Secrets of a Summer Night (Wallflowers #1)(34)

“Both. Although the earl’s arrogance just may edge out Mr. Hunt’s—which I call a truly impressive feat.”

They stared at each other in shared disdain for their departed visitors, and suddenly Annabelle laughed irrepressibly. “They were surprised, weren’t they?”

“Not nearly as surprised as we were,” Lillian rejoined. “The question is, how are we to face them again?”

“How are they to face us?” Annabelle countered. “We were minding our own business—they were the intruders!”

“How right you…” Lillian began, and stopped as she became aware of a violent choking noise coming from their picnic spot. Evie was writhing on the blanket, while Daisy stood over her with arms akimbo.

Hurrying to the pair, Annabelle asked Daisy in consternation, “What is it?”

“The embarrassment was too much for her to endure,” Daisy said. “It sent her into fits.”

Evie rolled on the blanket, a napkin concealing her face, while one exposed ear had turned the color of pickled beets. The more she tried to control her giggles, the worse they became, until she gasped frantically for air in between yelps. Somehow she managed to squeak out a few words. “What a s-s-smashing introduction to lawn sports!” And then she was snorting with more spasms of helpless laughter, while the other three stood over her.

Daisy threw Annabelle a significant glance. “Those,” she informed her, “are conniptions.”

Simon and Westcliff rode away from the meadow at a fast gallop, slowing to a walk when they entered the forest and followed a trail that wound through the wooded terrain. It was a good two minutes before either of them was inclined, or indeed able, to speak. Simon’s head was whirling with images of Annabelle Peyton’s firm, flourishing curves clad in ancient under-garments that had shrunk from a thousand washings. It was a good thing that he and she had not found themselves alone in such a circumstance, for Simon was certain that he wouldn’t have been able to leave her without doing something completely barbaric.

In Simon’s entire life, he had never experienced such potent craving as he had the moment he had seen Annabelle half-undressed in the meadow. His entire body had been flooded with the urge to dismount his horse, seize Annabelle in his arms, and carry her to the nearest soft patch of grass he could find. He could not imagine a more unholy temptation than the sight of her voluptuous body, the expanse of silken skin tinted in shades of cream and pink, the sun-streaked golden brown hair. She had looked so enchantingly mortified, blushing everywhere. He wanted to remove her ragged undergarments with his teeth and fingers; and then he wanted to kiss her from head to toe, taste her in sweet, soft places that—

“No,” Simon muttered, feeling his blood heat until it scalded the inside of his veins. He could not allow himself to pursue that line of thought, or his hard-thrumming desire would make the rest of the ride damned uncomfortable. When he had gotten his lust under control, Simon glanced at Westcliff, who appeared to be brooding. That was unusual for Westcliff, who was not the brooding sort.

The two men had been friends for about five years, having met at a supper given by a progressive politician with whom they were both acquainted. Westcliff’s autocratic father had just died, and it had been left to Marcus, the new earl, to take charge of the family’s business affairs. He had found the family finances to be superficially sound but ailing underneath, much like a patient who had contracted a terminal disease but still appeared healthy. Alarmed by the steady losses revealed by the account books, the new earl of Westcliff had recognized that drastic changes had to be made. He had resolved to avoid the fate of other peers who spent their lives presiding over an ever-shrinking family fortune. Unlike the silver-fork novels that depicted countless peers losing their wealth at the gambling tables, the reality was that modern aristocrats were generally not so reckless as they were simply inept financial managers. Conservative investments, old-fashioned views and illfated fiscal arrangements were slowly eroding aristocratic wealth and allowing a newly prosperous class of professional men to encroach on the higher levels of society. Any man who chose to disregard the influences of science and industrial advances on the emerging economy was sure to be abandoned in its churning wake…and Westcliff had no desire to be included in that category.

When Simon and Westcliff had struck up a friendship, there had been no doubt that each man was using the other to get something he wanted. Westcliff had wanted the benefit of Simon’s financial instincts, and Simon had wanted an entree into the world of the privileged class. But as they had become acquainted with each other, it became apparent that they were alike in many ways. They were both aggressive riders and huntsmen, requiring frequent strenuous physical activity as an outlet for an excess of vigor. And they were both uncompromisingly honest, although Westcliff possessed sufficient grace of manner to make his candor far more palatable. Neither man was the kind to sit for hours at a time to chat about poetry and sentimental concepts. They preferred to deal with tangible facts and issues, and, of course, they discussed current and future business ventures with keen enjoyment.

As Simon had continued to be a regular guest at Stony Cross, and a frequent visitor to Westcliff’s London house, Marsden Terrace, the earl’s friends had gradually come to accept him into their circle. It had been a welcome surprise for Simon to discover that he was not the only commoner whom Westcliff considered a close friend. The earl seemed to prefer the company of men whose perspectives of the world had been shaped outside the walls of noble estates. In fact, Westcliff occasionally claimed that he would like to disclaim his title, were such a thing possible, since he did not support the notion of hereditary aristocracy. Simon had no doubt that Westcliff’s statements were sincere—but it had never seemed to dawn on Westcliff that aristocratic privilege, with all its power and attendant responsibilities, was an innate part of him. As the holder of the oldest and most revered earldom in England, Marcus, Lord Westcliff, had been born to serve the demands of duty and tradition. He kept his life well organized and tightly scheduled, and he was the most self-controlled man that Simon had ever known.