down the slope to the lake without taking the path that curved around to it at a less steep gradient. The duke held out a hand to help Fleur down.
And she was in that tunnel again, darkness and cold air rushing at her. All she saw was the hand, the long beautiful fingers that had slid down between her thighs and pushed them wide and that had then opened her firmly, readying her for penetration.
He lowered his hand and turned from her. “Just take it slowly,” he said, “unless you are planning to take a swim.”
And somehow she brought herself out of the tunnel and forced her legs to move so that she could follow him down the slope to the path below, where the puppy was bounding in circles, happy to be on firmer ground.
Another hour passed before they returned to the house. They strolled by the lake and climbed the bank again at another place. The duke described the various prospects to Fleur in a far more knowledgeable manner than Mrs. Laycock had done. The park had been laid out by William Kent—“No relation,” the duke added—for his grace’s grandfather, replacing the straight avenues and the large flat parterre gardens that had preceded it.
“I believe my grandmother was outraged,” he said. “She was a very proper eighteenth-century lady. She believed that the larger one’s formal garden, the greater one’s consequence.”
He carried the puppy for much of the way, smoothing the soft down over its nose with one finger as it nestled against his chest and fell asleep. And he handed the dog to Fleur before chasing a shrieking Pamela across one wide lawn and wrestling her to the grass, where she lay laughing and flailing her arms and legs.
Both father and daughter looked somewhat rumpled by the time they stepped onto the terrace before the house.
“Will Mama’s guests be here soon, Papa?” Lady Pamela asked.
“The day after tomorrow, unless any of them are delayed,” he said.
“Will I be able to see the ladies?” she asked.
“Do you want to?”
“May I?” she begged. “Mama will say no, I know she will.”
“Perhaps Mama is in the right of it,” he said, releasing her hand and reaching for the puppy, which Fleur was carrying. “They will not be ladies you would wish to meet, Pamela.”
“But …” she said.
“Time to go in,” he said, looking up into Fleur’s eyes, his own hard as his hand brushed against hers beneath the puppy’s stomach, and she snatched it away and took a hasty step backward. “I shall return Tiny to the stables.”
“Oh,” Fleur said. “We have forgotten the easel and paints. I will have to run back for them.”
“I shall send a servant,” the duke said impatiently. “Don’t trouble yourself, ma’am.”
Fleur took Lady Pamela by the hand and led her up to the nursery. The child was tired and incredibly dirty and disheveled, facts which Mrs. Clement did not fail to notice and comment upon.
Fleur stood at the window of her room ten minutes later, her ears ringing from the scathing reprimand she had received. It seemed that her grace was to be told of her terrible insubordination in keeping Lady Pamela from the house morethan an hour longer than she had been permitted and in returning her looking like a scarecrow and in such a state of exhaustion that she would doubtless be ill the next day.
Fleur stood close to the window and looked out across the lawns, which gave such a misleading impression of peace. She had thought them peaceful. She had thought them heaven. She had been beginning to relax and to feel more happy than she had felt since early childhood.
Should she leave before she was dismissed?
But where would she go and what would she do? Although she had everything she could possibly need at Willoughby Hall, she had not yet been paid. All the money she had was the few coins that remained from the advance that had been given her to buy some clothes. She did not even have enough with which to return to London.
The thought of London made
And she was in that tunnel again, darkness and cold air rushing at her. All she saw was the hand, the long beautiful fingers that had slid down between her thighs and pushed them wide and that had then opened her firmly, readying her for penetration.
He lowered his hand and turned from her. “Just take it slowly,” he said, “unless you are planning to take a swim.”
And somehow she brought herself out of the tunnel and forced her legs to move so that she could follow him down the slope to the path below, where the puppy was bounding in circles, happy to be on firmer ground.
Another hour passed before they returned to the house. They strolled by the lake and climbed the bank again at another place. The duke described the various prospects to Fleur in a far more knowledgeable manner than Mrs. Laycock had done. The park had been laid out by William Kent—“No relation,” the duke added—for his grace’s grandfather, replacing the straight avenues and the large flat parterre gardens that had preceded it.
“I believe my grandmother was outraged,” he said. “She was a very proper eighteenth-century lady. She believed that the larger one’s formal garden, the greater one’s consequence.”
He carried the puppy for much of the way, smoothing the soft down over its nose with one finger as it nestled against his chest and fell asleep. And he handed the dog to Fleur before chasing a shrieking Pamela across one wide lawn and wrestling her to the grass, where she lay laughing and flailing her arms and legs.
Both father and daughter looked somewhat rumpled by the time they stepped onto the terrace before the house.
“Will Mama’s guests be here soon, Papa?” Lady Pamela asked.
“The day after tomorrow, unless any of them are delayed,” he said.
“Will I be able to see the ladies?” she asked.
“Do you want to?”
“May I?” she begged. “Mama will say no, I know she will.”
“Perhaps Mama is in the right of it,” he said, releasing her hand and reaching for the puppy, which Fleur was carrying. “They will not be ladies you would wish to meet, Pamela.”
“But …” she said.
“Time to go in,” he said, looking up into Fleur’s eyes, his own hard as his hand brushed against hers beneath the puppy’s stomach, and she snatched it away and took a hasty step backward. “I shall return Tiny to the stables.”
“Oh,” Fleur said. “We have forgotten the easel and paints. I will have to run back for them.”
“I shall send a servant,” the duke said impatiently. “Don’t trouble yourself, ma’am.”
Fleur took Lady Pamela by the hand and led her up to the nursery. The child was tired and incredibly dirty and disheveled, facts which Mrs. Clement did not fail to notice and comment upon.
Fleur stood at the window of her room ten minutes later, her ears ringing from the scathing reprimand she had received. It seemed that her grace was to be told of her terrible insubordination in keeping Lady Pamela from the house morethan an hour longer than she had been permitted and in returning her looking like a scarecrow and in such a state of exhaustion that she would doubtless be ill the next day.
Fleur stood close to the window and looked out across the lawns, which gave such a misleading impression of peace. She had thought them peaceful. She had thought them heaven. She had been beginning to relax and to feel more happy than she had felt since early childhood.
Should she leave before she was dismissed?
But where would she go and what would she do? Although she had everything she could possibly need at Willoughby Hall, she had not yet been paid. All the money she had was the few coins that remained from the advance that had been given her to buy some clothes. She did not even have enough with which to return to London.
The thought of London made
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