“Ahhh, God!” He jerked, his hips pumping mindlessly.
She’d moaned in pleasure.
Simon sighed and rolled his head against the wood. Once again he tried to catch his breath. Slowly, he drew out a handkerchief and wiped his hand, trying not to let self-loathing drown his soul. Then he walked to the tiny dresser and splashed water into the basin there. He doused his face and neck and hung his head, dripping, over the basin.
He was losing control.
A laugh burst from his lips, loud in the quiet room. He’d already lost control. God knew what he’d say to her on the morrow, his angel whom he’d ogled in her bath and whose privacy he’d stolen. Simon straightened painfully, dried his face, and lay down on the bed without bothering to undress.
It was past time to leave.
Chapter Six
Lucy pulled her gray woolen cloak more firmly about her shoulders. The wind was sharp this morning. It drove icy fingers under her skirt to wrap around her bones. Normally, she wouldn’t have ventured forth, especially on foot, but she needed time to think alone, and the house was full of men. True, there was only Papa, Hedge, and Simon, but she didn’t want to talk to two of them, and Hedge was irritating even in the best of circumstances. Hence a country ramble seemed in order.
Lucy kicked a pebble in the lane. How did one go about meeting a gentleman across the luncheon table when he’d last seen one nude and caressing one’s own breasts? If she wasn’t so embarrassed, she’d ask Patricia. Her friend would be sure to have some type of answer, even if it wasn’t the right one. And maybe Patricia would get her past this ghastly self-consciousness. It had been so horrible, last night when he’d seen her. Horrible, but also wonderful, in a secret, wicked way. She’d liked him looking at her. If she was honest with herself, she’d admit that she wished he’d stayed. Stayed and—
Footfalls, rapid and heavy, came from behind her.
Lucy suddenly realized she was alone in the road, no cottage in sight. Maiden Hill was usually a sleepy hamlet, but still . . . She whirled to confront whoever was about to overtake her.
It wasn’t a footpad.
No, much worse. It was Simon. She almost turned away again.
“Wait.” His voice was subdued. He opened his mouth again but shut it abruptly as if he didn’t know what else to say.
That unusual dumbness made her feel a little better. Could he possibly be as embarrassed as she? He’d stopped several paces away. He was bareheaded, without either a hat or a wig, and he stared at her mutely, his gray eyes yearning. Almost as if he needed something from her.
Tentatively, Lucy said, “I’m going for a walk over to the chalk downs. Would you like to accompany me?”
“Yes, please, most forgiving of angels.”
And suddenly it was all right. She set off once again, and he measured his stride to hers.
“In the spring, these woods are full of bluebells.” She gestured to the surrounding trees. “It’s really too bad you’ve come this time of year when everything is so bleak.”
“I shall try to be set upon in summer on the next occasion,” he murmured.
“Spring, actually.”
He glanced at her.
She smiled wryly. “That’s when the bluebells bloom.”
“Ah.”
“When I was young, Mama used to bring David and me here for picnics in the spring after we’d been cooped up inside all winter. Papa was away at sea most of the time, naturally. David and I would pick as many bluebells as our arms could hold and dump them into her lap.”
“She sounds a patient mother.”
“She was.”
“When did she die?” His words were soft, intimate.
Lucy remembered again that this man had seen her at her most vulnerable. She gazed straight ahead. “Eleven years ago now. I was thirteen.”
“A hard age to lose a parent.”
She looked at him. The only family he’d mentioned was his brother. He seemed more intent on finding out her meager history than revealing his own. “Is your mother alive?” Obviously, his father must already be dead for him to have inherited the title.
“No. She died a few years ago, before . . .” He stopped.
“Before?”
“Before Ethan, my brother, died. Thank God.” He tilted his head back and seemed to stare at the leafless branches overhead, although perhaps he looked at something entirely different. “Ethan was the shining apple of her eye. Her one greatest accomplishment, the person she loved most in the world. He knew how to charm—both the young and the old—and he could lead men. The local farmers came to him with their squabbles. He never met a soul who didn’t like him.”
Lucy watched him. His voice was expressionless as he described his brother, but his hands twisted slowly at his waist. She wondered if he was even aware of their movement. “You make him sound like a paragon.”
“He was. But he was also more. Much more. Ethan knew right from wrong without having to think about it, without any doubts. Very few people can do that.” He looked down and seemed to notice that he was pulling at his right index finger. He clasped his hands behind his back.
She must’ve made a sound.
Simon glanced at her. “My elder brother was the most moral person I’ve ever known.”
Lucy frowned, thinking about this perfect, dead brother. “Did he look like you?”
He seemed startled.
She raised her brows and waited.
“Actually, he did a little.” He half smiled. “Ethan was a bit shorter than I—no more than an inch or so—but he was broader and heavier.”
“What about his hair?” She looked at his nearly colorless locks. “Was he fair as well?”