Super Summer Set of Historical Shorts Read online

  More guests for the Viscount and Viscountess Wimpletons’ week-long house party.

  An almost intractable, child-like frown pulled her brows together and turned her mouth downward.

  Why did the Wimpletons have to be such gracious hosts and all-around nice people? Favorites amongst the upper echelons, to be sure.

  Three dust-coated carriages rumbled to a stop, and half a dozen maroon-and-black liveried footman rushed down the stairs to assist with the passengers’ luggage.

  Over sixty of Society’s finest had descended on Davenswood Court already, and the party didn’t officially commence until tomorrow and then concluded with a grand ball.

  A masque ball, at that.

  Such a wonderful, if somewhat small, reprieve.

  A strip of satin across Shona’s eyes would allay her discomfiture a touch, and was a trifle better than hovering in an alcove or hiding behind potted plants and vast columns. Or the humiliating awkwardness of sitting—overlooked and disregarded—with the other wallflowers and spinsterish misses. False smiles dredged from their pitiful reserve of pride couldn’t conceal the hope warring with disappointment in their half-lowered gazes.

  Despite a masque’s welcome anonymity, she awaited the dance with the same enthusiasm as she might anticipate having a molar extracted or a carbuncle lanced. Not, mind you, that she’d ever experienced either. But Mama had, and she’d been a veritable bear for days before and afterward.

  Mama is a crotchety, unreasonable, demanding bear all of the time.

  Over one hundred guests, plus their servants, were expected, according to the maid helping Shona dress this morning.

  For a week.

  A whole, unbearably long, uncomfortable, angst-ridden, sure-to-make-a-cake-of-herself week. With the haut ton’s elite members milling about, constantly underfoot, noting every little faux pas or gaffe. And likely not another peaceful, relaxed moment to herself until she reached Wedderford Abbey.

  Depending on how many guests did, indeed, accept the invitation to the Wimpletons’ much-coveted annual summer event, Shona might very well be obligated to share her assigned room with a stranger.

  God help her if she found herself saddled with a chit of Miss Rossington’s petulant ilk.

  What a perfectly horrid notion.

  Perhaps she could feign an illness?

  No need to pretend. Shona swallowed the dread-induced queasiness throttling to her throat.

  Why did she have to be such a coward?

  Nae, not a coward.

  Just wretchedly cow-handed and fearful of making social blunders. Which she did with astonishing regularity and generally humiliating results.

  Chagrin-born flames licked her face.

  Perfect.

  Now her round cheeks even more resembled two ripe, riddy apples.

  Stepping through the doorway, mindful to remain within the building’s shade lest the sun reach her easily-freckled skin, she worried her lower lip. How she wished to escape to the lake for the rest of the afternoon.

  Probably some social rule against unaccompanied, unmarried females wandering the estate. Until such a female was soundly on the shelf, and then the restrictions were eased a smidge.

  Not enough to suit her, by thunder and turf.

  Most people thought her an insipid milk-and-water miss, which wasn’t accurate in the least. But neither was she a piss-and-vinegar chit either. She actually possessed a rather vibrant spirit—a verve she studiously kept subdued beneath her bashful mannerisms. But nothing so forward or unacceptable as actual brazenness, or—

  What was that colorful expression she’d overheard the stable hand mutter last week? Nose scrunched, she shut her eyes.

  Ah, that was it.

  The cheeky boldness of a bloke with bull-sized ballocks.

  Oh, to be able to claim the merest jot of such incontestable confidence. Not the ballocks part, of course. Just the boldness.

  Years of maternal abuse had turned Shona into a timorous mouse of a thing, and she hated it. Loathed being a dowdy, bashful, gaffe-prone wallflower. Just once, she’d like to hold her head high, poised and self-assured.

  Once, dare something a trifle wicked or wanton.

  Or both.

  Her nape hairs prickled a warning, and she darted an uneasy peek over her shoulder.

  No one approached the greenhouse.

  Must she be so jumpy, for pity’s sake?

  Her errant focus glided back to the lake. If only she possessed the nerve to test the inviting water. But such rash action would bring censure on those she cared for.

  If she had an ounce of steel in her, she’d use this house party to her advantage. Perhaps even get herself kissed for the first time. Oooh. At the masque ball. Or better yet, set her cap, her handkerchief—by heavens, her parasol and gloves too—for a gentleman she found striking.

  And kind.

  He must be kind. And patient. And not given to raising his voice or poking fun at her weight or figure.

  She’d had a lifetime of being lectured and screeched at, and too many biscuits, sweet meats, and pastries as a child had developed into excess curves she couldn’t seem to rid herself of no matter how many reducing diets she tried, food choices she restricted, or lengthy daily walks she took.

  Even the multiple occasions when Mother had locked her in her room for days with scarcely anything to eat hadn’t willowed her form.

  Shona’s mouth twitched on one side.

  Likely due to her figuring out how to pick the lock and helping herself to whatever she pleased from the kitchen. Much to Cook and Mama’s consternation. Neither could fathom where the food disappeared to, but never knowing when Mama would choose to deprive her of meals again, Shona always wrapped a supply to stash in her chamber.

  Her dearest friend, Katrina, the Duchess of Pendergast, had tried to convince Shona that she wasn’t prone to plumpness.

  Pooh. What benevolent drivel.

  The looking glass Shona peered into every day didn’t lie. Her bosoms were … well … big. And her hips flared out, generous and full, from her waist.

  She formed a small pout with her mouth.

  Och. To have slender, narrow hips and thighs. What a lovely thing that would be.

  True, no flabby flesh jiggled about beneath her chemise, but at soirée after rout after assembly—when she’d braved lifting her gaze from her hands neatly clasped in her lap—she’d witnessed gentlemen flocking to the lithe, svelte misses. Or the full-bosomed ones with willowy hips, while chuffy, unexceptional lasses such as herself were seldom spared a second glance.

  “I’m positive I saw our Lady Atterberry slip out the terrace doors, Clarence, dear.”

  Velma Olson.

  A familiar grating voice penetrated Shona’s turbulent musings.

  Hangnails and hoary toads.

  From behind a potted palm, which did little to conceal her, Shona peeked through the other door. A frustrated groan escaped her pursed mouth.

  Confound it. She’d been discovered.

  Beneath a purple-fringed parasol, Clarence Olson and his domineering mother tramped toward the conservatory, red-faced and perspiring like lathered racehorses.

  “And when she did, I purposed to find you at once,” Mrs. Olson said. “It’s providence, surely. She’ll welcome your addresses, darling. How could she not? You’re third in line to a viscountcy.” Pomposity dripped from each affected word. “Trust me. Mothers know these things.”

  What colossal windbaggery.

  Shona wouldn’t have had Clarence Olson if the peacocks wandering the estate started singing opera. In Gaelic.

  Jaw set, she folded her fan and reached into the hothouse to drop it onto the bench with her other belongings. If the Olsons thought she was ripe for the plucking, they’d find themselves gravely mistaken.

  “I believe I saw movement near the greenhouse.” Slightly breathless, Mrs. Olson rattled on, “Surely a bashful Scots drab such as she realizes the honor you bestow on her with your attention.
”

  “Hardly a drab, Mother,” Mr. Olson denied with an impatient shake of his sandy blond-haired head. “She’s really most comely, and I find her accent quite charming.”

  Shona barely stifled a derisive snort.

  Comely? Charming?

  Been nipping his flask of brandy a bit early today, had he?

  She wasn’t in the mood for those two.

  Like dogs trailing a fox, they’d pursued her relentlessly since Lady Wimpleton had introduced them.

  Shona was no fool.

  Neither Mrs. Olson nor her bird-witted fop of a son had given her a second look until someone addressed her as Lady Atterberry. Then at once, the rapacious pair had openly questioned several guests about her status. Suddenly, they’d became as attentive as miserly bankers counting their hoarded bank notes.

  Fisting her skirts, Shona lifted them scandalously high, exposing the entirety of her calves, and tore from the greenhouse as if hell’s hounds nipped at her satin-covered heels. She’d have preferred the devil’s own dogs to the Olsons’ importuning presences.

  The oak grove wasn’t so very far away, and the chance of someone else seeing her pelting, neck or nothing, was slight. She hoped.

  “Lady Atterberry. Wait.”

  Mrs. Olson’s shrill voice raked down Shona’s spine, like a freshly-honed gardening claw.

  I think not.

  Breathless from her charge across the grass, her lovely slippers hopelessly stained, Shona plowed into the oaks’ delicious shade. Glorious coolness engulfed her. Despite her frantic flight, she sighed in appreciation. This was where she ought to have hidden away. Next time—

  “Lady Atterberry?” Mr. Olson’s reedy voice rang far too near. “Where’d the gel git to?”

  “She’s in the trees, of course,” Mrs. Olson said, peevishness sharpening her voice.

  Tossing a frantic glance over her shoulder—the dratted pair were still hell-bent on finding her—Shona stumbled over a massive root snaking across the ground.

  A wee squeal escaped her. Arms flailing, she fought to regain her balance. From the corner of her eye, she saw the man in brown sprinting toward her, his hands outstretched.

  The instant before she plummeted headfirst into the lake, her gaze met his piercing, sky-blue eye.

  Ankles crossed, Morgan lounged against a thick trunk. An oak cluster had grown together, creating a natural alcove, even forming a crude seat.

  Still seething from another ugly encounter with Father, which had left him feeling betrayed as well as enraged, he randomly skipped rocks across the lake’s gleaming surface. Sending the flat stones flying released a modicum of the tension throttling through his veins.

  He heard the woman’s boisterous entry into this, his coveted sanctuary, before he saw her. Her tiny yelp alerted him, and he wheeled toward her.

  Too late.

  Her rosebud mouth parted into a startled ‘O’. Her wide, doe-like eyes, the color of warm caramel and filled with shock, embarrassment, and horror, latched onto his.

  He lengthened his stride, lurching for her with outstretched hands.

  An instant later, her very shapely calves disappeared over a steep drop-off.

  Without hesitation, he shucked his coat and tore off his neckcloth. No time to remove his boots, dammit. And they were new too. A pity gift from his sister Viola.

  Those unfamiliar with the terrain didn’t realize that, though the ground appeared level, a steep precipice dropped straight into the lake.

  Poised on the overhang, he searched the depths for the woman.

  There.

  A beleaguered head bobbed to the surface. Mouth open, she panted, scraggly locks of sable hair covering most of her face.

  Did she know how to swim?

  Even if she did, she’d struggle to make it to shore with her skirts wrapped about her legs

  In one swift, smooth movement, Morgan dove into the water. If he hadn’t been holding his breath, he would’ve gasped. To his overheated body, the freezing cold came as a shock and a blessing.

  Surfacing, he treaded water, trying to locate her.

  As yet unaware of his presence, she bobbed several yards away, barely keeping her head above the water. Her expression determined, her movements labored, she started for shore.

  Devil it.

  As Morgan suspected, her skirts hampered her, weighing her down like great sodden sails.

  What if he hadn’t been here?

  She would’ve drowned for certain. Still might.

  The black thought burrowed deep in his chest, causing a queer tightness where it anchored.

  After dragging in a lungful of air, Morgan hollered. “Turn onto your back and float until I get there.”

  Eyes round with shock, she jerked her dark head his way.

  Profound relief flooded her pretty features. Obediently, she rotated onto her back, her breasts—the bodice stuck to the full orbs like a second skin—jutted above the water line, the ends pebbled from cold.

  He swept a fleeting, appreciative gaze over the mounds.

  Voluptuous figures had always attracted him.

  Tend to the task at hand, Le Draco. The gel needn’t drown while you ogle her marvelous charms.

  With swift, strong strokes, he swam to her. He’d regained most of his strength after the explosion–something that had seemed impossible in the early days of his convalescence. Other than several hideous scars, reduced hearing in his left ear, and the loss of an eye, he was restored.

  Physically.

  His highly-coveted position in the 1st Royal Regiment of Dragoons, on the other hand…

  Fortune hadn’t smiled on him in that regard.

  While he’d been unconscious and no one had known whether he’d live or die, his sire had taken it upon himself to retire Morgan’s commission.

  Now at eight-and-twenty, he had nothing to go back to.

  Nothing to look forward to.

  No purpose. No direction. No rudder to steer his life and guide him.

  Unless—until—he found employment. He’d become a societal parasite, dependent on the goodwill and generosity of his friends and sister, for he refused to accept a guinea from his father, Ruben Le Draco.

  Damned lucky to have survived.

  So Morgan had been told over and over.

  And over.

  The blast had killed five, maiming and wounding dozens more, but he—

  Stow it.

  As he approached, the girl turned her head. The gratitude in her expression transformed to incredulity when she spied his eyepatch and the vicious scar’s jagged path to his mouth, pulling one corner up at a grotesque angle.

  After a year, he ought to have been accustomed to the stunned reactions. Yet, he still cringed inwardly when people—women, especially—flinched and gasped or hastily averted their gazes.

  And when children’s faces crumpled in terror—

  Enough.

  But this profoundly unique creature didn’t look away. Instead, her attention shifted to his remaining eye, and such sympathy blossomed on her porcelain face that his thrumming heart battered against its bruised walls.

  Struggling to stay afloat, she managed a timorous smile, full of kindness and empathy.

  In that instant, through some sort of preternatural instinct, Morgan knew she’d suffered too. Here she was, her pulse raging at the base of her delicate throat, in very real danger of drowning, and instead of turning away in disgust or revulsion, she’d shown him compassion.

  Where the hell would she go, man? It’s not like she has any choice at present.

  “Don’t be alarmed, but in order to help you ashore, I must put my arm around your middle.”

  Teeth chattering, a bluish tint around the edges of her lips, she gave a shaky nod.

  From behind, Morgan encircled her torso, and she stifled a gasp. The plump pillows of her bosoms lay heavily on his forearm. He couldn’t help but admire their fullness. Another time, he might have more completely appreciated the tantalizin
g display.

  “Lay your head against my shoulder,” he gently ordered.

  Crimping her mouth into a prim line, she nodded again then dutifully rested her soggy head on his shoulder. Her quaking vibrated his chest.

  Fear as much as cold, he’d be bound.

  For reasons he couldn’t begin to gauge, reassuring her was vital. He spoke softly into her ear. “It’s all right. I have you now. I promise, you’ll be in your chamber enjoying a hot bath within the half hour.”

  A shuddery sigh escaped through her parted lips, and she relaxed against him.

  Probably oughtn’t to have mentioned a bath, for now he couldn’t tear his focus from her breasts and stop envisaging bathwater, liberally dosed with scented oil, lapping the rounded mounds. Teasing the rosy tips into hard nubs.

  He drew in a long breath, as much from physical exertion as to enjoy her heady scent.

  She smelled sweet and delicate. Orange blossoms, but also something musky and a mite earthier.

  “Should I kick? I think I can if I pull my gown up.” Her voice was low and languid around the edges, as if she struggled to speak.

  Did he detect the faintest trace of a Scottish brogue?

  “If you’re able to, yes. That would help.”

  Enormously.

  This was no skinny miss, all sharp angles and bony contours. Her shapely form deserved further consideration and admiration. But on dry land, when such pleasant contemplation didn’t put them at risk of ending up on the lake bottom.

  And with his waterlogged boots, getting them to shore was proving a considerable task.

  “I’ve certainly given the guests something to prattle about,” she quipped, raising her gaze, warm and sweet as dark honey, to study him above her forehead.

  In a bungling, unpolished sort of way, her attempt at levity was heartwarming.

  “Indeed.”

  He winked, and her pansy eyes rounded, delicate color flaring across her cheekbones.

  They couldn’t go ashore where she’d tumbled into the lake, so he guided them to another area of the beach.

  Olson and his annoying, always-looking-down-her-superior-than-thou-nose mother stood gawking nearby, their unhinged jaws drooping to their knobby knees. Denton Olson, however, was notably absent.

  No surprise there.