Chapter Eight
Rattled and not a little appalled by his momentary wallow in sentimentality—over a cow—Ashton tugged down his vest, snatched up his coat and hat, and strode out of the shed. He was halfway up the path to the cottage when he realized he was leaving Huxley in Daisy Bumgarten’s clutches. Making an abrupt about-face, he retraced his steps and arrived just in time to hear Daisy extracting an agreement from Huxley to meet her at the Bodleian Library to review documents from his former collection. That took a moment to sink in. His crusty old tutor had donated his remarkable collection of primary source documents to a library?
“All of it? Even your collection of letters?” he said, staggering mentally.
“All of it,” Huxley said proudly. “I had my go at it, and I’m on to far more worthy and profound things.”
“Like cows,” Ash said shortly, working to keep the curl from his lips.
“Like cows,” Huxley echoed, with unabashed pleasure before turning to Daisy. “You must stay to luncheon, my dear.” He swept Ashton along with Daisy toward the cottage. “And you, too, Ashton. We must have something of a celebration. My first calf, delivered safely. Thanks to our clever Miss Bumgarten.”
* * *
Well, this wasn’t going the way he’d planned.
Ashton sat back from the modest dinner table in Huxley’s cottage and schooled his features. He had intended to reach the old boy first, appeal to his scholarly prejudices in explaining Daisy Bumgarten’s search, and recruit his professorial pride in opposition to her. But he hadn’t counted on Huxley having retired to the blessed back of beyond, and she got here first. Now his old tutor was babbling on about the glories of nature and the duty of mankind to “dress, till, and keep” the earth. A biblical imperative, he called it. His mentor had taken a dive into religious philosophy in his waning days and hadn’t yet surfaced.
“Arcadia is what it’s called. Creation unspoiled,” Huxley explained. “Humankind living in a sylvan paradise, in harmony with the Almighty, and nature, and with one another. A veritable Garden of Eden. The Greats have all written about it, and artists of every age have attempted to capture it.” He got a far-off look in his eyes that made Ashton want to shake him. “Of course, I can only glimpse it here . . . times like today . . . rare, luminous hints of the glory that can be.”
“Yeah, well, glory some days,” Redmond Strait put in before taking another gulp of wine. “Hellish heat, struggle, and pain other days. Ever seen what’s left of a cow after a mountain lion gets through with it?”
The professor looked taken aback and Daisy quickly intervened.
“I believe what Uncle Red means is: some places are more like this ‘Arcadia’ than others. Out west, things get pretty rough at times. It’s eat-or-be-eaten most days. Mountain lions, wolves, bears, coyotes, buzzards—all kinds of varmints have an eye on a rancher’s stock.”
“Why, I recall times, back in my prospectin’ days—” Red launched into a tale of his adventures in Nevada’s mountains and flats that had the professor wide-eyed with both horror and fascination.
Ashton watched with ill-concealed annoyance as the pair charmed his old tutor with outlandish stories of western grit and bravado . . . fabricated, no doubt. He would have called a halt or strode out, but Daisy Bumgarten’s glances at him during the telling reminded him that he was here for her . . . to enchant and distract her. Right now there was nothing he wanted more than to abandon this whole ridiculous mission.
“So, hardly a place for civilized folk, this ‘West’ of yours,” Ashton said when Red paused for another swig of wine.
“A place where men have to be strong to survive,” Daisy countered with a fierce little smile. “And women have to be even stronger.”
“Speaking of women”—Ashton turned to Huxley—“Miss Bumgarten is in search of a forbearer, one Charlotte Fitzroy. I take it you have agreed to help her look for documentation of that connection.”
“I believe there may be documents in my collection pertaining to such issue.” Huxley dragged his attention from Red long enough to reply.
“Well, that will be interesting,” Ashton said with a small smile. “Considering there are two Charlotte Fitzroys.”
“What?” Daisy sat forward, all attention now. “Two Charlottes?”
“Indeed. And it’s always been something of a muddle to figure out which is being referred to in a given document, right, Professor?”
“Ah. I recall now; one a Countess of Yarmouth and the other a Countess of Lichfield . . . both sired by Charles the Second.”
“Both named Charlotte?” Daisy looked with dismay to the countess.
“A feminine derivative of ‘Charles,’” Ashton said, trying to hide his pleasure. “Royal mistresses were keen to attach their offspring to their fathers via names, and Charles had numerous mistresses. The trick, Miss Bumgarten, will be to discover which, if any, contributed to your line.”
* * *
“Low down, egg-suckin’ weasel,” Daisy muttered as she rode up to the whitewashed stable that served Holloway House. She had ridden furiously on the way back, abandoning Red and the countess in the coach to let Dancer stretch his legs and work off some of her own tension in the process. She was windblown and overheated and determined to make sure Ashton Graham—she refused to call him “Lord Ashton”—didn’t interfere with her quest for documentation of her ancestry. She should have guessed something was up when he so helpfully volunteered the professor’s name and whereabouts.
She slid from Dancer’s back and waved away the stable boy. She’d handle her own tack and brush down her horse. Despite the countess’s horror, she insisted on doing it regularly. She found it calming. Grounding. And if she were going to get through this next couple of weeks, she needed to have both feet planted squarely in her greater purpose. Besides, English saddles were easy to heft compared to the western ones she’d grown up on.
With each stroke of the brush, some of her anxiety melted away. She paused to stroke Dancer’s head and ears and pressed her forehead against his. Her heartbeat slowed as she murmured softly into his neck. The smell and the sturdy feel of him brought back memories of home. Her real home, in Nevada. The dry, rugged landscape, the painted sky—every color in creation strewn across the sunset—the smell of horses and leather, of ever-present dust and mesquite; it was a feast for the senses. It was a beautiful and proud, difficult and unapologetic land . . . not for the soft or self-obsessed. How she wished that she could go back to the ranch for a few short hours—immerse herself in the smells of coffee boiling and bacon sizzling in the—
“Tsk, tsk,” a voice broke the quiet. “What would the countess say?”
She turned with a start and found Ashton Graham leaning against the stall opening, his arms folded and his eyes roaming her with speculation.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, flushing with heat.
“Stabling my horse.”
“Here?”
“I am staying at Holloway House, and this is their livery.” He turned that assessing gaze on Dancer and the curry brush in her hand. “They have staff to see to that, you know.”
“I prefer to do it myself,” she said, drawing herself up straighter. “Dancer means a great deal to me, and where I come from, a person sees to his or her own horse. It’s a personal obligation that begets a personal bond. You take care of your horse and your horse takes care of you.”
“And does he?” He had that look in his eyes, that bone-melting, meet-me-in-the-hayloft kind of look. “Take care of you?”
“He will if the time comes,” she said, wishing the varmint wasn’t so close or so tall or so damned male. Parts of her she was determined to ignore began to tingle. Unrepentantly. Curse his broad, nubile lips.... It was something of a task to watch him talk without licking her own in anticipation. As she struggled with her responses, he moved closer and ran a hand over Dancer’s hip and down his flank.
“Beautiful animal,” he murmured, closer still. Then his gaze transferred to her and his deepening tones invaded her skin. “Every line pure perfection.”
“You don’t have to be much of a judge of horseflesh to see that.” She took a step back, scowling. “He’s the best damned stallion in the state of Nevada . . . maybe in the whole western U.S.”
“Quite a claim.” He slid closer, watching her like a hawk does a rabbit.
She retreated around Dancer, giving his head a stroke as she ducked beneath the stall rope. “My daddy—God rest his soul—was a keen judge of horseflesh and bought a couple of Arabians to breed into our quarter horses. Midnight Dancer, here, is a result.” She busied her hands with the brush, giving Dancer long, firm strokes that hid the way her hand trembled. “Strength and nimble footwork paired with increased endurance. Silver River horses are known all the way to Sacramento and San Francisco.”
“Silver River?”
“The name of our ranch: Silver River. That’s what water looks like coming down over rocks in the mountains. Pure silver. And that’s where our money came from: silver.” She looked up from brushing and he was ducking under the stall rope himself, running hands over Dancer like he was in a buying mood. She’d nip that in the bud. “He’s not for sale.”
“Everything has a price, Silver Girl.” He stopped by her shoulder and she could feel his gaze on her. Every inch of her skin came alive with expectation; she had gooseflesh in places she didn’t want to think about. Curse his hide. Against her own better judgment, she lowered her hand to her side, staring straight ahead, waiting to see what would happen.
She wasn’t sure what to expect, but it wasn’t the way he ran a knuckle down the side of her face as if he were memorizing it. Nor was it the way he withdrew enough to touch only the wisps of hair the wind had teased out of place during her ride. Along her face, then by her ear, and along the nape of her neck . . . it tickled. Deliciously. It made her want to lean into his hand. She swallowed hard, resisting, until he gave a low, nerve-tingling laugh . . . a wicked sound that said he knew exactly what was happening in her.
Varmint. He was using her own impulses against her, hinting that he knew things about her, maybe things she didn’t know about herself. Well, she did know, all too well, how responsive she was to tall, dark men with bad intentions. But knowing didn’t stop her from turning to face him and looking up into those handsome autumn-forest eyes. What she read there surprised her; sensual gamesmanship, certainly, but also flat-out curiosity.
And there was something else in his eyes, something that had nothing to do with his purpose here. It was desire. He truly wanted to kiss her, exactly the way she wanted to kiss him. Then she knew: this desire, this longing for a taste of the forbidden, was going to dangle between them until the deed was done and the impulse laid to rest.
Damn it.
Taking a deep breath, she tilted her head, raised her face, softening her mouth in an unmistakable offer. Down came his face, his lips parting as they met hers, and she plunged headfirst into a potent stream of sensation.
Warm and soft and yet firm and responsive, his mouth made heat bloom in her core and streak down the backs of her legs. Sweet Nevada, it was perfect the way he fitted his mouth to hers and coaxed her lips apart. She swayed and shifted on her feet, widening her stance. Only their lips were touching, but her whole body responded with an urge to mold against him and absorb every sensation his tall, muscular frame could offer.
His tongue traced the opening between her lips with light, tantalizing strokes that drew her deeper into the kiss. And suddenly her hands were sliding up his chest and gripping his lapels, hauling his mouth harder against hers. Tilting her head, she searched for more delicious variations and found them, soft, delicate pairings and firm, passionate matings with those lush contours. He tasted faintly of coffee with a hint of sweetness. It was lovely, unlike anything—anyone—she had tasted before.
When his mouth slid from hers and across her hot cheek she was too intoxicated to think of ending it. His mouth glided down her ear, his breath hot, and he pressed his lips against the sensitive side of her neck. She had unbuttoned her collar and the top button of her blouse in the warmth of the stable and now he nudged it aside to explore the tender skin at the base of her throat. She had the vague sense of him releasing yet another button, and sagged against whatever was holding her up. He nudged aside her blouse and nibbled her skin, sending shivers through her that lodged in her breasts and started a fire in their tips. Closer—she wanted him closer—
Sounds from outside the box stall penetrated her pleasure-stuffed senses as he straightened and looked toward the stall’s open door. Voices and the clop of hooves down the center alley jarred her back to reality. She was caught hard in Ashton’s arms and was pressing against him like she was trying to climb inside his skin.
“Good God,” came a voice that with only two words managed to announce the officious nature of its owner. “Ashton Graham, is that you?”
* * *
Ashton released the delectable Daisy like she was a hot poker and for a moment almost panicked. Her collar was askew and blouse buttons had been loosed, her lips were kiss-reddened, and her eyes were wide and dark-centered. His own face was hot and his lips felt thick and conspicuous. Damn and double damn. Anyone who saw them now . . . He shoved her frantically behind the horse and turned just in time to face Reynard Boulton.
The wretch had followed him to Oxford.
“Whatever are you doing here?” Reynard’s voice carried a hint of accusation as he poked his head through the stall opening. “I thought you were headed to Sussex to attend Uncle Seward’s birthday fete.”
Ashton forced a taut smile, knowing that Reynard’s gaze missed nothing when he was on the hunt.
“Had to stop by my old mentor’s house for a chat, first,” Ashton said with a calmness that surprised him. “Huxley’s gone rustic, and I’d hoped to convince him to abandon such nonsense and resume his chair at Queen’s.”
“And did you convince him?” Reynard stepped inside the stall and craned his neck to look around Ash, searching for whoever had been entertaining him moments before. Ashton folded his arms and leaned in the direction Reynard was looking, to interfere with his view.
“Hardly. The old boy’s balmy. Donated his entire collection of source documents to the Bodleian. Now spends his days nursemaiding cows and spouting rubbish about ‘keeping’ the earth and the nobility of animals. A tragic waste. Annoying as hell to have to listen to.”
“Well, I was worried there for a minute that you’d joined him.” Reynard slid around him to focus on the impressive beast behind him. “Damned fine horse, old boy. A new acquisition?”
“It is not.” Daisy Bumgarten stepped around the horse with a brush in her hand and engaged Reynard with a tart look. “This is my horse, Mister—”
“Boulton. Reynard Boulton, at your service.” The Fox nodded gallantly and looked to Ashton to complete the introduction.
“May I present Miss Daisy Bumgarten of Nevada. That’s in—”
“The States, yes, I know.” The Fox smiled a bit too broadly as he approached Daisy and accepted the hand she offered. “I’ve heard of you, Miss Bumgarten . . . that you’re something of a horsewoman.”
“I would be pleased to answer to that description, Mr. Boulton,” she said, her smile warming over the wretch’s elegant features and striking eyes. She had managed to restore her buttons and smooth her hair, but nothing could have blanched the color from her lips. She looked like she’d been eating cherries all day and the juice could still be savored on her lips. Reynard’s gaze slid to Ash’s clamped mouth.
“What brings you to Oxford, Reynard?” Ashton demanded, hoping to divert him.
“I’ve a nephew—my eldest sister’s boy—being hooded.” He transferred his gaze back to Daisy. “She’s asked me to look in. I say, Miss Bumgarten, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Are you staying here at Holloway?”
“I am. The countess insisted it was the best place to stay in Oxford.”
“The countess?” Reynard stepped back to take her in, inspecting her behind a gentlemanly smile. “And which countess would that be?”
“Lady Evelyn Hargrave, of course,” Daisy said, matching his scrutiny with a boldness that surprised Ashton. “Countess of Kew. An old friend of the family and my guide through the deep waters of London society. And how do you know Lord Ashton, Mr. Boulton? Are you a friend of his brother’s?”
Ashton smiled at the brief flash of irritation in Reynard’s eyes. The Fox, heir to an old title, would not stoop to correcting her address, but he was vain enough to take umbrage at being termed a mere “mister.”
“We were at school together, Ash and I, then at university,” Boulton said, retreating into superiority. “Though he lingered long after I left.”
“Old friends.” She gave Ash an inscrutable smile. “Then you’ll have a dinner companion tonight.” She turned her back on the pair to finish brushing down her horse.
Ashton schooled his face to a cultivated indifference and strode out of the stable. Inside, he was simmering. Damned high-handed of her to dismiss him like a stable boy after he’d just saved her from ignominy at the hands of society’s most ruthless gossip hawk. She should be kissing his—
“So you see?” Boulton caught up with him on the hotel path. “She has set her sights higher than a ‘spare,’ after all.”
“Damn you, Boulton, for barging in where you’re not wanted. You have the most abysmal timing.”
And the bastard laughed.
“It’s a gift.”