Chapter Seven

“M y goodness!” Lady Mirella declared. “It really does look like a lion hovering protectively over a lamb.”

“You sound surprised,” Byron said to her. “I told you Helm Crag had these two profiles.”

She looked at him dubiously. “You also said the first one we saw looked like an old lady at the organ.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “I told you that is what the locals call it. The fact you could not conjure her and her instrument? Well, that is lack of imagination on your part,” he teased.

She swatted at him playfully, stirring his blood. He reminded himself to hold back. He wasn’t supposed to be enjoying this time alone with her. Byron had mapped out his future—and it did not include a place for Lady Mirella Strong in it.

Still, she had been wonderful company on this ride. She was effervescent and enthusiastic about life, easy to be with. Slowly, he saw how she was drawing him out, and he liked the person he was when he was with her.

They chatted about the rock formation a moment, and then he spontaneously asked, “Would you care to go to the top of Helm Crag in order to take in the view? It is not a difficult climb up the fell, as other paths in the Lake District can be. Then again, I know it is not what most ladies would be interested in doing.”

She smiled at him, and it was like the brilliance of the sun consumed him.

“I am not some wilting flower, Lord Bridgewater. At heart, I am a country girl. While I may not be the tomboy that Pippa and Effie are, I am comfortable walking and riding great distances. You do not have to treat me as if I am a fragile hothouse flower who might die if challenged to climb a hill.” She held out her arms. “Besides, it is the perfect day for a walk.”

Then she looked about. “Perhaps we might tether our horses over there.”

“Yes. Splendid idea,” he said, dismounting from Apollo.

Byron went to her, reaching up and clasping her waist, bringing her to the ground. He caught a floral scent on her skin and wished he could bury his nose against her long, slender neck.

They attached their reins to a nearby bush, with Lady Mirella stroking her mount, saying, “We will not be gone long at all, Lady. I promise you fresh water and a large bucket of oats when we return to Benbrook.”

She then leaned in and pressed a kiss to the horse’s nose, her actions bewildering him.

They began the walk up Helm Crag, and the conversation flowed smoothly between them. Byron could not remember the last time he had enjoyed himself so much in anyone’s company.

When they reached a spot familiar to him, he stopped. “That is the rock Dorothy Wordsworth, sister to the poet, used to perch upon. She would write down the poems that her brother dictated as he moved about, drinking in nature.”

“Truly? I must sit upon it.”

Lady Mirella sat upon the rock, placing her palms flat on it behind her, tilting her face up to the sun. Byron thought her even more beautiful than when they had first met and attributed it to knowing more about the kind of person she was.

She opened her eyes and smiled mischievously. “I would record whatever poems you spouted, my lord, but I am afraid I have neither pencil nor paper with me today.”

He laughed easily. “Then we must come back another time when we are both more prepared.”

They continued moving up the fell, the sunshine strong for the early September day. For once, no threat of rain was in sight. Byron had gotten used to the unusually heavy amount of rainfall that occurred in the Lake District.

“Oh, how I wish I had been able to bring my paints with me,” she declared.

“You paint?”

She laughed, a rich sound that he was quickly becoming addicted to.

“I most certainly do, my lord. While I admit to spending hours at my pianoforte, I also have a bit of an artistic bent. I have been painting landscapes for several years now, and I am only venturing into the world of portraits. I did not want to bring my paints with us, knowing we would only be in the Lake District for about ten days, traveling from one destination to another. I did not want us to be tied to any one place for too long while I painted it and the others merely sat and watched me do so.”

Jacinda would not have cared if she kept others waiting. Byron knew the girl to be selfish. He chastised himself inwardly, telling himself not to continue comparing these two women. His mind was made up. He would do his duty to his father and create the family the old man had wanted established between the Balfours and the Bowles.

“Effie will definitely want to walk to the top of this fell,” Lady Mirella continued. She grinned. “She will regret not having brought her breeches on this trip, though.”

“Lady Effie wears... breeches ?” he asked, appalled at the thought that instantly came to him. It was not Lady Effie in breeches he visualized. It was Lady Mirella. He pictured how easy it would be to stroke her rounded bottom if she wore a tight pair of breeches, as well as admire the outline of her shapely legs in them.

Mentally shaking off that thought, he said, “I am surprised that your father allowed your sister to wear men’s clothing.”

She snorted. “His Grace did not pay a bit of attention to the six of us. Girls held no interest for him.”

“Then I am surprised your mother did not try and rein in Lady Effie.”

An exasperated noise came from Lady Mirella. “You sound as if you are judging my mother very harshly, my lord, and that is the last thing I will tolerate from anyone. Mama did her best to support all of us, no matter what endeavor we chose to pursue. Yes, Pippa and Effie were always the tomboys of the family, the more adventurous of the six girls, but Mama is—and always will be—supportive of whatever we do.”

She paused and then giggled, a sound which delighted him. “Besides, you have met Effie. Do you believe that anyone could tell such a headstrong young girl what to do—or not do?”

She laughed, and Byron joined in that laughter, not recalling the last time he had laughed. It felt so freeing, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Growing serious, she gazed upon him and said, “You should smile—and laugh—more often, Lord Bridgewater. It suits you.”

He felt heat flush his cheeks and could not believe he was blushing at what she said.

Was she flirting with him?

They reached a set of stone stairs, which were a bit steep, and he offered his hand, saying, “Let me help you up this staircase. I do not wish for you to slip under my watch.”

She laughed merrily. “I do not wish to slip and fall either. After having done so in Hyde Park on wet grass and having to wear that cast for a couple of months, I hope never to break a bone again.”

Placing her hand in his, he clasped it. Warmth rushed through him. It was the oddest of sensations, partly physical pleasure, and yet emotional in nature, as well. Holding Lady Mirella Strong’s hand seemed the most natural thing for him to do. Regret filled him because he would have given the world to pursue a relationship with her. She had grown up in a large, loving family, with many siblings and cousins surrounding her. Her idea of family was one Byron wished he might create for himself.

The children he and Jacinda would have, however, would be very different from these Strongs. He intended to become fully involved in his children’s lives, but his heart told him he would never become friends with Jacinda, much less think to love her.

They reached the top of the stone staircase, yet he kept his hand around hers, even entwining their fingers now. Blood rushed to his ears, the whoosh so loud and pounding that he hoped she would not speak because he would never hear a word she said.

With a few more paces, they stood at the top of Helm Crag and paused, gazing out across the landscape. He heard Lady Mirella’s quick intake of breath as she studied the spectacular view from the summit.

This was the longest she had been quiet this morning, and he reveled in the silence and her presence by his side. Byron believed he could die happy at this moment, being in her company and holding her hand.

Finally, she quietly said, “If anyone ever doubted God’s presence, he would merely have to come and stand at this spot and take in this magnificent view.”

He heard the awe in her tone.

“No wonder Mr. Wordsworth made his home for a time in Grasmere. To think he stood at the very place we stand now is almost beyond my comprehension. His talent is immense because his words capture so much of the beauty of the Lake District, Grasmere, in particular.”

She closed her eyes and breathed in and out. Byron watched her do so, and the need to kiss her filled him.

Opening her eyes, she gazed out at the land again. “I am trying to commit it all to memory so that I might paint it when we return to Kent. I find myself agreeing completely with Aunt Matty. That there is no place lovelier in all of England than here.”

Once more, she closed her eyes, frowning slightly, and he knew she was trying to capture the sight before her in her mind’s eye. He studied her face, lovelier than any view they would see today, and decided he could not go on until he had kissed her.

Their fingers were still joined, so with his free hand, his placed his palm against her cheek, cradling it. Before she could react, Byron bent, his lips grazing hers.

Touching the magic that was Mirella.

He brushed his lips softly against hers, gently because he doubted she had ever been kissed before. She did not stiffen, however, nor did she protest his actions. Slowly, he gave her a full kiss on the lips, a tender one, one which he would treasure for a lifetime.

Reluctantly, he broke the contact between them, his mouth still hovering above hers, not wishing to part from this woman.

Suddenly, her free hand grasped his nape and pulled him down again to her. Their lips collided. Hunger for this woman filled him. Byron decided if this were to be the only time they would ever be alone together—the only kiss his memory would ever hold—then it should be a proper one.

He released her fingers, his arm going about her, pulling her to him. Her soft, rounded breasts pressed against his chest as he kissed her hungrily. One kiss bled into another. They became increasingly harder, as need rippled through him. She did not object in the slightest, her fingers now playing with the hair at his nape, sending delightful tingles through him.

Byron thought of the old phrase, in for a penny, in for a pound, and decided to change the nature of the kiss. He broke it and ran his tongue along her full, bottom lip. Again, she voiced no objection, and so he used the tip of his tongue to coax open her mouth. Then his tongue plunged inside, and he began feasting upon the nectar within. He drank his fill of her, leisurely exploring her. Her reaction was timid at first, then her confidence grew, and she began to answer his kiss, becoming bolder. Their tongues began to war with one another, and he tilted her head, deepening the kiss, gaining domination over her. She made soft, mewling noises in the back of her throat, causing his cock to respond.

That was when Byron finally came to his senses.

Breaking the kiss, he looked down upon her. She opened her eyes, and though she appeared slightly dazed, he could also see satisfaction in them.

He couldn’t help himself. He kissed her again, hard, one last time.

Then he broke the kiss for good and studied her. Their breathing was more excited than from the journey they had made to the top of Helm Crag. She gazed upon him, not saying a word.

“I am sorry I took such liberties, my lady,” he apologized, releasing her.

Her jaw dropped. Then disappointment filled her eyes. “You just ruined the most beautiful moment of my life with your banal apology, my lord.”

The words left Byron speechless. He had merely wished to apologize for his rash behavior, but she looked at if he had wounded her deeply.

“My advice to you in the future when you are kissing a woman? Do not make her feel as if she is the most desirable creature in the world, only to tear her down with an insulting apology.”

Lady Mirella turned quickly from him and began to descend the path. Byron followed meekly, thoroughly chastised, regret filling him. Regret for apologizing for what had been the most meaningful moment in his life, as well. And yet even more regret because it would never be possible to be with this woman, one who was as beautiful inside as she was outwardly.

Even when they reached the stone staircase, she did not acknowledge his presence nor seek to take his hand. She managed to get down the steps quite nicely on her own, and he thought her an interesting dichotomy of the grace and beauty favored by the ton and yet the country girl she had spoken of being.

They returned to their horses, Lady Mirella stroking her mount and telling the horse how much she had missed her. Byron had never spoken to a horse as it if it were a person, and he found the practice odd—but intriguing.

“Let me assist you,” he said, finally breaking the silence between them.

She gave him a withering look but did not protest when he raised her into the saddle.

He, too, mounted Apollo and then asked, “Would you like to go into the village now, my lady?”

“No,” she said crisply. “I am done with our time together, my lord. I wish to return to Benbrook immediately.”

Her sharp tone caused an ache within him. He wanted to continue spending today with her—the only day alone they would ever have—and hated for things to end between them on such a sour note.

Then an idea came to him. “What of Lady Effie’s gingerbread? Grasmere is known for baking this sweet. I thought you mentioned it might be something your sister would appreciate. I am certain you would do anything to cheer her up.”

Byron saw that he had played the correct card. That family would always trump any individual feeling Lady Mirella might possess.

“Very well. We will ride to the village and buy Effie some gingerbread. Then we will return to Benbrook.”

“While we are in the village, we can also stop by St. Oswald’s, as Uncle Hugh suggested. Dove Cottage, where Wordsworth and his family lived, is nearby. Surely, you would like to take in those two places?” he tempted.

He waited a long moment before her reply came. “Very well. You may show me these two places, as well, my lord. That way I can discuss them with Lord Benton.”

Happy to claim even a small victory, Byron turned his horse and headed toward the Dove Cottage.