What?” She laughed and one of the ice-house doors swung open with a breeze, sending in a pool of moonlight.
“Don’t laugh.”
She bit her lip.
He pulled her closer, taking both of her hands. “I do believe I’ve fallen in love with you. I don’t know why I haven’t asked you sooner. Will you marry me? It’ll be the perfect ending. The perfect television ending to our real-life beginning.”
A white gown, flashbulbs flashing, and a carriage festooned with white flowers paraded around in her brain. Did the Regency Anglican church allow divorced mothers to wear white?
He pulled her closer, leaned his head in toward her hips, and wrapped his arms around the small of her back. “You don’t have to answer right away. Just let me know you’ll think about it.”
“I will. Think about it.” She thought about Abigail, the money, her business, William.
His knee must’ve been frozen.
He kissed her hip bone, moving slowly across her pelvis, where she felt the warmth of his lips through her crepe-thin gown to the other hip bone, and a tingling like she hadn’t felt in years sparked all over her. She lifted off his shirt and laid it on the ice block where he flopped down. He pulled her on top of him.
“Say yes,” he murmured as his fingers worked the buttons on the back of her gown. “Say yes.”
She closed her eyes. She’d gone from something close to a governess to a temptress in a moment’s time, and he’d taken her there. “Yes.” She closed her eyes and kissed him with hungry lips and tongue. “Yes!”
And she would’ve said yes again, but he ripped her bodice open and a lantern appeared at the ice-house doors.
She almost fell off him. What if it was Henry?!
“Excuse me, sir—Mr. Wrightman!” Thank God it was just Sebastian’s footman who shone the lantern on them. Sebastian palmed her breasts to cover them as the lantern light swung away.
“Oh—so sorry—ehm—sir.”
“That will be all, Smith. Thank you.”
Henry called all his servants “Mr.” or “Miss” and then their surname.
“It’s Mrs. Crescent, sir.” Mr. Smith turned around and spoke toward the forest.
Chloe tucked her breasts back into her torn bodice, buttoned up her pelisse, and swung her leg off Sebastian for the dismount.
“She’s having her baby, sir,” Mr. Smith said.
Chloe turned toward the footman. The shadow of his ponytail and wig appeared in the moonlight at the door.
Sebastian propped himself up on his elbow and grabbed Chloe with his other hand just as she moved toward the doors. “This is of no concern to me. Now be gone.”
“Yes, sir.” The footman bowed his head and closed the ice-house doors.
“Mr. Smith! Wait!” Chloe smoothed down her pelisse and tossed Sebastian’s breeches over his midsection. “Is it true? Is she really having the baby right now?” She tugged a boot on.
“Yes.” Mr. Smith looked away, into the moonlight, confused about the question. “Of course. I heard her myself from downstairs. She sounds in terrible pain.”
Chloe lunged toward the door, but Sebastian grabbed her arm and snapped her back.
“Ouch!” Her arm smarted.