Page 30 of Dare to be Wicked

6th July 1838, Holbrook House, Sussex.

Lottie stared up at the moon and sighed. Everyone had gone to Mitcham Priory to visit with Baron and Lady Rothborn and their son and daughter, Larkin and Grace. They would have dinner together and stay overnight, returning mid-morning the following day. Matilda and Montagu’s sons would be there too and, in usual circumstances, Lottie would have loved to attend, but her heart was not in it. She had pleaded a headache and told her mama and Eliza that she would go to bed early, a lie she was ill at ease with, but what could she do? They kept plaguing her to explain what the matter was, and she could not tell them. Her mama had given her a very direct look and told her that whatever the trouble was, she could be trusted to keep it to herself if Lottie wanted to speak to her about it. Lottie knew that was true, but she felt such shame for the situation that had arisen, she could not bear to. She did not think she was to blame for what had happened, but… but she could not be certain, and that uncertainty made her feel sick and wretched.

She had to go to bed, in truth, for her maid was far too canny not to know she was telling fibs if she did not. Yet, after an hour of tossing and turning, she was so thoroughly tired of her own thoughts she got up, decided on a visit to the library to find a book. It was too early to sleep after all, so she put on her wrap and slippers and went downstairs. Someone had left a copy of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow out on one of the side tables, and Lottie picked it up. Perhaps if she frightened herself to death she’d stop feeling so sorry for herself. It took her precisely ten minutes to discover she’d read the first page three times and still didn’t know what it said. With a sigh, she set the book down and spied a tantalus on the sideboard with three crystal decanters. Remembering how her mama would often take a glass of brandy to help her sleep the night before the publication of a new book, she got up and went to investigate. Fortune was smiling upon her as she discovered the tantalus was unlocked.

The first measure was barely more than a couple of sips as she accustomed herself to the taste, which was not at all nice. The second went down rather easier and a pleasant glow began low in the pit of her belly. The third was a proper measure, and as she found the library suddenly stuffy and too hot, Lottie drifted out into the garden to enjoy the fresh night air and walked with no direction in mind.

Though it had not been her intention to do so, she found herself in front of the summerhouse before she realised what she had done, and she could not force her unwilling feet to make her turn around again. She was not so foolish as to spy on her beloved, though, nor to go inside as she longed to do. Instead, she sat down on the grass beside the lake and listened to the night creatures chirp and scurry. Lottie stared unseeing across the dark water spread out before her, knowing Cassius was close by… and that was as much as she was to be allowed.

Cassius flung down the charcoal with a curse and walked away from yet another botched attempt. He could settle to nothing, producing in the past week what he considered to be a mediocre still life, and a tolerable painting of the sun rising on the lake outside the summerhouse. He’d spent the day trying to decide upon a new project, but nothing inspired him. Nothing but her, that was. In his heart, all he wanted was to paint Lottie. He yearned to capture the way the sun had caught her hair and lit it like a halo as she stood in the doorway to the studio, or how she had looked at the picnic with her pink skirts arranged in soft swathes around her.

With a curse, he strode to the large sheet of paper he’d pinned up and tore it down, putting a clean sheet in its place. He snatched up the charcoal again. This time the image came with laughable ease, the elegant line of her neck, the soft swell of her breasts and the lush curves of her waist and hips. Despite working purely from memory and imagination he knew he’d captured her, the essence of her, vibrant and full of life. The image of her was one he had never seen in reality, though he’d dreamt it every night since he’d returned and seen her for the first time. The look in her eyes was everything he longed for, her posture provocative. He stood back, breathing hard, longing rising inside him, hot and fierce and suffocating. With a groan, he flung the charcoal aside once more, disgusted with himself, and flung open the door, stalking down to the lake and casting his shirt aside as he went. He doubted a swim would do much to cool his ardour, but he had no better ideas.

Cassius was moving so fast and with such single-minded determination, that he almost tumbled headfirst over the sleeping figure, and was forced to sidestep to avoid it.

“What the devil?” he exclaimed.

The figure at his feet squeaked with alarm and sat up, staring at him. Cassius’s heart jammed in his throat.

“Lottie?”

“Cassius!”

The two of them stared at each other, neither moving nor speaking. For his part, Cassius did not dare. To see her out here, asleep on the grass, all in virginal white like some fairy queen, was more than his willpower had been prepared for. Keeping away from her and far from temptation was one thing, but resisting what was right in front of him quite another.

“I must have fallen asleep,” she said as Cassius tried to keep his gaze from the heavy blonde plait that had fallen to lie between her breasts, or to notice that her nightgown and wrap were of the finest lawn cotton and not as opaque as she might think under the moonlight.

He swallowed, forcing his brain to grind into motion and think of something to say that would not result in him behaving badly. It was not easy.

“By the lake?” he managed, hoping he’d achieved the amused tone he was striving for and the desire-roughened, gravelly sound of his own voice was all in his head.

“I went for a walk and found myself here. I… I don’t remember choosing to come here only… once I was here, I could not make myself leave.”

“Lottie,” he said, meaning to tell her to go straight back to the house, but the words died in his throat as she stood up and took a step closer to him.

“I’ve missed you,” she said. “I wish you would not hide down here. I’m certain Eliza feels wretched about it, too. She does not want you to be unhappy.”

He snorted at that. “That is because she does not know the truth. If she knew, she would understand just how badly I have behaved.”

“You did not,” Lottie said at once. “We did not. Nothing happened, and we did not choose to feel this way on purpose. Why must we feel so wretched?”

“Because hurting Eliza is unthinkable,” he said with a shrug.

Lottie sighed. “Yes.”

“You should go.”

“I know.”

But she only gazed at him, temptation incarnate, dressed in gauzy white, and with such longing in her eyes that his body hurt and he ached with the need to touch her. Every particle of his being seemed to incline towards her as if drawn by some unseen force, even though he held himself still.

She turned away suddenly, walking purposefully towards the summerhouse.

“Lottie!” he exclaimed, not daring to follow her, for his self-control was fraying fast, and then he realised with a jolt just what she would see if she went in. “Oh, Christ!”

He took to his heels, but she was already at the door, moving inside. He crashed in behind her, hoping to tear the sketch down before she laid eyes on it but too late.

“I’m sorry,” he began, feeling like an utter blackguard for having drawn her in such a way.