Chapter Eight

T he sun bathed Hyde Park in a warm, golden glow, casting dappled shadows beneath the rustling leaves of the ancient trees. Lottie and Thatcher had moved from the bench and sat side by side on a blanket, their scripts spread out before them. The soft breeze carried the sweet scent of autumn leaves and the distant laughter of children playing. Yet despite the idyllic surroundings, an undercurrent of tension hung in the air.

Lottie scrutinized Thatcher as he sketched a lazy pattern in the grass with his finger, avoiding her gaze. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss, that there was more to his reluctance to collaborate than met the eye. “Why are you avoiding my questions, Thatcher?” she said, finally breaking the silence.

He glanced at her briefly, his moody, enigmatic eyes filled with an inscrutable mixture of emotions. “I’m not avoiding anything, my lady,” he replied, his voice smooth and composed. “I’m merely considering the best approach to our play.”

Lottie’s skepticism deepened. She had expected their collaboration to be challenging, but she hadn’t anticipated Thatcher’s evasiveness. “Considering, or stalling?” she countered.

Thatcher leaned back on one elbow, his lips curling into a sly smile. “Perhaps a bit of both,” he admitted.

Lottie’s cheeks flushed with a mix of irritation and determination. She refused to let Thatcher undermine her confidence. “I didn’t agree to work on this play to watch you twirl your quill and make idle conversation,” she declared. “I want to create something remarkable, something that will captivate the audience, and mesmerize the king. But I can’t do that if you keep evading my questions.”

Thatcher’s smile faded, and he regarded her with a newfound intensity. “Remarkable, you say?” he said, taking on a more serious tone. “Very well, let’s discuss our play. What are your thoughts on the central conflict of our story?”

Lottie seized the opportunity to redirect their conversation toward their shared project. She leaned forward. “I envision a clash of ideologies,” she began, her words flowing with enthusiasm. “A struggle between tradition and progress, where our characters are torn between the constraints of Society and their desire for personal freedom.”

She observed Thatcher closely. He seemed to be dancing around the plot, avoiding her questions and scoffing at her ideas. She couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that something was amiss, that Thatcher was hiding something from her. He continued to avoid concrete suggestions.

Lottie’s patience wore even thinner, and she couldn’t help but feel that he was hiding something from her. “Thatcher,” she said, her frustration clear, “why won’t you just work with me? This is something we both must do.”

*

Thatcher, instead of confessing his writer’s block, chose to feed her a string of lies, trying to charm and distract her. He leaned in closer. “Lady Lottie, there’s something you should know,” he whispered. “I find myself rather distracted in your presence. Your beauty, your wit—it’s all quite overwhelming.”

Lottie raised an eyebrow, not falling for his ploy. “Mr. Goodrich, this is hardly the time for such distractions,” she replied. “We have work to do.”

Thatcher’s smile only widened as he leaned in closer, dangerously close to her lips. “It’s Thatcher,” he murmured. “Sometimes a touch of distraction can lead to unexpected inspiration.”

She leaned in closer, her lips tantalizingly close to his, and batted her eyelashes with exaggerated coyness. “Why, Thatcher, are you suggesting that we should indulge in distractions for the sake of inspiration?” she replied in a sultry tone, her fingers lightly tracing patterns on his arm.

Thatcher’s eyes widened slightly. He had not expected her to reciprocate his flirtation. He had thought to disconcert her, but instead, the tables seemed to have turned. His voice grew huskier as he played along. “I must confess, I find your proposal rather tempting,” he murmured, moving his hand closer to hers.

A small chuckle escaped her lips. Christ, he enjoyed this playful banter.

“Oh, Thatcher, we wouldn’t want our collaboration to suffer because of distractions, would we?” she teased.

He chuckled, the tension between them momentarily forgotten. “Very well, let’s save the distractions for later,” he conceded, leaning back and returning to a more serious demeanor.

Lottie was obviously satisfied that she had managed to redirect their focus to the task at hand. He could tell that she knew there was something amiss with him, but for now, she would let him believe that she had fallen for his charming distractions.

Foolish him, he’d take it.

*

Back and forth it went, Thatcher unable to engage his mind in any substantive way to produce words worth a shilling. He blamed it on the sunlight and the woman sitting next to him. “Stop trying to make this play about you. This is the tenth version of a female attempting to corrupt the male-dominated structures of society that you’ve mentioned. Matters of the heart, I tell you—that is what the people want.”

“And I suppose you know about matters of the heart?”

“Enough to write about it, certainly.”

“Really?” she asked, tipping her head to the side as she gazed at him thoughtfully. “Have you ever been in love?”

The question jolted him right in the chest. “I, um,” he started, but struggled to find his voice.

She looked away. “That’s what I thought.”

Was that dismissal? Had she just dismissed him?

This lady knew nothing. “Her name was Fiona,” he answered quietly. Honestly. Why, he wasn’t sure. “I was not yet twenty, but I offered her father everything I had in exchange for her hand.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” Thatcher shrugged. “My everything wasn’t enough. Her father married her to the second son of a baronet soon after, and I never saw her again.”

Silence hung in the autumn air for several heartbeats.

“I’m sorry that happened to you. That sounds awful.”

Thatcher shrugged again. “It was a long time ago. I’m well past it.”

“Still…” The look she gave him had his breath catching in his chest.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, unable to take his gaze from hers.

In a blink she closed the distance, and her lips met his, lush and full of innocence.

“Lottie,” he growled, and drove his fingers into her thick, glossy hair to hold her steady. Taking the lead, he lightly swept his tongue against the seam of her lips, inviting her to open for him.

Open for him, she did. With her hands gripping his wrists, Thatcher felt her melt into him, her body ripe and firm and perfect against his. Her head tipped further back as she clung to him and made sweet sighing sounds. Sounds he would replay over and over in his mind later in the privacy of his bedchamber.

He explored her mouth, memorized her taste. Rich and robust and darkly sweet. Oh, so very sweet. “Lottie,” he whispered roughly against her kiss-swollen lips. “I want to touch you everywhere.”

She released a long, dreamy sigh and leaned in for another kiss. “That sounds nice.” Her lips, so warm and plush, met his once more.

Everything inside him seized as lust sprang from deep within and poured through his body like molten metal. “Careful,” he warned. She had no idea how much he desired to do just that. Right there in Hyde Park.

Thatcher wanted nothing more than to stretch her naked body out in the grass and touch her, taste her, everywhere.

Everywhere.

“Runaway dogs!” a shrill voice cried, shocking him from his primal inclinations and needs.

“What?” Lottie mumbled, her voice slurred with the headiness of passion.

“What the devil?” Thatcher glanced over her shoulder and gasped. “Get down!” he demanded, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and dragging her to the grass. “Shite,” he cursed. “Shite!”

At least twenty dogs were headed their way at a dead run.

Covering her with his body, Thatcher did his best to protect her from the rogue dog pack. “Don’t move,” he said into the crook of her neck. With luck they would run right around them and he and Lottie wouldn’t be trampled.

“Runaway dogs! Beware!” cried the voice again, closer this time. “They’re after that rabbit!”

A fuzzy blur shot by the corner of Thatcher’s vision, and he braced for the thunder of paws soon to follow. They came within moments, the dogs determined to chase down their prey. “It’s okay,” he assured Lottie as he felt her tremble beneath him. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

Barking and thundering paws surrounded them as the dog pack descended upon them.

“King’s dogs, everyone! Runaway dogs!” The voice came from right next to them now as someone huffed and panted their way past. “Oh, I’m in so much trouble for this! Chester, why can’t you stop? You’re the lead dog!”

Thatcher’s shoulders began to shake as laughter bubbled up in his chest, replacing the sense of alarm.

“Bad dog! You’re a bad dog, Chester!” the voice called out as the pack raced off through Hyde Park.

Lottie chuckled beneath him. “Well, that was exciting,”

“It most certainly…” Thatcher trailed off when he realized one of his hands was covering her breast. Her very shapely and full breast. “…was,” he finished lamely. Quite suddenly his mouth felt dry.

“You can get off me now.”

He could. He should. Yes, he most definitely should.

But he didn’t want to.