Chapter 2

Muriel clambered over the wall and crouched beside the crumpled rider. He lay hatless, face down in the grass, and she put a tentative hand to his shoulder.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "My friend is a doctor. Lie still, and I'll fetch him. It will only be a moment."

The man rolled over, his palm and fingers pressed to his eyes.

"Lucy?" he groaned.

"No." Muriel sat back on her heels. "Is that your wife? I'll fetch her if you like."

The man made a low, negatory sound of distress. After a decade of travels through harsh and varied terrains, Muriel had learned the rudiments of first aid. If necessary, she could clean and dress a wound, no matter how gruesome, trusting that her nerve wouldn't fail. In this instance, there was nothing gruesome to confront. The man's skull was intact. He'd given it a good knock, though—how good a knock she couldn't say.

James could say. But where was he?

She looked behind her. Stone wall. Blue sky. Two white gulls hanging in the air. James wasn't vaulting toward them, and those three artists weren't either. Were they so absorbed in their painting they'd missed the bells, the crash?

"Sophia," murmured the man.

"Erm." She looked back at him. "No."

"Clara?"

"No."

"Margaret?"

She narrowed her eyes and swept him with a glance. He wasn't particularly large, but he was well-muscled, his body encased in gray trousers, white waistcoat, gray jacket, and mauve cravat. It was emphatically fashionable attire, better suited to promenading in Hyde Park than cycling through Cornwall. It suited him very well. His hand covered the middle of his face, but the angles of his jaw and the full lines of his mouth made it easy to anticipate the rest.

He was attractive as sin.

"Phoebe," he sighed.

"You're delirious," she told him, and paused. Delirious, and in his delirium calling out for…

Well, Lucy wasn't his wife, and she doubted Phoebe was his mother.

She was flushing slightly as she continued. "I am Muriel Pendrake."

"Muriel." He rolled his head from side to side, demonstrating an encouraging lack of neck fracture. "Muriel. With the little garret in Chelsea? You can see the river from the bed, through the French lace curtains…"

He had a husky voice and it trailed off as his lips tipped up in a faint smile.

She frowned. "Not that Muriel. You've never been in my bedchamber, I guarantee it. And not least because I don't have a residence in London."

She tried to speak briskly and without judgment. The man was quite possibly concussed. And if he'd been in the bedchamber of every woman who did have a residence in London, as seemed increasingly likely, it wasn't her concern.

"Can you move your arms and legs?" she asked. "Is anything broken? Wiggle your toes."

"Muriel." He didn't move, his stillness more pronounced and thoughtful. "Muriel. I paid the ransom for your pug. Princess. That was her name."

"I don't have a pug." She couldn't help it. Briskness edged into exasperation. "And if I did, I wouldn't call her Princess." She paused, breathing a bit too hard. This semiconscious man possessed peculiar powers of annoyance.

She reminded herself that semiconscious required certain concessions.

"I am sorry," she said, "to hear that Princess was dognapped, and I'm sure it was very kind of you to pay the banditti."

"Yes," the man agreed, and lapsed into a silence so protracted she wondered if he'd transitioned from semiconscious to completely insensible.

"Muriel," he whispered. "With the ticklish knees?"

"Oh, for God's sake." She bit her lip, annoyance battling with curiosity. Raised in the country and married young, she'd never before met a bona fide rakehell, unless you counted the gin-soaked second sons who slimed around British legations, or the occasional dapper diplomat.

This man was a different variety altogether. He belonged in the pages of a romantic novel, everything about him louche and seductive.

How many Muriels had he bedded? For that matter, how many Marys and Elizabeths?

She decided on a safer line of inquiry. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

The man spread the fingers that covered his left eye, and she saw a gleam of iris before his fingers snapped closed.

"I can't say. It's terribly bright."

She scowled and leaned over him. A lock of chestnut hair flopped across his forehead. She'd have to push it back in order to tell if a knot was forming.

She brushed at his hair with her fingertips. It was soft as silk, its thickness and slight curl giving it spring. His skin felt hot.

No abrasion. No swelling.

She realized she was hovering over him, rather as though he were a tide pool, enticing her with the promise of beautiful secrets. This embarrassing thought didn't trigger any impulse to pull away.

Her nostrils flared as she detected his scent, not heavy cologne as she'd expected, but something bright and fresh, similar to the delicious fragrances of the West Country summer itself—green leaves, sea air, sun-warmed heath.

She leaned closer. All at once, he lowered his hand and looked her straight in the eye. His eyes were gray, framed with long black lashes. Their gaze was piercing.

"What are you doing?" he asked, and she toppled backward, cheeks flaming. What had she been doing, indeed?

"I was inspecting you," she answered, with as much dignity as she could muster. "For injury. I assumed you were delirious. But perhaps that's the way you talk usually?"

"Perhaps. Were you bowled over by my charisma?" He rolled onto his side, propping himself on his elbow, angling a glance at her from under those lashes. "I'm usually charismatic."

"Then you must have been delirious."

"There's a blow." He grinned. "You were doing such a marvelous job nursing until now. I should call you Florence."

"You've called me by several names already." She gave him a tight smile.

"Apologies." He rose to sitting with a wince. "There must be a mental equivalent to the funny bone. I think I hit mine on that stone. My thoughts went odd. I couldn't place your voice."

"Because you'd never heard it before." She felt obscurely outraged. "We don't know each other."

He was looking around him, scrubbing a hand through the disordered waves of his hair. "And I couldn't recall where I was. Has that ever happened to you? It's a sensation I associate with early mornings, when you first wake up, and everything is shadowed, and innumerable rooms seem to exist at once, superimposed. The door is to your left, or the door is straight ahead. There's a garden outside the window, or a busy street, or…"

"The river in Chelsea," she interrupted. "I think I understand why you might feel some confusion upon waking."

Rakes didn't blush, of course. But this one was regarding her with increasingly acute focus.

"Oh?"

"All the women." She cleared her throat. "The various garrets."

"I only mentioned one garret."

"You're a rake," she said, annoyed again. "I'm sure the garrets have been multiple. But the same thing does happen to me. I wake up bewildered."

The admission surprised her. It wasn't that she wouldn't have revealed such a thing to James, but the opportunity hadn't arisen, and so she'd never spoken of the minor disorientations she experienced daily.

She'd lived for so long without fixed address, in hotels, in makeshift camps, in houseboats, in farmhouses, in the mansions of expatriates, politicians, and grandees. Not to mention the cumulative months at sea. The bed was narrow in James's guest chamber, and all last week, she'd woken expecting the floor to sway.

The rake was still regarding her.

"I very much want to discuss this bewilderment. But something else you said weighs upon me."

No doubt.She grimaced. "I'm too blunt."

Her tendency for frank speech got her into trouble. She tried to temper directness with good humor, which softened sharp remarks and reduced insult—sometimes.

Results were mixed.

The rake didn't look insulted exactly, but his scrutiny had a sharp edge.

"Ignore what I said," she suggested.

He didn't. "You called me a rake."

Drat.

"Yes." She sighed. "I'm aware."

He folded his arms. "So. Am I a good rake or a bad rake?"

"I can't say." She folded her arms. "The terms want defining. Besides, we've established I don't know you."

"You know me enough to know I'm a rake."

It scarcely required pointing out, but…

"You listed a half dozen women in fewer minutes," she said, "with reference to their beds and knees."

"In my defense, we've also established I was delirious at the time." He paused. "I referenced a pug as well."

"You referenced saving a pug. I suppose that makes you a good rake. Unless you perform good deeds to bad ends? That's not uncommon."

He shook his head gravely. "Saving a pug is an end in itself."

Her laughter burst out. It was the deep, loud, grating laughter that her husband, Esmé, used to loathe. But she couldn't hold back. The rake—good or bad—was powerfully annoying, but there was something disarming about him too. His inflated self-regard had a tongue-in-cheek quality. All told, he seemed a frivolous, harmless young man, whose pretty looks would serve him worse, in the end, than anyone else, providing him with a substitute for character, leaving his inner resources entirely undeveloped. Probably he was rich, and it didn't matter much one way or another.

He was grinning at her again.

About those pretty looks…

He was attractive as mortal sin, the kind worth the hellfire.

Those other Muriels hadn't stood a chance.

Thank the Lord, she wasn't susceptible to rakes, merely intrigued by their ways.

"How would you define good rake?" she asked. "If that's what you aspire to be."

"Good rake," he repeated. Either he shifted forward, or the intensity of his gaze gave the impression of narrowing distance. His face filled her vision.

"A good rake defies social mores." He spoke softly. "He defies them not only to free himself but to free others. He's not debauched so much as divergent. If he falls below the prevailing moral standard, it's because he's a fugitive from morals, searching for other fugitives, with whom he can forge a new kind of ethic, based on a love that knows no shame." His lips curved. "A good rake loves love, shamelessly."

She'd stopped breathing. The sun blazed overhead, and it didn't seem impossible, in her parched, dazzled state, that she'd suddenly combust.

"Well," she managed, a rasp in her voice. "You do seem…shameless."

"Thank you," he said.

She looked away. The grass was flattened where he'd sprawled. He'd barely missed the nettles. She could feel him watching her, and her throat constricted.

An image rose in her mind, the green bottle in that disapproving gentleman's picnic basket, the beads of condensation on the glass.

Her chin snapped up.

"Margaret," she said. The rake was watching her. She met his eyes.

"Muriel," he corrected. "You're Muriel. I'm not delirious any longer. I know your name, and that you don't live in Chelsea, or own a pug. As for your knees…"

"They're not ticklish," she responded automatically.

He tipped his head. "For some reason, I don't believe you."

"Fine. They're moderately ticklish. There is a more ticklish region of my person, but I won't reveal its location on pain of death."

His gaze traveled over her, palpable as touch. It didn't tickle. It set her nerve endings on fire.

Clearly, something had walloped the mental equivalent of her funny bone.

She shouldn't loll in a field with a rakehell, however perversely interesting the experience. She should fetch James, as she'd intended. She would fetch James.

But not quite yet.

"You mentioned Margaret," she returned to the previous topic, "and a Margaret walked by, not twenty minutes ago, with a George."

"Her husband?"

"Presumably."

"You're wondering if she's the Margaret I mentioned? And perhaps—wondering more generally if I conduct adulterous affairs?"

He didn't mind inappropriate questions. No, he encouraged them. His eyes were gleaming.

She nodded, disquieted by her nosiness but unable to curtail it. "Does a good rake respect the sanctity of marriage?"

"It depends," he drawled. "Wrong Margaret, by the way." For a moment, he ran his knuckles lightly over the clover, back and forth. His eyes grew brighter. "Are you married?"

"I was." Her inexplicable elation faded. This conversation had gotten entirely out of hand.

The rake seemed about to speak.

"My husband died," she said abruptly. "A long time ago now."

She stood, to avoid the awkwardness of condolences—too rapidly. Sparkles danced in the air around her, and she swayed.

"There you are. Muriel!" James came striding up to the stone wall and set down the basket. "Are you scouting for land plants? I call foul play. You gave me your…hullo." His voice dropped an octave. "And who is this?"

The rake was standing now, at her elbow, holding her elbow, to keep her steady.

Muriel inhaled and stepped away.

"I'm not sure," she said to James. "I've been calling him the rake."

"How jolly. I hope he seduced you." James leaned over the stone wall, squinting. "James Raleigh. I've been prescribing seduction to Muriel for years."

"Does she follow the doctor's orders?" The rake looked between James and Muriel, adjusting his jacket. His white waistcoat, Muriel noticed, was embroidered all over with white lilies.

"Ha," James retorted. "Never. She's a terrible patient."

"I seduced him, if you must know." She almost clapped a hand over her mouth. Botheration. She knew better than to let James goad her into absurdity. The rake couldn't mind, though, could he, if she imputed to the situation a little extra rakery?

"It was incredibly impulsive of me," she plunged on. "And thrilling. And it didn't involve plants. So, Dr. Raleigh. I believe I've heard the last from you on the subject of my summer activities."

"You seduced him?" James raised a brow.

Muriel dared a glance at the rake. He'd also raised a brow.

"Just slightly," she said. "But it counted."

"Slightly," echoed James. "What does that mean, exactly? A slight seduction?"

What indeed?

She shifted her feet, cheeks flaming.

"It was like…" She cleared her throat. "A low dosage of seduction."

"It was like this," said the rake. His voice vibrated in her ear, and she startled. She hadn't realized he'd moved so close. The air around her felt different. It buzzed. Some part of her wondered if bees were circling her feet, but she couldn't tear her eyes from his face.

His gaze drifted down, lingered on her mouth. His irises—they were a subtle shade of gray. The muted, moody color—the only subtle thing about him.

Her breath stopped.

Slowly, he leaned over her. His lips touched hers, the pressure light and warm. She froze, then her lids fluttered down, plunging her into velvety darkness.

This was a kiss. Dear God, how long had it been?

Some voice inside her answered instantly.

Forever.

How long since she'd felt this?

Forever. Forever and a day.

Heat streamed through her. She was melting. She must be melting, because the rake's muscled arm wrapped her waist and he was holding her upright, already lifting his head away, breaking the kiss. Their mouths had only been in contact for the briefest of moments.

Her eyes flew open.

"More or less like that," said the rake, turning his head to James, who looked flabbergasted.

Muriel broke away and stumbled back, heart pounding. The rake was looking at her now—no, smirking at her.

"You can thank me later," he said, too low for James to hear, and winked.

"He hit his mental funny bone," she blurted, as though this could explain everything, her behavior as well as his.

"Sounds serious." James appraised the rake narrowly. "Did you lose consciousness?"

"No." The rake shrugged. "My trousers are ruined, but that's the worst of it." He glared down at his grass-stained knees, then straightened. "Pleased to meet you both. I'm Kit Griffith."

His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.

He was older than she'd thought, within a year or two of her age, perhaps three and thirty. His skin was fine-grained, but lines bracketed his mouth.

His mouth.

Muriel swallowed with difficulty.

The rake's gaze was knowing. He flicked it back to James.

"You're also visiting from London?" James asked.

The rake—Mr. Griffith—approached him.

"Permanently. I live here." His chin pointed toward the basket. "You're on a picnic?"

James snorted.

Muriel shook herself and started forward…just as another bell began to ring.