It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers #2)(44)

A cool, calm voice seemed to cut through the cloud of nausea. “Miss Bowman…”

Desperately looking in the direction of the voice, she saw Lord Westcliff’s impassive face. “Yes, my lord?” she asked thickly.

He seemed to choose his words with unusual care. “Forgive what may seem a somewhat eccentric request …but it occurs to me that now is the most opportune time to view a rare species of butterfly that abides on the estate. It comes out only at early evening, which is, of course, a departure from the usual pattern. You may recall my having mentioned it during a previous conversation.”

“Butterfly?” Lillian repeated, swallowing repeatedly against a surge of nausea.

“Perhaps you might allow me to show you and your sister to the outdoor conservatory, where new hatchings have recently been sighted. To my regret, it would necessitate that we abstain from this particular remove, but we will return in time for you to enjoy the rest of the supper.”

Several guests paused with their forks in mid-air, their expressions registering astonishment at Westcliff’s peculiar request.

Realizing that he was giving her an excuse to leave the dining hall, with her sister accompanying them for propriety’s sake, Lillian nodded. “Butterflies,” she repeated breathlessly. “Yes, I would love to see them.”

“So would I,” came Daisy’s voice from the other end of the table. She stood with alacrity, obliging all the gentlemen to courteously hoist themselves up from their chairs. “How considerate of you to remember our interest in the native insects of Hampshire, my lord.”

Westcliff came to help Lillian from her chair. “Breathe through your mouth,” he whispered. White-faced and sweating, she obeyed.

All gazes were upon them. “My lord,” one of the gentlemen, Lord Wymark, said, “may I ask which rare species of butterfly you are referring to?”

There was a slight hesitation, and then Westcliff replied with grave deliberation. “The purple-spotted…” He paused before finishing, “…dingy-dipper.”

Wymark frowned. “I fancy myself something of a lepidopterist, my lord. And while I know of the dingy-skipper, which is found only in Northumberland, I have never heard of the dingy-dipper.”

There was a measured pause. “It’s a hybrid,” West-cliff said. “Morpho purpureus practicus. To my knowledge it has been observed only in the environs of Stony Cross.”

“I should like to go have a glance at the colony with you if I may,” Wymark said, setting his napkin on the table in preparation to rise. “The discovery of a new hybrid is always a remarkable—”

“Tomorrow evening,” Westcliff said authoritatively. “The dingy-dippers are sensitive to the presence of humans. I would not wish to endanger such a fragile species. I think it best to visit them in small groups of two or three.”

“Yes, my lord,” Wymark said, obviously disgruntled as he settled back in his chair. “Tomorrow evening, then.”

Gratefully Lillian took Westcliff’s arm, while Daisy took the other, and they left the room with great dignity.

CHAPTER 10

Lillian was nearly overcome by nausea as Westcliff took her to an outdoor conservatory. The sky had turned plum-colored, the gathering darkness relieved only by starlight and the flares of newly lit torches. As the clean, sweet evening air swept over her, she gulped in deep breaths. Westcliff guided her to a cane-backed chair, exhibiting far more compassion than Daisy, who staggered against a column and shook with spasms of laughter.

“Oh…good Lord…” Daisy gasped, blotting tears of hilarity from her eyes, “your face, Lillian…you turned as green as a pea. I thought you were going to cast your crumpets in front of everyone!”

“So did I,” Lillian said, shuddering.

“I take it you’re not fond of calf’s head,” Westcliff murmured, sitting beside her. He extracted a soft white handkerchief from his coat and blotted Lillian’s damp forehead.

“I’m not fond of anything,” Lillian said queasily, “that stares back at me just before I’m supposed to eat it.”

Daisy recovered her breath long enough to say, “Oh, don’t carry on so. It only stared at you for a moment…” She paused and added, “Until its eyeballs were flipped out!” She convulsed with mirth once again.

Lillian glared at her howling sister and closed her eyes weakly. “For God’s sake, do you have to—”

“Breathe through your mouth,” Westcliff reminded her. The handkerchief moved over her face, absorbing the last traces of cold sweat. “Try putting your head down.”

Obediently Lillian dropped her forehead to her knees. She felt his hand close over the chilled nape of her neck, massaging the stiff tendons with exquisite lightness. His fingers were warm and slightly rough-textured, and the gentle kneading was so pleasant that her nausea soon faded. He seemed to know exactly where to touch her, his fingertips discovering the most sensitive places on her neck and shoulders and nudging cleverly into the soreness. Holding still beneath his ministrations, Lillian felt her entire body relaxing, her breathing turning deep and even.

All too soon she felt him easing her back to an upright position, and she had to bite back a protesting moan. To her mortification, she wanted him to continue stroking her. She wanted to sit there all evening with his hand on her neck. And her back. And …other places. Her lashes lifted from her pale cheeks, and she blinked as she saw how close his face was to hers. Strange, how the severe lines of his features became more attractive every time she beheld them. Her fingers itched to skim along the bold edge of his nose, and the contours of his mouth, so stern and yet so soft. And the intriguing shadow of his night beard. All of it combined in a thoroughly masculine appeal. But most appealing of all were his eyes, black velvet warmed by torchlight, framed with straight lashes that cast shadows on the dramatic planes of his cheekbones.