Chapter 11
Arsy varsey: To fall arsy varsey, i.e. head over heels.
A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue
Francis Grose
The Cotswolds
24 March 1812
Unlike her twin sister Olivia, Mariana didn’t fall in love with her husband at a ball or anywhere near the glittering flow of the ton. If she were to characterize Society as a set of colors, its palette would glow bright gold and hard platinum.
In direct contrast stood the place where she fell for Nick: a color palette of soft ambers and gentle greens, the palette of the countryside.
As the younger brother of Mariana’s father, the Earl of Surrey, Uncle Bertie had been entitled to the Cotswolds estate that had been part of their mother’s dowry. From the earliest age, Mariana loved traveling to Little Spruisty Folly.
To get to the heart of the estate, one turned off the main road and rode for more than half a mile down a wide lane flanked on either side by stately horse-chestnut trees before one caught sight of the main house. Although neither house nor grounds were “little,” and neither a single folly nor a solitary spruce pine were to be found anywhere on the entire estate, the name somehow fit the sprawling house constructed with various architectural styles, ranging from the original Tudor to the latest Georgian. It was a patchwork quilt of a house, and one not soon forgotten. One could easily become lost inside its jumble of rooms for hours, days, and even weeks.
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 just be. 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 his Morning 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 of her first 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 was him. And he was . . . naked.
A quick patter of heartbeats, and it set in that Lord Nicholas Asquith was swimming naked in 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. This was the feeling that inspired scandal. This was the feeling that upset the balance of the world. This was the feeling that ran the 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 about her, 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.
Still, he watched her, silent and self-possessed.
Annoyance stabbed through her. It was difficult for her to control the impulse to break through someone’s self-possession. As a child, she would pinch the ever-poised Olivia just to ruffle her feathers a bit. That same urge poked at her now.
Fueled by whim, she seized the pile of clothes and hugged them close to her chest. A scent of deep, rich spice and utter male reached her nose, and she inhaled, eyes closed as her lungs filled to capacity with him.
On the exhale, her eyes flew open. The right corner of his mouth tilted up into an almost-smile. His arms began moving in a languorous breaststroke motion, pulling him toward the shore . . . toward her . . . in slow, deliberate increments.
Mariana’s heart became a hammer in her chest, imploring her to run away. Whatever was she thinking? She was out of her depth.
Her capacity to reason through the situation evaporated when his feet found purchase on the pond’s floor, and he began emerging from the pond. Water streamed down rivulets formed by the sinewy muscles of his arms and chest, descending ever lower to his corded belly, following the fine trail of hair that coursed even lower.
Heart racing, she lifted her eyes to meet his already upon her, daring her to again feast her eyes upon him. He may have been as naked as a Greek god, but she felt like the exposed one.
She wanted to look away. No, that wasn’t true. She didn’t want to look away. She should look away. Propriety and modesty demanded it. But she was neither proper nor modest, ever drawn toward the wild and unknown. Even so, she was shocked by his unhurried stride toward her . . . naked.
His gaze held hers within its enigmatic grasp, and her knees went to putty. He and she might be the only man and woman on Earth. She’d never been especially attentive to her catechism, but the tale of Adam and Eve came to mind. Except standing before her wasn’t Adam, but a man both serpent and fruit, both tempter and temptation. All she had to do was reach out and . . .
The spell broke when he stopped within a foot of her and removed his clothes from her compliant hands. His fingers brushed hers, sending a tingling sensation through her body. An emotion unfamiliar to her crossed his features, but it was gone before she could consider it.
Later, she would know it as his responding desire. On this day, however, her thoughts moved on when he turned and strode to a sun-soaked patch of grass, softly intoning Horace’s name, and reaching down to ruffle the loose skin beneath the traitorous beagle’s chin.
Trance-like, she watched in fascination and horror as he lay his greatcoat flat on the ground and then himself atop it—on his back, eyes closed as his body, every single inch of its long length, soaked in the dewy sunlight. Not once had he displayed a care for her presence or concern that she might feast her eyes upon him. And what a feast on display. All of him was long and lean except for, well, his male member was certainly long, but lean it wasn’t. In fact, it seemed to be growing . . . thicker . . . by the moment.
A wave of hot, wet embarrassment swept over her, and she swiveled around, her back decisively to him, her cheeks burning. “Lord Nicholas, I must ask that you clothe yourself.”
Her ears picked up the rustle of movement behind her, and she felt both relieved and strangely let down.
“It’s safe to turn around now,” she heard after a minute or so.
She risked a glance over her shoulder before turning fully to face him. He’d donned his trousers and shirt, but the shirt was open to his waist, revealing the fine trail of hair that led directly to his—
“You are,” she began, her voice cooperating only with great difficulty, “returned.”
“Just yesterday.” He stretched his legs out in front of him. “Would you care to join me down here?”
For all his casual and confident display, she detected a note of apprehension in his tone. It was appealing, that apprehension. It made him more human, less god-like, accessible. It drew her in, and before she knew it, she was sitting beside him, her shoulder just brushing his. Her entire universe collapsed to that single point of contact.
“I have something for you that I happened upon during my travels,” he said as his hand reached inside the pocket of his greatcoat and emerged holding a shiny object in his open palm.
She leaned in closer. It was a necklace, given the length of gold chain coiled within his palm. But that wasn’t what drew her interest. Within the nest of gold lay an oval-shaped pendant that appeared to be a cameo of . . . her.
On a gasp, she straightened and met his gaze. “You didn’t just happen upon this during your travels.”
Opaque, stormy gray held her in its thrall. “I commissioned Pistrucci to engrave it when I was in Rome.”
“Rome,” she whispered, her breath caught in her throat. “But how did he render my likeness so accurately?”
“I provided him a sketch.”
“Done by?”
“Me.”
“From the memory of one night?”
He nodded once.
He was so different from every suitor she’d had to endure over the last year. Lord Nicholas Asquith wasn’t consumed with promoting himself. He was thoughtful, considerate, and beyond handsome. That was the moment she knew: they were destined for each other.
“Yes,” she stated simply, boldly.
“Yes?” An amused light entered his eyes. “But I haven’t asked you a question.”
“You asked a year ago.” She wouldn’t let him go. Not ever. “And now you have my answer.”
With that, she snatched the cameo out of his open palm and sprang to her feet. She trotted down the embankment, her pace increasing with each step. When she reached the edge of the clearing, she couldn’t resist one last look back to confirm he was real.
There sat her future husband, the very model for Adonis. Powerful. Confident. Thoughtful. Considerate. Those were words for him. Beautiful was another. Older was yet another. But not too much older. He was experienced older, not aged older. Just perfect older.
In that instant, her fall was complete: she was headlong in love.
“And Nick”—She decided that very moment he would be Nick to her—“you must make haste to London and ask my father for my hand. I won’t endure another Season on the marriage mart.”
Then she’d whistled for Horace and hastened down the trail before Lord Nicholas, Nick, could contradict her and say his proposal a year ago had meant nothing. With every step she took, she felt not the earth beneath her feet, but clouds. Her feet might never touch terra firma again.
Even now in Paris, with so many years between that day and this one, what she’d felt then—the desire in her belly, the confirmation in her heart—echoed within her when its memory beckoned. She could hate herself for it.
Nick broke her heart once; she wouldn’t allow it to happen again.
His first love was espionage. She didn’t figure into the equation, never had really, and she’d never known why. Now that she did, she wasn’t certain knowing was any better. Along with knowing came understanding. And she didn’t want to understand Nick because close on the heels of understanding could follow sympathy.
She must protect herself from that insidious feeling, a feeling that could lead her nowhere good or safe. It might lead her to believe in the possibility of perfect moments again. And possibility was a delusive feeling to pair with Nick.
Tonight’s second spy lesson needed to remain a business partnership. She was his spy. Any other partnership was unthinkable.
Last night, she’d mastered duplicity and guile. In the coming days and lessons, she would use them to her advantage, not only for the mission, but for her heart.
Her fingers slid along her clavicle and traced a path down to the place where the locket usually lay. She no longer believed in the hollow lure of possibility, but a small part of her, a part secured inside a lost locket, was grateful for proof that it once existed.