Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

O n the second day of the party, the sun shone brightly, the bees buzzed merrily, and birds chirped in the trees. It was, in short, as perfect an example of an English spring day as Frances had ever seen in her life. It was the kind of day that defied anyone who lived in it to not enjoy themselves.

Well. Frances enjoyed a challenge every now and again.

Her mood was practically its own thundercloud as the house party's guests made their way to an idyllic, picturesque lake and the extravagant picnic laid out before it.

She knew she wasn't hiding it well—Lady Mary had given her a few quizzical looks—so she meandered away from the sumptuous blankets and pillows laid out by the servants who had set up in advance of the partygoers' arrival.

The Marquess of Oackley was a liar .

"I won't bother you," she muttered under her breath as she walked along the edge of the lake, kicking in frustration at any rocks that dared to put themselves in her path. "I believe that you won't tell anyone about my stupid affair."

As far as imitations went, it was a poor one, and that only made her more cross.

"Stupid, stupid, bloody liar ," she seethed, kicking a particularly hard rock and only managing to bruise her toe in the process. "Ow!"

Could nothing go her way?

Why did the countryside have to be so full of grass and stones and other natural things that jabbed one in the foot and made one's nose stuffy? Mankind had invented cobblestones for a reason and those who thought otherwise were spitting in the face of progress.

She conveniently, in that moment, forgot every unpleasant thing she'd ever seen on the streets of London. A paved road was synonymous with dignity, as far as she was concerned, and she sneered at all this grass.

She stomped over to a dock that extended out into the lake, truly enjoying her little snit. It didn't look terribly well maintained, but she was beyond caring.

Sometimes one just really had to give in to one's bad mood. And today was one of those days, because that awful marquess had sat near her at breakfast and given her looks .

And then he'd hovered near her in the drawing room, giving her smirks .

And then, on the walk to the lake, he'd—well, he'd been behind her, so she hadn't known exactly what he was up to. But she could feel his eyes on her and so she'd known he was up to something .

It was, all in all, the precise opposite of leaving her alone.

"Lady Frances, what are the odds of finding you here?"

She jumped at his words; she'd been sufficiently lost in her ill temper that she hadn't heard him approach.

She whirled, irritation flaring, to find him looking at her with an arched eyebrow. The look was, she recognized, more teasing than malicious, but she scarcely cared.

She was absolutely sick and tired of his stupid, handsome face.

Could odious men not be considerate enough to be ugly? It would really be doing everyone a favor.

"Oh, good," she said, voice dripping sarcasm. "It's you. Just who I hoped to see."

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost like he was fighting back a smile. The thought was appalling.

Fortunately, his tone was entirely deadpan as he responded, "You wound me, my lady."

"Oh, I do not," she huffed, turning her back on him and gazing out over the lake. It wasn't bad, she supposed, as far as lakes went.

Oh, very well; it was beautiful. Sheer perfection. It was only the company that was bothersome.

"What are you doing out here, Frances?" he asked.

"Lady Frances," she corrected, the words tasting prissy in her mouth. She simply couldn't listen to him use her given name. It made her…remember things.

He was unimpressed with her effort to create emotional distance between them, if his smirk was any indication, but he inclined his head in acquiescence.

"I amend: What are you doing out here, Lady Frances?" he inquired pointedly.

Drat. It had not sounded any less intimate when he'd used her title, not when he did so in that low purr of a voice.

At least she wasn't looking at him. No doubt it would be ever so much worse if she were looking at him. She kept her eyes on the lake, its blue waters lightly ruffled by the wind. She could only hope to be half as calm ever again, if this pesky marquess had anything to say about it.

"You are not my keeper, my lord," she said tersely. "What I am doing is none of your concern."

Something of the teasing lilt had left his voice when he spoke again. "Frances. This isn't safe."

There were, Frances knew, a thousand things that gentlemen got to enjoy while ladies were busy learning how to sit elegantly pour tea just so. Cheroots, perhaps. She'd never once wanted to smoke a cheroot, but she wouldn't be allowed to if she changed her mind, and that was the height of injustice. Nor were ladies allowed to carouse, go to clubs, or drink spirits. And that wasn't even getting into the truly great matters like holding their own property and voting and the like.

At the moment, the restriction Frances felt most keenly was this: gentlemen were allowed to hit things. They had fencing clubs and boxing rings. And lord only knew they hit each other frequently enough. Frances had three brothers. She'd seen it.

She really wished she had been given some Society-approved mechanism for hitting things. Because she really was legitimately concerned that she was about to hit the Marquess of Oackley.

In an effort to channel her ire into something slightly less violent, she whirled on him with a glower, fists clenched at her side.

"I don't know why you care ," she spat, voice low and poisonous. "You have made yourself perfectly—and repeatedly —clear that you neither trust me nor like me. That is fine."

It was not, Frances reflected privately, the least bit fine, but her desire for the Marquess of Oackley to like her was so far down her list of problems that it scarcely merited a mention.

"But you cannot," she went on, hoping this time she would finally penetrate his abnormally thick skull, "both insist you want nothing to do with me and follow me about, blathering on about my safety. It simply does not make any sense!"

"Frances!"

This time, it wasn't the marquess who spoke.

It was Frances' mother.

For a moment, Frances considered throwing herself bodily into the lake. She might drown, given the weight of her skirts, but she was a strong swimmer. Maybe she'd escape! She could start a new life on the other side of the lake. It was probably nice over there. It was certainly better than this dock, where her mother was storming towards her, the gleam in her eyes promising retribution for her sins.

"I am appalled at your behavior, Frances Johnson!" her mother scolded furiously, moving briskly forward. "My lord, I apologize—I don't know what is wrong with her?—"

Lady Reed stepped onto a wooden plank just so—just wrong , as it happened—and Frances was left to wonder if perhaps she had some heretofore undiscovered power of foresight because suddenly, she was falling bodily toward the water. Time slowed as she realized her mother was falling, too.

They were both going into the lake and Lady Reed's favorite bonnet, the one with the feathers, would be ruined. She would be so cross over it.

The world upended again and suddenly Frances wasn't falling. She blinked at the marquess who had saved her—who had had enough time to save only one of them, she realized as her mother hit the water with a resounding splash .

And who had chosen Frances.

He scowled at her, already kicking off his boots, shucking his jacket and waistcoat.

" This is why I told you it was unsafe," he said sourly.

And then before Frances could process his words—or that he had been taking off his clothes, right here, in public —he dived elegantly into the water.

Which merely left Frances with one more thing to gape at, her expression no doubt comically foolish.

Lady Reed was flailing, screeching, but for all that the countess was making matters far more difficult, the marquess managed the rescue neatly. He cut through the water in a few powerful strokes, caught the woman under the arms, and began towing her to shore, completely ignoring the way she continued to carry on.

People were running, Frances saw. The other party guests. They had seen what had happened and they were running. Winchester was in the lead.

It was the sight of their host, moving deftly despite his stylishly tailored clothing, that spurred Frances to her own action. She hurried back to firm land, being careful not to place her feet on any loose boards. The last thing this debacle needed was another body in the water.

She reached the shore only moments before Lord Winchester, with Lord Hounton, also shockingly spry, close on his heels. Neither man looked excessively worried, which only made Frances worry more. Her mother would loathe the looks of mild amusement that both men were poorly attempting to hide.

Not that Lady Reed was liable to notice. Now standing in the shallows, she was letting out great sobs of distress as she waded to shore, looking like nothing more than a drowned chicken, what with the drooping feather that hung over her left eye.

"Mother," Frances said, cautiously reaching out a hand. "Are you all right?—"

"I cannot even look at you, Frances, you awful, wretched girl!" her mother shrieked, throwing herself dramatically into Lord Winchester's arms. He caught her at the last moment, his look of surprise fleeting before he covered it with his usual smooth charm.

"There, there, Lady Reed, you're all right now," he soothed. His tone was calm, but Frances saw him steal a glance toward Lord Reed who was approaching without undue haste.

Frances' cheeks burned as her mother's sobs rose in volume and pitch. It was one thing to know for herself that her parents considered her to be naught but a nuisance, but it stung very differently to know others were witnessing their disdain, as well.

"You're all right, then, too, Oackley?" This was Lord Hounton, looking out toward the lake. "Mighty heroic of you, that was."

Frances turned to thank her mother's rescuer…

Only to have the words die in her mouth as she took him in.

The marquess was… Well, he wasn't actually naked. He'd taken off clothes, yes, but he still wore a shirt and trousers, which was really all the clothing that was strictly required, wasn't it? Frances told herself that it was—told herself as much very sternly, in fact—even as her brain insisted on feeling that the marquess might as well have been naked.

"Yes, well," the marquess grumbled, slicking his hair back from his face and squeezing some of the water out of his sleeves. "Couldn't let the poor lady fend for herself."

The fine lawn of his shirt was practically transparent, and it clung to the planes of his chest like the caress of a lover. Frances marveled at it. She understood suddenly why men wore so many layers. They needed to, if they looked like this underneath. How else were people meant to go on with their days? It was clearly impossible to do so when there was such an astonishing, indecent, incredible display at hand.

"Have you gotten your fill of gawking, then?"

Her eyes must have already been as big as saucers, but no doubt they grew wider as she raked her gaze up to the marquess' face. He was mocking her, certainly. But he also looked intrigued, somehow.

There was something about that look that seared Frances, that made her feel like she was the one being examined. She shivered which was, again, foolish; she hadn't gone into the water, due to the marquess' quick actions.

But he'd looked at her somewhat like this in the moments after he'd kissed her. And her body remembered. Oh, how it remembered.

She felt certain her cheeks were flaming. Other parts of her felt hot, too, parts she dared not name, especially not while in public.

Frances blinked rapidly, forcing her gaze away. "I beg your pardon," she murmured. "I was just taken aback by your impressive rescue." He gave a faint, incredulous snort, as if to say that he knew it wasn't the rescue she'd found so impressive. "Thank you for helping my mother."

There was a pause in which Frances' embarrassment was so great that she felt certain it was a visible aura around her. The whole situation had been bad enough, and then she'd had to go and get caught gaping at him like a child with her nose pressed to the window of a sweet shop?

Embarrassment didn't begin to cover it, really.

"Nobody else saw, Frances," he said lowly, and that grain of kindness broke her. She could not abide his pity, not after everything .

She raised her chin, clenching her jaw until it hurt. "Thank you again," she said, not looking directly at him. "I have to go tend my mother, now."

And she turned her back on him like the coward she was, rescuing Lord Winchester from her mother's desperate clutches. She half carried, half dragged Lady Reed back to her husband, who was still meandering his way around the lake as if he were out for a pleasant afternoon stroll. Lady Reed sniped at Frances the entire way, slapping feebly at her grip.

Frances did not falter until she'd delivered her mother into her father's arms. She did not pause.

And, most of all, she did not look back.