Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

H azel struggled along the sandy path, bordered on either side by tall seagrass. Lifting her skirts, she shook them free of sand, nearly losing her footing in the process. Thankfully, the dress was old, a sprigged muslin that had seen better days. Ruining it further wouldn't matter. She'd packed the dress specifically to wear while exploring the beach a short walk from Maria's home.

The other guests had departed an hour earlier for a day in Appleton and would not return until late in the afternoon. Once the flurry of carriages had left, Hazel had slipped out of the house and started down the path leading to the beach.

She looked up at the line of cliffs and then back to the waves lapping at the shore. Not a soul in sight. Which was splendid since Hazel was not in the mood for company. Not after the revelations of the previous evening. Nearly everything Hazel had assumed about August wasn't true. He hadn't been the cause of the Dartmonts leaving Pensford. Nor had he been a prancing dandy in uniform intent on seducing every woman he came across.

Instead, August Wade had been an angry child who had just lost his entire family and been foisted on an uncle who didn't want him. A soldier who had survived Quatre Bras, but barely. Saved Everhurst. Nearly died.

August was also quite clever with his tongue, and she wasn't referring to his wit.

After last night, there was no denying the attraction between them, as unlikely as it had at first seemed. She'd toyed with the idea of allowing him to seduce her all during dinner the previous evening. And after the events in the garden— a head of white-blonde hair notched between her thighs —Hazel wasn't opposed to taking August as a lover. The house party would only last a few more days, which meant their affair would have a time limit.

August was in the market for a wife, and Coraline seemed the most obvious choice. Nearly everyone else at the house party, including Maria, thought the two would make a match. Or there might be another young lady awaiting his return to London.

"The point being," she puffed at the incline of the sand, trying to keep from tumbling to the beach below, was that Hazel was…still Hazel . A spinster. Older. A girl from Bristol by way of Pensford, whose only notable quality was her wealth. Marriage had no place in her life. She'd decided long ago.

They could never be anything more than lovers. The distance between them socially was far too great. A short, brief dalliance to pass the time at a house party. Nothing more. Completely acceptable. No matter the history she and August had together which had, oddly enough, created some sort of…bond between them. An unexpected one.

She took a deep gulp of the sea air, scanning the sandy expanse. Nothing but deserted beach and a crab or two scuttling about. A large piece of driftwood sat a short distance away, the perfect spot to leave her clothing.

Good. Hazel hadn't come all this way to not swim in the ocean.

Stripping off her hose, half-boots, and dress, she set everything neatly aside and, clad only in her chemise, started towards the waves. She tilted back her head, smiling at the feel of the sun on her face and the sound of seagulls somewhere to her left. The freckles on her cheeks were bound to become more prominent. She'd forgotten her bonnet, once again. Lady Leek could spend the entire evening decrying Hazel's lack of porcelain skin.

The hem of her chemise grew wet from the waves and flapped against her ankles. She shook out the thin fabric with a frown. "This is entirely unnecessary."

Hazel once more searched the bluff above the beach. Nothing stirred. Would it be so bloody terrible to swim naked? It wouldn't be the first time she'd done so. Swimming unclothed was really for safety, she reasoned. Her chemise would weigh her down in the water. She could very well drown.

"How scandalous you are, Hazel Dartmont," she giggled. Making her way back to the driftwood, she tossed off the chemise and laid it beside her other things.

Running to the ocean's edge, Hazel jumped in, stifling a scream at the chill of the water. This was exactly what she needed. The sun. The sea. A scattering of seagulls. No enormous Viking to confuse her thoughts. She walked out until the water was at her waist and rolled over on her back. Smiling, she floated, eyes closed, lazily paddling about, careful not to go out too far. This was peaceful. Necessary.

Something teased at the end of Hazel's toes.

She wiggled her leg, shaking off whatever little fish had gotten curious, and settled back in the water once more.

Another tickle trailed along the bottom of her foot. Then something slimy wrapped around her ankle.

She shrieked, thinking of eels or something equally unpleasant. Hazel might adore the sea but not everything that inhabited it. Thrashing her foot about, she tried to dislodge whatever had a hold of her. A wave struck her from behind, sending her back into the water, before she popped back up, spitting out seawater.

A long strand of seaweed was stuck to her arm.

Laughing, Hazel flung the strand away. She'd been living in London far too long if the sight of seaweed had her squealing. She was about to resume her floating, but the skin of her knees had turned red. And the edge of one shoulder. Best to return to the house. She slogged forward but stepped on a shell, lifted her foot, and found a tiny crab nibbling on her big toe. Shaking it off, another wave hit, and she lost her footing.

Good grief .

Her father would be so disappointed. He'd taught her to swim, reminding Hazel to never turn her back on the ocean. Or any body of water, really.

Another patch of seaweed clung to her breast and arm. She shrieked in laughter, plucking away the slimy green tendrils just as another wall of water covered her head. Hazel was still giggling when something that was not seaweed wrapped around her waist.

August marched along the path considering Miss Hazel Dartmont. Stork. The draper's daughter. The heiress he was determined to wed.

A vile curse came from him.

Things would be far easier if he'd just created a scene in the gardens last night. A scandal would have ensued, but it would have moved things along. After releasing Hazel, August had found Kent and Garland meandering along the path. One breathy moan, and this entire house party could have been over. Lady Leek would use the scandal to threaten Hazel's charity work. August would step in to do the honorable thing. Hazel's endeavors would be saved as no one denies a duchess.

Simple.

"I couldn't." Another curse left him.

Not after the way she'd fallen apart with his mouth on her. He could still feel the clutch of her fingers in his hair. The soft sounds she'd made. The idea of harming her, even if Hazel ended up a duchess, had lost what little appeal it had once had. Especially after knowing she'd resented him for nearly two decades. Blamed him for her father uprooting her to Bristol, where her mother had died.

August could argue things had turned out fine for the Dartmonts in the end. But he doubted Hazel would see it that way. At any rate, scandal was out of the question.

Which left seduction and an encouragement of affections.

There was a tiny pinch of guilt at the thought of manipulating Hazel and her emotions, but August countered it with the fact that he wanted her and the fortune attached to her skirts.

Which should have made him feel like less of a cad.

It did not.

Eliza had been displeased by his decision to not join the other guests in Appleton today, but August hadn't thought he could stand hours in Lady Leek's company, with Coraline dangling from his arm and Garland casting aspersions at his character. Eliza wanted him to offer for Coraline and be done with it.

August had asked bluntly what had occurred at Eliza's debut to put Everhurst off. Clearly, the viscount was interested in her.

That had shut his cousin up. She'd spun on her heel and made her way downstairs to join the others for the excursion to Appleton without another word about Coraline or Hazel.

August suspected Everhurst had wanted Eliza after dancing with her at her come out, but the third son of a viscount, which Everhurst had been at the time, simply hadn't been good enough for the daughter of the Duke of Courtland. He could easily see his uncle waving Everhurst off Eliza with such an excuse.

When the last of the carriages had finally pulled away this morning, August had come down the stairs, assured himself no one else was around, and asked the best way to get to the beach. He liked the water. Ships. Barges. Anything that could float. It was a wonder he hadn't joined the Royal Navy.

A light breeze blew across his face, bringing the scent of salt and a memory of the day he had left for the Continent. Edward had seen him off, admonishing August to not get himself killed. Then his cousin had stumbled back to his carriage, lifted the flask of brandy he'd carried, and toasted August, nearly falling out of the vehicle in the process.

August had loved Edward. He'd been more brother than cousin. But Edward had been a sot. Frivolous. Careless with money. Unkind to those who served him. His opinion of the world formed by his place in it. August had been the immoral rake. He had been expected to debauch women and play cards. Nothing more. Maybe that was why he'd asked for a commission. Because no one had thought him capable of anything else. Or possibly it was because in observing his cousin that day, he had already decided not to become like Edward.

August reached up and absently itched at the scar beneath his ear. The ridged line curved along the back of his neck, then jagged unevenly down the length of his spine to his waist.

I never wanted that fucking title.

Staring out over the ocean, August thought back to those last real days of his childhood, before everyone had left him. August's little sister, Daisy, had been first. Then his mother. Father next. The entire staff had perished with them save for the butler. He'd been so bloody angry at being alive he had taken out his fury on anyone he could find. Particularly a defiant, gangly village girl who was several inches taller and filled with righteous indignation.

Looking down at the beach, he was surprised to see a head bobbing up and down in the water in distress. A cry sounded in the air before the head disappeared below the waves. A plea for help.

August didn't think, only acted. He raced down the trail leading to the beach, pausing only to stop and take off his boots, flinging them at a piece of driftwood, barely noting the stockings, shoes, and dress all carefully folded atop, before tossing off his coat.

He flung himself into the water, which wasn't terribly deep, at least not for him. Storming through the waves, he swam to the spot he'd seen from shore. Tendrils of dark hair floated on the surface of the water until another wave crashed against the shore.

A woman. Drowning.

Worried it might already be too late, August dove into the water, grabbing her waist with one arm and pulling her to his side, praying she wasn't already dead. What sort of idiot swam alone? She was fortunate he'd come along before she was dragged to the bottom of the sea.

He half dragged, half carried her to shore, relieved when she coughed. Struggling against him, she slapped at August, the tangled mass of dark hair and seaweed covering her face. Several vulgar words came from her. Seawater sprayed him. Furiously, she plucked the wet hair off her nose and cheeks. Dark eyes glared at him. Even the tips of her breasts appeared furious.

"You muttonhead. What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" she croaked.

August had difficulty hearing her—he was far too busy staring at her nipples, which were the same hue as the underside of an oyster shell. The color easy to ascertain because she was naked .

"Stork," he barely got out, taking in the long, gorgeous length of her before him.

Dear God . Look at that beautiful quim.

She shrugged out of his arms and marched over to her chemise, throwing it over her shoulders. A wasted effort because the thin fabric, now clinging to her wet skin, hid little. The dark triangle between her thighs teased him, encouraging a host of wicked thoughts.

"You were floundering about," he drawled, assured Hazel was perfectly fine. His gaze ran up and down her body, resisting the urge to flick one impudent nipple taunting him through the chemise with his thumb. "I offered aid."

"I was in no danger of drowning. I've been swimming since I was six," Hazel snapped at him, brushing back a heavy strand of wet hair. "Did I appear to be floundering?"

"My mistake." August bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "Apologies."

"You nearly strangled me."

"You screamed."

"I had seaweed"—she pulled a length from her head—"wrapped around my ankle. Then a crab nibbled at my toe. I was startled. Nothing more."

The chemise had slipped down one shoulder, the small, taut peaks beneath the material begging to be noticed.

August reached out and brushed a bit of hair over her ear. "Where is your bonnet, Stork? Your cheeks are burned." He traced the line of her freckles. Something in his chest tightened, looking at her.

She narrowed her eyes. "Do my freckles still offend you, Your Grace?"

"No," he said softly. "I long to press my tongue to each one." His finger trailed along her shoulder. "You are only out of sorts." Probably because he'd fished her out of the ocean in a state of undress.

Hazel made a derisive sound and plopped down on the driftwood. Her toes dug into the sand, feet slender and graceful like the rest of her. The arch of her foot, in particular, August found to be exquisite.

"Stop staring at my feet," she snapped.

Oh, yes, terribly out of sorts.

"I know they are overly large." Hazel looked him in the eye, daring August to say differently. "Every shoemaker in London is aware."

"I wasn't thinking that at all." Prickly thing. He stuck out his own foot, which dwarfed hers. "I have my own issues, as you can well imagine."

"Dear lord." She couldn't stop the giggle coming from her lips. "You appear to have small boats attached to your ankles. Even as a child, I recall that your feet were enormous. You waddled about like a duck."

"I did not waddle like a duck. More an oversized pear."

The annoyance faded from her eyes. "How does a bootmaker manage to find enough leather for such an enterprise?" She nodded at his feet.

"I only use those who have their own cattle on hand, as much leather is required."

Another giggle came from her. Girlish and full of light. August basked in the sound.

"I think I feared ill-fitting boots more than anything else on the Continent. Replacing them was difficult. And I needed proper boots when I attended balls and rode my mount about, showing off my uniform."

"I've apologized, Your Grace." She looked away, brow wrinkling. "I should not have said something so far from the truth. Nor mocked you for your sacrifice. Even I can see that Quatre Bras has stayed with you."

August inhaled softly, surprised she had discerned so much. His chest tightened once more as he watched a drop of water fall from her hair and slide down her collarbone. Without thinking, he leaned forward and licked up the bit of seawater with his tongue.

A soft sound came from his Stork. Because that was how August had begun to think of her. His. "Your Grace."

Her wet skin tasted of salt. "August." His fingers curled into the wet tangle of her hair. "I wish you to call me August." Then he gently brought his mouth to hers.