For the Love of Lila Read online

  “My father called Felicity a ‘free thinker.’“ She neglected to mention that Sir Francis had nothing further to say about his niece, even when questioned. He had never quite shared Lila’s endorsement of women’s freedom, as he’d made apparent in leaving her a trust rather than a clear inheritance.

  Mr. Wyndam smiled, guiding the horses around a bend in the road. “Well, if Sir Francis described your cousin so, I look forward to meeting her. I think, however, that we may want to avoid telling her we traveled to France alone together. I doubt she is so progressive that she won’t object to such an unusual arrangement.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” she murmured. She didn’t like deception, but that blasted knot kept curling inside her stomach. She did wish she knew her cousin better. Felicity had always been a lively, amiable girl, but she was six years Lila’s elder, a difference that had seemed great in their youth. The whole truth was that they had not corresponded since Felicity left home, nearly a decade ago. If Mr. Wyndam had known this particular, he never would have agreed to take her to Paris.

  She looked at his profile, hoping she could conceal the details from him for the remainder of their trip.

  “What is it, Miss Covington?” he asked, glancing her way until one of the horses drew his attention with a neigh. When the horse made no further noise, he asked, “Are you concerned about how your cousin will receive you?”

  “Hardly,” she said quickly, making an effort to smile. She looked ahead to where the rising sun radiated pink streaks into the sky. “What a lovely day we have for traveling. How far do you suppose we’ll get today?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tristan sat on the grass opposite of Miss Covington, staring as she nibbled on a chicken wing. She had kept her boy’s cap on, hair pinned beneath it, presumably in case a stranger should happen upon their picnic. He could only hope the precaution would not be tested, as every movement she made proclaimed her gender.

  “I apologize for dozing through so much of the morning ride,” she said, glancing up from her food. Breech-covered legs tucked together and bent under her, she held the morsel between index finger and thumb, her pinky extended. “With all the anticipation of leaving, I got little rest last night. I am certain you could do with a nap as well. Would you like me to drive when we start up again?”

  “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.” He watched while she took a tiny bite, chewed mindfully and set down the wing, dabbing a napkin to the corners of her mouth. Thank God he had thought to have a hamper packed, so they didn’t have to dine in public view. But what would happen when they did?

  “Do you need more wine?” She lifted a bottle of claret, pausing with both hands around the neck—a grip no man would use.

  “Perhaps in a minute. First I’d like to discuss something with you.” He cleared his throat, uncertain how to broach the topic without putting her on the defensive. “I’ve no doubt you realize that your passing for a boy will not depend solely on your costume but on your manner as well. I wonder—if you’ll pardon my asking—exactly how familiar you are with the habits of young men. I know you were an only child. Perhaps you have not passed many hours in the company of lads?”

  Her eyebrows lifted, but she didn’t appear vexed with him. “Not as many as you have, I’m sure. I likely should have spent this meal rehearsing for the next one, but I confess I haven’t even been thinking about it. If you have suggestions to offer, I shall be happy to listen.”

  “Very well. First of all, when we eat in public, you may have to feign a certain voracity. I mean, a growing lad hardly has the appetite of a sparrow, does he? No offense to you, of course. Indeed, your table manners are all that is admirable—only...”

  She laughed. “Only not those of a lad. Don’t worry, I am not offended. I take it I didn’t attack my chicken wing vigorously enough for you.”

  “A bit more vigor would not go amiss,” he said, her mirth making him feel as though he were splitting hairs—but, no, this certainly was not a laughing matter. “May I suggest choosing a heftier piece of meat next time...and chomping down into it?”

  “Yes, I will chomp.” She nodded, her lips pursed together in a suppressed grin. Damn her for taking the situation so lightly! “What else? Don’t hesitate to tell me. I am sure I shall find this quite helpful.”

  He gave her a stern look, though he supposed dealing with her amusement was preferable to her anger. “Well, your style of sitting is rather...of course, we will be seated in chairs when we eat elsewhere, but you’ll want to keep your legs—”

  A choking sound in his throat shattered his austere countenance. He’d very nearly committed a dreadful gaffe! How could he tell her to keep her legs apart? Gazing down at the neglected drumstick in his hand, he mumbled, “You know. You will want to imitate the way a lad would sit.”

  “I understand, and I appreciate your advice. Is there more you can think of?”

  He looked back up and saw that she still held the wine. Recapturing his composure, he said, “One minor detail. When you hold a wine bottle, perhaps you might grab it around the body rather than the neck—and, preferably, with one hand. I know the grip may be difficult with your smaller hands, but the effect would be good.”

  She adapted her hold according to his instructions. “Is this better? Here, hand me your cup, and I shall practice pouring like a man.”

  After he had placed his cup beside hers on the ground, she held the bottle out, her slender fingers white with the pressure of grasping a vessel too thick for them. Suddenly, his attention veered—for as she leaned forward, her shirtfront gaped. He caught a glimpse of white bindings and peeping cleavage before he averted his gaze.

  “How was that? What—you aren’t watching me? And I didn’t even spill a drop!”

  “I saw.” He certainly had. Was he to warn her of that as well? No, impossible. He forced his gaze to meet hers. “A movement in the woods distracted me—a bird alighting in a tree. But I saw the grip you used. You did a fine job.”

  “Then why do you look so uneasy? I must have done more poorly than I thought.” She set down the bottle and stared at the remains of their picnic. “We still have a good deal of food here. Perhaps we should make our evening meal of leftovers. That will give me more time to practice being male before we dine in public.”

  He couldn’t have imagined a better plan. If only they could avoid being seen for the entire journey.

  “Please don’t look so grave.” She gave him a cajoling grin. “Now we won’t have to meet with anyone until we stop for the night. With any luck, the inn we choose will be very dark and the proprietor quite nearsighted.”

  Somehow, he managed a crooked smile. Indeed, part of him wished he could fall in with her playfulness. How pleasant it would be to face life with such a carefree attitude—until one’s reckless ways landed one in the soup, of course. He snorted. “Is there some way we can ensure that?”

  “No, but I can shrink behind you and leave all the talking to you. And right now we can make a toast to bring us luck on our journey.” She handed him his cup and lifted hers high. “To new vistas and untried territories.”

  “New vistas?” This would be his third trip to Paris in as many years. Then again, this journey would no doubt prove quite a new experience. He clinked his cup against hers and muttered, “Untried territories.”

  “If you change your mind about having me drive when we leave, let me know.” She sat back with her wine, stretching her legs out and crossing them at the ankles. “Is this sitting position suited to a lad?”

  He let his gaze skim up her lower limbs until he reached the rise of her thighs. Shifting his focus into his cup, he gulped a mouthful of claret. “Yes. And speaking of leaving, we had best not dally. The more miles we cover each day, the sooner we shall reach our destination.”

  “You are right, of course.” She glanced around the copse. “This grove is so lovely that I hate to go, but I know there will be plenty of French groves to charm us, perhaps even some with view
s of chateaux. I may be quicker to get up, Mr. Wyndam, if you assure me we shall picnic again before we reach Paris.”

  Eyeing her as she sipped the wine and darted her tongue over lips, he felt reluctant to make such a vow. Another secluded meal with her, this time in a romantic French setting, promised a second helping of lustful thoughts.

  “Naturally, I realize outside factors will come into play—the fairness of the weather and how well our journey progresses to that point.” She cast a bewitching smile over him. “But, if those matters prove favorable, you surely could not deny me this one pleasure.”

  No, nor an inexpressible array of others. Annoyed by his wayward mind, he twisted his mouth. “I believe you may safely wager I could not. Is that assurance enough to persuade you to move on now?”

  “I suppose it will have to do.” She took another sip of her claret.

  He swigged the remainder of his and began packing up the picnic fare. By the time she had finished her drink, he had the job completed. Another five minutes, and they set off on the road.

  Once the horses had settled into a trot, she reopened the subject of the French countryside. She had recently read an overview of the Loire Valley in a travel book and entertained him with enthusiastic accounts of the landscape, the architecture and the people.

  “I wish we were on a leisure tour,” she said, gazing off into a field of grazing cattle, “so we might visit some of the chateaux—even just one. If I had to choose, I would pick Chambord. Which would you choose, Mr. Wyndam?”

  He smiled to himself, guiding the gig around a bend in the country lane. Now that they were moving, his mood had improved, and she did a good job of shortening the miles with conversation. “I should like to see the cathedral at Chartres.”

  “Oh, yes. Chartres is not terribly far from Paris. Hmm.” She paused while they slowed for a pair of plump sheep lumbering across the lane some twenty yards ahead. “Perhaps we might stop at Chartres regardless. The excursion would not take us much out of our way.”

  His gaze shot to her eyes, two obsidians blinking at him with nonchalance. She was serious! “How can you even propose such an idea?”

  She blinked at him for a moment, then shrugged.

  He could almost envy her lack of worry, if it didn’t downright frighten him. He paused for a deep breath and said, “How, indeed, can you be so calm about this journey? We have not undertaken a leisure tour, Miss Covington, but a treacherous ruse. Why would you want to prolong the danger—to delay the hour when you are safely delivered to your cousin’s?”

  She looked down, and for an instant he had the impression she was hiding something. Turning to gaze out at the passing wayside, she said, “I supposed I got carried away with all of our talk about medieval architecture. One doesn’t like to pass up a chance to see a structure so grand as Chartres, fearing that perhaps the opportunity will not arise again.”

  He supposed her explanation seemed feasible—though scarcely prudent. “What I fear is that my father’s business associates await me in Paris as we speak.”

  “Of course. I was daft to suggest lengthening our trip.” She peeked at him from the corner of her eye. “Naturally you want to be prompt for your business dealings.”

  He nodded. “Especially since I am conducting the proceedings on my father’s behalf. I shouldn’t like to chance his hearing that I let his French associates cool their heels while I traipsed around the countryside. He thinks me quite frivolous enough already.”

  “You frivolous?” Her eyes grew even rounder than usual, then narrowed. “Ah, I wager it is your liberal views that he finds impractical. You implied before that you try to conceal your opinions from him.”

  He started at her observation, then recalled the half-joking comment he had made during their first meeting. The revelation had been careless, but he supposed at this point she and he shared so many secrets that one more confidence didn’t make a difference. “My father is a viscount and quite a prominent figure in Derbyshire. He could do my political career considerable damage. Or good, depending on his whim.”

  “Surely your own father would not—but what am I saying? Papa didn’t support my aspirations, either. And look how he has thwarted me by tying up my inheritance in a trust.” She sighed. “What are the viscount’s politics?”

  He met her gaze again and found her watching attentively. How strange to field political questions from a woman, especially a woman showing real interest. She was a remarkable one, no question. “I fear his lordship’s ideology is not so carefully constructed as your father’s was. The viscount is pleased with his social position and prefers to retain it. The social changes in America and France are a great source of disquiet to him.”

  “Then he is not in accord with your desires for reform.” She looked out at the fields again, tapping a finger on her chin.

  He shifted his focus back to the lane. “No, which is why I try to limit the ideas I share with him. Father sees any breach of convention as a threat to undermine society.”

  “Any breach?” Her tone had gone quiet. “For example, an unrelated man and woman traveling abroad together?”

  He didn’t know what to say.

  “That was a silly question,” she answered herself. “Your father must be part of the reason you are so concerned that no one finds out about our traveling together.”

  “He would not look kindly upon the scheme,” he admitted, “and with my meeting contacts of his in Paris...”

  “I understand. How ironic that we have more reason to fear for your reputation than mine. I promise I shall take extra care not to be discovered.”

  He still thought she ought to worry about her own reputation as well, but he would accept her vow to be careful in any form she offered it.

  “Thank you, Miss Covington.”

  “‘Tis the least I can do.”

  As they continued traveling, she turned the conversation back to France, this time centering on the cuisine.

  The ride progressed smoothly until sundown, when thick gray clouds began to gather and a breeze whisked up. Tristan eyed the darkening horizon with a frown, not looking forward to the charade they would need to enact when they stopped at an inn. Miss Covington agreed to eating dinner while they drove in order to make up time they might later lose to rain. While they ate, they watched for a place to lodge.

  “I see an inn up ahead,” she said as he tossed away the core of the last apple. The wind gusted, and she held onto her cap, studying the building they approached. “It has a thatched roof! How quaint.”

  “The establishment is rather small,” he said, unmoved by the roof. “This inn cannot have many apartments, and there are quite a few carriages outside. I fear we shall have to look farther.”

  “Surely, we should at least inquire.” She glanced up at the sky. A droplet of rain splattered on the tip of her nose, and she blotted it dry. “The rain has started.”

  He felt a drop on his hand, then another on his cheek, and looked at the inn without relish.

  Suddenly a cracking sound ripped under the carriage, and the vehicle lurched. He yanked at the reins, thrusting his free arm out to steady Miss Covington. The horses halted, and he looked to ensure she had escaped injury. Only then did he realize his hand was splayed across her chest, yielding and warm even through her bindings. He snatched his arm back, mortified.

  “Sounded like a broken axle,” she said, facing downward as she tucked her shirt more tightly into her breeches. “I hope the inn has chambers available.”

  Raindrops, growing larger and more frequent, splashed on his face and forearms. “Are you all right?”

  “Quite.” She stood and straightened her cap, at last meeting his gaze. Her expression was blank—rather too blank, and that was his only clue that she was as embarrassed as he. “We had best go in directly.”

  “I didn’t mean to—” He tried to frame an apology but couldn’t do so without making an improper reference. Hoping he hadn’t hurt her and praying she didn’t s
uspect him of purposely taking advantage, he opted to feign ignorance of his offense. As they watched a groom emerge from the stables and sprint toward them, he stood and whispered, “Now, remember that you are male. We agreed that I should do most of the talking, right?”

  “Right-o.” A quiver in her voice belied the aplomb of her answer.

  The stablehand, a boy of about fifteen, introduced himself as son of the proprietor. His open manner contrasted with his seemingly mysterious dark eyes and gypsy-like features. He assured them the axle could be repaired on site and that the inn still had vacancies.

  “Need help wit’ the guv’nor’s things?” he asked Miss Covington, clearly taking her for a servant.

  Her eyes widened, but she recovered herself quickly. “No, thank you,” she said in a gruff tone, her cultivated accent pealing through like a church bell.

  “Is it safe to leave most of our belongings in the carriage?” Tristan asked to distract the young man. “We have nothing very valuable with us.”

  “Not to worry, sir.” His gaze hung with Miss Covington for a second before moving to Tristan. “We always have a hand on guard in the stables. And we can put that lame axle to rights fer you as well. I daresay we’ll have ‘er fixed fer the morrow. Why don’t you move on inside? I’ll round up some hands to move yer gig and tend yer horses.”

  “I would appreciate that.” Tristan reached in his pocket and found compensation for the boy’s efforts. As the lad thanked him and ran off, he opened the door to the barouche and pulled out his valise. Trying not to indulge his anxiety about the scene to come, he asked over his shoulder, “Which of these will you need tonight, Miss Covington? I suggest we leave all that is not absolutely necessary behind.”

  She nodded and pointed to the smaller of her portmanteaux. “Only that one, please.”

  He retrieved the case and handed it to her, glad it was light enough for her to handle with ease. “You had best take this inside yourself. It will look odd if I carry everything.”