Mariana loved the Folly in a personal way none of her other family did, not even Olivia. As a result, she’d spent many a fortnight in her youth as Uncle Bertie and Aunt Dot’s lone girl visitor. No one—not even Uncle and Aunt, she suspected—could comprehend Mariana’s abiding love for the place since its bucolic solitude seemed so at odds with the bold, social girl London knew. For Mariana, the Folly was a place where she never felt the need to prove herself. She could justbe. The Folly was her oasis.
One morning, no different from any other, Uncle Bertie began going on at length about a promising chap making some excellent connections on the Continent. “The boy has the right ideas,” Uncle continued. “Just the sort England needs with Napoleon getting ready to march again.”
The conversation occurred on the periphery of Mariana’s consciousness for she’d been entirely focused on the estate’s retired hunting beagle, Horace, who slyly snapped up every bit of ham she slipped beneath the table to his ever-patient chops. Uncle was ever rhapsodizing about one promising chap or another, which was why his remark about “the chap’s” return to England went right over her head. If she’d been more attentive, she might have been prepared for the sight greeting her eyes thirty or so minutes later. Likely not.
Aunt Dot had other plans for the breakfast conversation. “Dearest Mariana,” she cut in, silencing Uncle Bertie, who directed his attention to hisMorning Chronicle, “have you devised a strategy for the upcoming Season? You must make your second go around count. Did no young lord catch your eye?”
Mariana inwardly cringed and exhaled a noncommittal, “Hmm.”
“Well, Olivia made the most ofherfirst Season,” Aunt continued, oblivious to Mariana’s increasing discomfort. “A love match with the son of a duke. Even if he is a younger son, Percy Bretagne was something of a catch. And married before the end of the Season . . . I daresay, I never knew the chit had it in her,” Aunt Dot finished on a note of grudging admiration.
Unable to take any more chatter about strategies and “catching” husbands, Mariana stood and excused herself from the table. With a low, short whistle she summoned Horace to accompany her on their morning walk. Sometimes he trotted alongside her; other times his sensitive nose picked up an interesting scent that claimed the entirety of his attention and off he trotted in a direction all his own. Scents were neither good nor bad to Horace. They were either interesting or not.
On this particular morning, he stuck close as they lit across the stone portico and onto the closely-cropped grass that provided a carpet for the formal garden. Once past the ha-ha, Mariana cut right and found the narrow trail that led into the copse of woods forming the northeast boundary of Uncle’s land.
Soon, they reached the bubbling creek, which ran through the estate. They continued parallel alongside until it flowed into the small and secluded Duck Pond, a name first optimistically, then ironically, bestowed upon the mass of water no duck had ever deigned to set feather upon. It was here that Horace usually strayed, but not on this day.
This day, he stuck with Mariana as if he knew what they would encounter on the other side of the small rise that formed the southwest bank of the pond. She thought nothing of Horace’s unusual steadfastness. Instead, her mind wandered elsewhere.
It was true that she was on the verge of her second Season. It was also true that she would have to face it without Olivia this go around. Horrifying thought.
The thing was this: she couldn’t imagine the selection of potential husbands would be any better this Season. After all, they would be the same young men from last Season. It wasn’t that they were horrible young men with no prospects, they just hadn’t been . . .Him.
He’d ruined her. Or, more accurately, she’d ruined herself on him. In the span of a single moonlit night, he’d become more than the standard by which she judged other men; he’d become the only man.
She gave herself a mental shake. A year had passed, and she may never see him again. She must purge him from her mind. After all, aside from his accidental proposal that hadn’t truly meant anything, he’d given her no reason to believe that he would be part of her future. She must give up the idea of him, for that was all he was. An idea—a ghost, really.
Horace saved her from further exploring that bleak thought, when, just before they reached Duck Pond, he stopped, lifted a front paw, and tilted his head. “What is it, boy?” she asked, unconcerned, her feet striding forward. This was typical Horace behavior, a hound to his stout, little core. It was likely a rabbit. Then she saw it: a shock of bright white glinting in the morning sun on the bank of the pond. It was the white linen of a shirt.
She stopped in her tracks and noticed a few more anomalies: starlings weren’t trilling through oak and elm, and crickets weren’t chirruping in the grass. Utterly still, she listened for any sound which might proceed from the direction of that white shirt.
Her feet inched up the rise at a snail’s crawl, carrying her toward it bit by bit, nature’s mulch of dead leaves and rotten twigs crunching dully beneath her feet. She was like a needle drawn to a lodestone, so acute was her curiosity.
At last, she heard what her ears had been both expecting and dreading: a splash. Could it be an estate worker? It was a possibility. But her ambling morning strolls were well-known at the Folly, and no worker would take that risk. She braced herself for the likelihood that someone unknown to her was splashing about the pond. Her feet stumbled across a decent-sized branch, and she picked it up, fingers clamped around one end. Horace raced to the top of the rise and again lifted one paw off the ground, intent on whatever or whoever he saw.
Just shy of the top, she stopped to inspect the layers of clothes at her feet: navy silk cravat, white lawn shirt, buff trousers, riding boots, and navy overcoat, all folded in a single compact pile. These weren’t the clothes of an estate worker. These clothes belonged to a man of her class.
It was then her ears picked up a rhythm in the splashing. The man was . . . swimming?
Her grip tightened around the stick, and she took the few remaining steps to the top of the bank. Her stomach dropped to her feet. Her suspicions had been correct. It was a man, and he was swimming.
Except . . . the man washim. Andhewas . . . naked.
A quick patter of heartbeats, and it set in thatLord Nicholas Asquithwas swimmingnakedin Duck Pond. Her eyes darted away before a stronger, more elemental, instinct pulled them back in.
With every stroke, his long, muscled arms cut through the water like blades, carrying him fluidly across the water as if he’d been born to it. Rills of water streamed across his tanned skin like transparent silk, down the length of ridged muscles before dipping at the small of his back and whooshing over his taut, muscled buttocks to flow over long legs kicking in effortless rhythm with his arms.
She’d never imagined a man’s body could be a thing of beauty. Looking at this . . .Adonis. . . she understood she’d never possessed the capacity to imagine this sort of man’s body before now.
The feeling radiating out from the juncture of her legs told her something else about a man’s body: it was a thing of desire.Thiswas the feeling that inspired scandal.Thiswas the feeling that upset the balance of the world.Thiswas the feeling thatranthe world. For the first time in her inexperienced life, she understood desire as more substantial than flimsy impulse or weakness.
Her fingers loosened their grip on the stick, and it fell to the ground before rolling into the water with a tiny splash. Horace raced to retrieve it, but rather than bring it back, he found a soft patch of mulch and began lazily gnawing on it, Lord Nicholas Asquith forgotten.
When Mariana’s gaze swung back toward the pond, everything was changed. No longer was he swimming. Instead, he was treading water, his eyes trained on her. Dark, wet hair slicked back and drops of water running down angled cheekbones and chiseled jaw, he was gorgeous. Eyes the hue and intensity of an afternoon storm cloud stared back at her, running up and down her length in silent query and evaluation. A frisson of excitement purled down her spine.
She liked the idea that a man like Lord Nicholas Asquith was curious abouther, an eighteen-year-old nobody on the verge of her second Season. A girl would never tire of being the object of attention of a man like him. Her pelisse became hot and constrictive, and she suddenly wanted—nay,needed—it off her body.
As she began backing away from the pond, her feet stumbled over an object. It was his stack of clothes.
