Lord Simon, even as a viscount, had wealth and appearance and an
endless thirst for drink, which some said attributed to his lack of respect or
toad eating amongst his peers. Described as a man who always appeared disheveled and bored. One
who openly expressed that, other than sex, females were useless, he was just
the sort of man that Abigail Forsythe would find challenging.
She eyed him as a soft breeze ruffled that over long mane of sable
and sun streaked hair. It blew it back from a face that was both bronzed and
sensually stamped with every attribute found in a woman’s forbidden dreams.
Even on horseback, he had a languid grace and indolent style, like a tiger on
the prowl. Or rather a well-fed and spoiled one, who was perfectly aware
every female in the jungle wanted to mate with him. The man dressed himself in
burgundy when every other gent in the park wore black and buff. He did not have
on a neck cloth but a shirt that looked suspiciously undone at the sinew of his
throat.
Pah, Abby mused mentally, he had run wild too long, grown
too used to his usual pack of females. Someone should have shaken his smug
egotism a long time ago and showed him a thing or two about supposedly
compliant, gullible women.
Oh, yes, there was a man who needed a taste of his own medicine.
And she was just the woman to deliver it.
“I recognize that set to your jaw.”
Abby glanced at her friend, seeing a dry expression on her face.
“Do you recall when Aunt Flora and Mr. Weeks were debating whether or not a
positive spirit could tempt a person to explore something affirmative as well
as an evil spirit could entice one to do the forbidden?”
“For God sakes, Abby,” Kendyl laughed on a snort. “You know we
never paid the least heed to some of the old dear’s wild theories.”
“I know that in general her character is...peculiar. But there are
times when I think my aunt’s eccentric nature borders on brilliance.”
Since she said this with an enigmatic smirk, her friend finally
caught on. “I see. And how, or rather should I say, on whom, do you intend to
lead into temptation?”
“Not just temptation, Kendyl.” Abby turned back, realizing the
group was awaiting them now. “I believe we are going to find this season a
challenge after all. I have a rather interesting theory of my own to prove
out.”
“God save Lord Simon, then, “Kendyl muttered, amused, as they
headed for the path. “And count me in.”
~
Simon had reined in to await the ladies with Blackstone and his
sister. In spite of his normal boredom and aversion to
When Damien told him over drinks that he and Alexia were
sponsoring some chit for the season, not a deb but a fully grown stranger, he’d
first choked on his brandy, then laughed his arse off, though Damien further
said the young woman’s aunt was some eccentric character who communicated with
ghosts, dug in the woods for dragon’s bones and belonged to a mostly all male
group of intellectuals who were considered the extremists of the scientific
world.
Aside from the fact that the Damien Sauvage he knew slummed and
gambled and raked with him, Rog, and a few others, and could care less for
attending ton functions, or the seasons usual amusements. His friend’s
description of the aunt had also made him curious as hell.
At first introduction, Simon figured the dark redhead with freckles
and a rather fey looking face was the one. Kendyl Reid, a slip of a woman with
tilted almond eyes, no more than five foot tall, dimples and a slight burr to
voice, wearing a plaid habit that stuck out like a sore thumb amid the gray and
black.
“How do you do, M’lord.” She nodded.
“Fine, thank you,” he murmured, aware that Lady Alexia was hailed
away by some dowager, and that Damien was introducing the other. But then he
heard...
“The Honorable Abigail Forsythe...”
She did not nod as her companion had but rather met his eyes with
ones of an unusual lime green; Simon felt something prickle at his nape at
their almost translucent hue with a thin darker rim. He had that absent sort of
recognition that her strawberry hair was straight with uneven strands blowing
across her brow and cheek, one catching on her pale pink mouth, which he was
looking at next.
“Lord Collingworth.” She leaned in the saddle to shake his hand.
Simon’s brow raised and he ignored Damien’s chuckle when he did
shake that hand, rather surprised that she had a firm grip, and then completely thrown when she held on a
bit more and murmured, “We’re going to see each other quite a bit this season,
I imagine.”
When she had let go, in the pretense of joining his sister, Damien
turned his mount and leaned to say to Simon, “I’ll leave them in your able
company for a bit, my lord, so that you may apprise them of the dangerous
predators and vile seducers to steer clear of here in town...”
“Go to hell,” Simon whispered through a grit toothed smile that only
the females could see and in a tone that only Damien heard.
But then he was nudged by Miss Reid’s rather impressive roan
gelding and found himself plodding the row alongside Abigail Forsythe while her
companion indiscreetly fell back.
Having carried on his celebration, or rather Damien's welcome back
to town on his own after leaving Blackstone at the club, Simon was suffering a
few effects of sleep deprivation and too much drink after long months of
limiting himself to a brandy after dinner. He hadn’t planned to do more than
get a look at the female so he could torture his friend for taking on such an
unlike Damien task.
Therefore he yawned and lazily eyed her again, noting that her
frame was tall, around five feet six, and that she had her habit jacket undone.
He could almost swear no corset or camisole contained the softly rounded
breasts that pushed against her lace blouse. There was that unfettered sway
with each step the horse took.
That habit, a dark green and black, was embroidered in a Celtic design.
The cut was plain, almost severe next to the delicate lace of her blouse. He
eyed her hair again—where her friend wore a bonnet, very Scottish and bearing
some distinct crest, Abigail Forsythe was one of the handful of women in the
park without a hat. Her silken mix of red and white hair was slipping its pins
and managing to look wholly unladylike.
Simon lifted his gaze upward and felt a stir of attraction in
spite of his initial disinterest. Her lips were flush pink and, while not full,
there was a hint of promised sensuality in that shape. Of course, her nose, and
the arch of that brow, the set of her jaw warned of a proud streak, something
he could do without in lovers, since they normally made for bitchy and
demanding types.
Though brunettes made up his last string of mistresses, beauties
all of them, he would not consider Abigail Forsythe so much attractive
as...somewhat tempting...for the very fact she was opposite them. In addition,
perhaps not exactly being a deb played into that, making her less a strings
attached sort of female.
But then again, Simon reminded himself, his circumstances had
altered and every unwed female in
He snorted. Not bloody likely.
Yet Simon’s gaze stayed on the woman until she turned her head and
caught him looking, with an expression of her own that made him think she had
been aware of his gaze the whole time. Unlike the savoir-faire rake he was, he
came damn near close to flushing.
However, she said evenly enough, “You have been on the
“Yes. Unfortunately.”
“Thus you would be an expert on those vile seducers and predators
that Lord Blackstone spoke of.”
Simon drawled, “You’re here to find a husband, madam. I surmise
you will care little what sort of male creature you encounter, as long as he
has wealth and title.”
“Mmm. That seems to be the normal goal, according to Lady Alexia.
I, however, have decided that such an undertaking is not only uninteresting,
but would make my one and only season a dead bore.” She smiled, showing
straight, white teeth and a glint in her eye.
His brow rose. “Then you are not husband hunting as your sponsors
assume?”
“Lady Alexia assumes any female not wed is here for that reason.
Your friend Lord Blackstone I think has invited me for the simple fact that he
enjoys thumbing his nose at the ton, or else he would have created a more
desirable, fictional background for me, one which would impress potential
husbands and high sticklers. But we consulted and I assured him that I had no
intention of disowning my aunt by affecting a lie.”
“Another mark against you in the marriage mart.”
She shrugged. “As I was saying. I am not averse all together to
finding a husband, and I came here because I was curious about a society and
class I have read about for many years. My father was a baron, though I hardly
saw him or my mother. I suppose you could say I am here for the normal reasons,
but intend to go about them in my own way.”
Simon’s brow lowered, but he had no idea what she was talking
about. “You’ve lost me,” he admitted matter-of-factly.
She let those lime eyes hold his for several long moments. No
smile this time but an intense expression. “I think...I do not have to look
further...I have found what I should be looking for.”
Simon halted his mount.
She did likewise.
He murmured, “Miss Forsythe, while I may not turn down an hour in
your bed, the gossips can and are misleading. I have not returned to find
myself a countess.” He drawled, “There is naught a wife can provide that I
cannot get elsewhere, with less trouble and no shackles.”
After looking him over from boot to head while Simon shifted in
the saddle, Abigail Forsythe murmured, “Call me Abby, Simon. I do so dislike
formality.”
Simon could not decide if she was a coy witch or a cold bitch out
for his title and wealth. Again he felt that tingle up his spine and it settled
on the back of his neck. “On second thought, I withdraw the offer. I never had
much of a taste for country bred old maids.” He turned his horse. “I’ll escort
you back to Lord Blackstone.”
“First you suggest that I
would let you in my bed, and then you get your back up because I too
have an interest in you.” She laughed and rode close to him. “I vow, Lord
Simon, you are a conceited beast and totally off the mark. I did not mean to
imply at all that I would have you as you are.”
“What the bloody hell does that mean?” He jerked his gaze to her
face.
Her tone softened to an almost purr, “You’d have to suit me
first...and you do not. You must reform your ways, and you have not, and you
must know me first, and you will not, and you must believe in love, and you
cannot.”
Simon was sitting there still staring at her when Abigail Forsythe
made to ride off and added in parting, “You’re going to want me, Simon, as much
as I want you...and before you can have me...you’re going to have to deserve
me.”