The gardener and his assistants had done miracles in a few short weeks. Gone were the waist-high weeds and brambles. Brick walks had been discovered beneath the overgrowth, as well as small reflecting pools and rose bushes. Pruning had brought forth an abundance of late blooms, which Skye now clipped. “Damn!” she swore suddenly, jabbing her thumb on a thorn, then popping it into her mouth to soothe it.
A deep, amused masculine chuckle sent her whirling about. To her anger and embarrassment, the handsome Earl of Lynmouth was sitting on the medium-high wall separating her house from the next. He leaped down gracefully and took her hand. “Just a prick, my pet,” he said.
Skye snatched back her hand furiously. “What were you doing on my wall?” she demanded.
“I live on the other side of it,” he answered smoothly. “In fact, my pet, you and I own the wall in common. The building next toyours is Lynmouth House. It was built by my grandfather, who also built this charming little house for his mistress, a goldsmith’s daughter.”
“Oh,” said Skye coldly, shocked. “How very interesting, my lord. Now … if you will please leave?” she managed.
Geoffrey Southwood smiled ruefully, and Skye noticed that the corners of his strangely green eyes were crinkled with laugh lines. “Now, Mistress Goya del Fuentes,” he said. “I realize that we got off on the wrong foot, and I will apologize now for having stared so rudely at you at the Rose and Anchor. Surely, however, you will not be too hard on me? I cannot be the first man who has ever been stunned by your extravagant beauty, now can I?”
Skye flushed. Damn the man! He really was charming. And if they were neighbors, she could hardly continue to snub him. The corners of her mouth turned up in a small smile. “Very well, my lord. I accept your apology.”
“And you will join me for a late supper?”
Skye laughed. “You are really incorrigible, Lord Southwood.”
“Geoffrey,” he corrected.
“You are still incorrigible, Geoffrey,” she sighed, “and my name is Skye.”
“A most unusual name. How did you come by it?”
“I don’t know. My parents both died when I was young, and the nuns who raised me could never tell me.” It was said so naturally that he was thrown. Perhaps she wasn’t the Whoremaster of Algiers’ widow after all. “And was Geoffrey your father’s name?” she was asking.
“No. He was Robert. Geoffrey was the first of the Southwoods. He came from Normandy with Duke William almost five hundred years ago.”
“How wonderful to know the history of one’s family,” she said wistfully.
“You haven’t yet told me you will dine with me tonight,” he said.
Skye bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “I really don’t think I should.”
“I realize it’s a bit unorthodox, asking you to dine late, but I must attend the Queen at Greenwich, and she’ll not let me go till late.”
“Then perhaps we should dine on another day when you have more time,” she replied.
“Have pity on me, fair Skye. I dance constant attendance onHer Majesty, and it is only rarely that I have any time. My chef is an artist, but cooking for one is little challenge. Unless I provide him with a guest soon I shall lose him. And how can I give my famous Twelfth Night revel without a chef? So you really can’t refuse me, can you?”
She had to laugh. He seemed so boyish, and so very handsome in the open-necked cream silk shirt. He was not at all the arrogant nobleman who had accosted her several weeks before. “I should not,” she said, “but I will. I would not like to be held responsible by all of London for the defection of your chef.”
“I will come for you myself,” he replied. Then he caught her hand to his lips and brushed it lightly. “You’ve made me the happiest of men tonight!” Grasping at a heavy vine growing against the wall, he pulled himself up and quickly disappeared over the top.
Shrugging, Skye picked up her flower basket and returned to the house. If she was to be ready when he came this evening, she had a great deal to do. She stopped, and told herself that this was just a simple dinner, not a romantic liaison.
Robert Small emerged just then from the library. “Well, lass, we’re done now. May I treat you to dinner at theSwantavern up the river?”
“Oh, Robbie. I’m having dinner with Lord Southwood. He is, it seems, my neighbor.”
“That knave! Christ’s toenail, Skye, are you mad?”
“Now, Robbie, he has apologized for his rudeness. I have no friends here in London, and you’ll soon be off again. I must start somewhere.”
“He has a wife,” stated Robert Small flatly.
“I suspected so, but I do not seek a romantic entanglement with Geoffrey.”
Robert Small’s bushy gray-black eyebrows shot up. “Geoffrey, is it? Well, my lass, so you’ll know a bit about the man, attend me. His first wife died when she was a child. His second wife is a woman of no beauty, but much wealth. She’s borne him one son and seven daughters, and for her perfidy she and her daughters are exiled to Lynton Court, her childhood home. He sends his steward each Michaelmas to pay the servants there for the year. Cold bastard, I’d say. He’s rich, though. At least we don’t have to worry about him being after your money.”
