The Historical Collection

Chapter Eight

Penny would have no difficulty keeping her promise to her friends. She was never truly alone. Her collection of unusual pets had successfully kept men at bay for a decade. She didn’t see any reason that would change now.

The following afternoon, she was just bringing in Marigold from her browse in the square when the rumble of approaching cart wheels pulled her out of the stables and into the alley.

The cart was drawn by a team of the most massive draft horses Penny had ever seen. A middle-aged couple in simple attire sat on the driver’s box. And standing on the bed of the cart, like the marshal of his own parade, was Gabriel Duke.

The team drew to a halt. He vaulted over the side rail of the cart and landed before her.

“What’s all of this?” she asked.

He gestured to the driver and his companion alighting from the box. “Allow me to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Brown.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Penny said, though she wasn’t at all sure why she was making their acquaintance.

Mr. Brown doffed his hat and held it over his heart as he bowed. “’Tis a true honor, Your Ladyship.”

His wife made a deep curtsy. “Never thought to meet with a genuine lady.”

“The Browns own a charming farm in Hertfordshire,” Mr. Duke said. “And they’d be delighted to take the animals off your hands.”

“All of them?”

He grinned. “All of them. Today.”

Penny couldn’t believe it. “How did this happen? How did you meet?”

“It was Hammond who met with them in the market. They’d come into town with a load of … What was it, Brown?”

“Parsnips, sir.”

“Parsnips.” Mr. Duke nodded. “Hammond does love a fresh parsnip. Tell Her Ladyship about your farm, Mrs. Brown.”

“It’s a lovely patch of country, milady. Just a smallholding, but it’s ours. Pasture for the horses, and fields of oats, alfalfa, clover.”

“And parsnips,” Penny said.

“Yes, of course. And parsnips.” Mrs. Brown smiled. “There’s even a little pond.”

“Tell me, Mrs. Brown, would you say this little pond of yours would make a good home for an otter?” Mr. Duke asked.

“I daresay it would make the ideal home for an otter, sir.”

“Well, then. How convenient. Did you hear that, Your Ladyship? They can take the otter, too. Go on, then. Box him up.”

Penny narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “I assume Mr. Duke has explained to you that many of these animals require special care?”

Mrs. Brown clasped her hands together. “God never blessed us with children of our own, milady. It would be a true joy to look after the animals. We need creatures to love.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Brown gave Angus a smack on the rump. “I’d wager this old girl is a fine milker.”

“That’s a Highland steer,” Penny said.

“Oh!” The farmer—if indeed he was a farmer—peeked under Angus’s tail. “So he is. Out in Herefordshire—”

Mrs. Brown elbowed her husband. “Hertfordshire.”

“Out in Hertfordshire, we don’t often see this breed.”

Penny could have pointed out that the breeding organs of cattle remained largely the same, regardless. She didn’t bother. Whoever these people were, they were not parsnip farmers from Hertfordshire. They weren’t farmers of any sort.

“Well, then.” Mr. Duke clapped his hands. “Shall we load them all up?”

Just how far did he intend to carry this ruse? Did he think Penny had taken a headfirst tumble off a parsnip wagon?

“By all means,” she said. “And while you do that, I’ll fetch my things.”

“Your things?”

“Yes, of course. With no offense intended to Mr. and Mrs. Brown, I have to see and judge the place for myself.”

“The journey will take two days.” His tone was clipped. “Each way.”

She smiled. “I’ll pack accordingly.”

“Fine. You do that. Mr. and Mrs. Brown will be waiting.”

Before she could take his bluff to the next level, “Mr. Brown” intervened. “Hold a moment, sir. What is this mischief, I ask you? Two days’ journey, in either direction? Inconceivable.”

The man’s amiable country accent had transformed into full-throated Shakespearean declamation, complete with trilled R’s and flourishes of the hand.

The woman purporting to be Mrs. Brown confronted Mr. Duke in a faintly Irish lilt. “We agreed to a onetime engagement, sir. A single afternoon playing the humble farmer and his wife. What’s this about travelin’ to Hertfordshire? We’ve a Drury Lane performance in a few hours. I’m not giving my scheming little understudy a chance at Lady Macbeth.”

“I’ll have you know I make an appearance in the first act, sir!” the farmer bellowed. “I cannot miss the curtain.”

“As if anyone would notice, Harold. You’re naught but scenery.”

Harold puffed his chest. “In the theater, there are no insignificant roles.”

“Oh, to be sure there aren’t. Size doesn’t matter. Keep tellin’ yourself as much.”

Mr. Duke dug in his pocket for money. “Just go, the both of you.”

Penny waited until the actors had gone. “You are unbelievable. And unimaginative, too. A parsnip farm?”

“Very well, there’s no farm. But in my defense, I had every intention of purchasing the first available bit of pasture.”

“The first available? You promised me they’d have the best available. With people who care.”

“You handed me a mile-long list of animals. Where am I supposed to find a pension home for aging livestock?”

“This was a terrible idea. I should never have accepted your offer to help. If you’re going to mock me, there’s no point in this at all. You agree with my aunt. I’m silly and pathetic, and it’s time for me to give up.” She turned to retreat into the house. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.” He caught her by the wrist. “The two of us … We’re from different breeds. Different species, even. I can’t pretend to fathom what you’re doing with all these animals. However, I doubt you approve of the way I live my life, either.”

That was fair to say, she supposed.

“There is, however, one thing we have in common. I’m stubborn as hell, and I’d formed the impression that you don’t surrender easily, either. Or was I mistaken?”

“You weren’t mistaken.”

“It’s settled, then.” His gaze held her captive. “I’m not giving up, and neither are you.”

Pink bloomed on her cheeks. Her gaze dropped to his mouth and lingered there. Good God. She was thinking about kissing him. Not merely remembering kissing him the other night, but thinking about kissing him again.

She was a fool. A naïve, trusting, sheltered fool.

And Gabe wanted to corrupt her so damned badly, his bones ached.

He had to get this absurd task accomplished, and soon.

“I’ll buy some property in the country. We have to find a place to put them all at once. How do you feel about Surrey?”

“Surrey? I’m ambivalent about Surrey.”

“Everyone’s ambivalent about Surrey. I’m not certain there’s any other way to feel about Surrey.”

“It doesn’t matter. We aren’t ‘putting them’ on a random parcel of land. We’re meant to be finding them homes. Ones with real people.”

“The problem is, real people need to eat. They don’t have time to take on animals with dietary restrictions and missing legs.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? That’s precisely why they’re all here with me. No one else would take them. Angus, for example.” She moved toward the Highland steer. “Some foolish merchant traveled to Scotland on holiday and decided on impulse to bring his wife a pet calf from the Highlands. Never stopped to think about the fact that he would grow.”

“Surely people aren’t that stupid.”

“Oh, it happens all the time. But usually they make that mistake with pups or ponies. Not cattle.” She shook her head. “They dehorned him in the worst, most painful way. When he came to me, the poor dear’s wounds were infected. Infested, too. He could have perished from the fly-strike alone. That man was stupid, indeed. The only thing he got right was his choice of calf. Angus is exceedingly adorable.”

Adorable?

Gabe eyed the beast. The animal stood as tall as Gabe’s shoulder, and it smelled … the way cattle smell. Shaggy red fur covered its eyes like a blindfold, and its black, spongy nose glistened.

“He’s the best Highland steer in the world,” she said. “Come meet him.”

“That’s not necessary.”

She didn’t give him a choice about it, leading him by the arm until they stood before the giant, shaggy beast.

“He loves being scratched between the ears.” She stroked Angus’s forelock. “There aren’t many creatures who don’t enjoy a scratch about the ears. Go on. Have a turn.”

“I don’t want to pet the cow.”

“He’s a steer.”

“I don’t want to pet the st—”

She reached for his hand and placed it atop Angus’s flat head, guiding his hand back and forth. As if he were a child who needed to be taught.

“See? He’s softer than he looks.”

Gabe was less interested in the texture of Angus’s hide than he was in the texture of Lady Penelope’s skin. Her hand was small and graceful atop his, but it was not the soft, delicate hand he would expect of a fine lady. Her skin was crossed here and there with lines and scars—some faded, some still pink. They were healed bites and scratches, accumulated over years. She had a lifelong habit of extending care to animals too wild or frightened to accept it—which made her the bravest kind of fool.

Gabe wanted to kiss each and every one of those healed wounds—which made him just an ordinary fool.

Angus snuffled and bobbed his head.

She smiled. “I think he likes you.”

Gabe stepped away, brushing his hand on his trousers. “I didn’t invent a farm and hire those actors out of complete heartlessness. It’s a practical matter. Settling the animals one by one will mean we’d be spending a great deal of time together. That’s a bad idea.”

“If you’re worried about my reputation, don’t. It won’t be noticed. No one pays much attention to me.”

The injustice in that statement confounded him. How could no one be paying attention to her? Over the past few days, he’d been unable to concentrate on anyone or anything but her.

“We’re adults,” she said. “Surely we can behave ourselves. I promise not to kiss you again.”

“It’s not a mere kiss that should worry you.”

“What else are you worried could happen?”

Good Lord. What wasn’t he worried could happen. He’d been up half the night inventing possibilities.

“Look at your goat,” he said. “You weren’t paying attention to her, and now she’s breeding.”

“Marigold is not pregnant.”

“See? You’re too trusting. That’s why this is dangerous. If we’re spending all that time together unchaperoned, there’s too much chance of—”

“Too much chance of what?”

He moved closer, letting the tension build between their bodies. “Of this.”

Her golden eyelashes kissed her flushed cheeks. “You’re worried for nothing. My animals are incompatible with attraction, courtship, romance, or marriage. I’ve been reminded of that regularly for years. They’re exceptionally talented in discouraging gentlemen.”

“I’m not a gentleman. And if I could be discouraged, I’d never have amassed the fortune I have now. When I set my mind on something, a herd of elephants won’t stand in my way.”

A beam of sunlight caught the swirling dust motes and turned them into a glittering halo about her head. Those sparks invaded his body, coursing through his veins until every inch of him was sharply aware of her beauty.

He bent his head to kiss her.

She stretched to meet him halfway.

And Angus sneezed, spraying him with whatever wet, sticky substances comprised the contents of a bovine nose. Gabe wasn’t willing to contemplate specifics. He merely stood there, sputtering with horror, and—

And dripping.

Wiping his face with his sleeve, he cursed cattle, the Highlands, and the world in general.

Lady Penelope laughed. Of course she did.

She unknotted the fichu from about her neck and dabbed at his shirt, oblivious to the amount of cleavage she’d exposed to his view. Her lips curved in a fetching smile. “I think Angus has made my case for me.”

He shook his head. “From now on, we communicate in writing.”

“We live next door to each other. That’s absurd.”

“It’s necessary. This will be the last time we find ourselves alone. Animals don’t count as chaperones. Not even phlegmy ones. Do you understand me?”

“You’re vastly underestimating my pets’ ability to prevent scandal.”

Swearing under his breath, he caught her chin and tipped her face to his. “Your Ladyship, you are vastly underestimating yourself.”

Chapter Nine

Two days later, and Gabe’s plans had already gone to hell.

The lady was impossible. When he’d written her about the otter, he’d given explicit instructions in his note. Be ready to leave at half-seven, sharp. Dress for the weather. Most importantly, bring a companion.

She brought the parrot.

The parrot.

They were miles beyond London’s borders already, and Gabe still couldn’t believe it. Look at him. Trapped in a barouche with a lady, a parrot, and an otter. He’d landed in the center of an absurd joke. One certain to end in uproarious laughter—at his expense.

He shifted unhappily on the carriage seat. “Did you really have to bring that bird?”

“Yes.” She stroked the otter’s sleek brown coat. “I think Alexandra and Chase will take her in. Their two girls love to play pirates. But as you pointed out, Delilah’s vocabulary needs a bit of reformation, so I’m trying to instill some wholesome phrases in her repertoire. Considering that I’ve only a fortnight, I can’t afford to waste a day.” She leaned in close to the birdcage and brightly cooed—as she had no fewer than a hundred times since they’d departed Bloom Square—“I love you.”

The bird whistled. “Pretty girl.”

“I love you.”

“Fancy a fuck, love?”

“I love you.”

The bird ruffled its garish plumage. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

She was undaunted. “I love y—“

“It’s pointless,” he interjected. “A waste of time. Even if you succeed in teaching the bird a new phrase or two, it’s never going to forget the old ones. Years of filth won’t simply wash off with one good rain. That’s like saying you’d lose your finishing school airs with a single”—soul-stirring, passionate kiss—“act of mild rebellion.”

She squared her posture, pulling her spine fence-post straight. “I don’t have finishing school airs.”

“To be sure, you don’t,” he grumbled. “Keep telling yourself that, Your Ladyship.”

“Will you please stop addressing me that way. Everyone I’m close to calls me Penny.”

“We’re not close.”

“We are the very definition of close.”

Good God. Did she have to point it out? They were altogether too close in this carriage, in a way that made him ache to be closer. His body was painfully aware of hers.

Gabe despised the aristocracy. He’d told himself he could never lust after a fine lady.

Apparently, he’d told himself lies.

“We are neighbors,” she said. “Our houses stand right beside each other. That makes us close.”

“It doesn’t make us friends.”

She turned her attention back to the parrot, resuming her singsong torture. “I love you. I loooove you.”

“Enough.” Gabe wrestled out of his coat—no small accomplishment in a carriage—and draped it over the birdcage. “The bird needs a rest.” I need a rest.

She pouted a bit, and he was unmoved.

Pretty girl, fancy a fuck, I love you, I love you, I love you …

The words were becoming a jumble in his mind—and his mind was a place where “fuck,” “love,” and one particular “pretty girl” must remain separate things.

“You can stop staring at me,” he said.

“Sorry. I was wondering if I could actually watch your whiskers grow. When we left London, you were clean-shaven. Now it’s not even noon, and you’re raspy already. It’s like weeds after a rain. Fascinating.” She shook herself. “Tell me where it is we’re going.”

“The country home of a gentleman I know. His son has been begging for a ferret.”

“Hubert isn’t a ferret! He’s an otter.”

“As far as this boy is concerned, he’s a ferret. Just follow my lead.”

“Surely you’re joking.”

“He’s five years old. He won’t know the difference.”

“He won’t stay five years old forever.”

“Yes, but by then it won’t matter. It’s like that children’s story with the swan’s egg in the duck’s nest. He’ll be The Ugly Ferret.”

“A five-year-old child can’t take proper care of an otter. Or a ferret for that matter.”

“So you’ll leave specific instructions.”

She shook her head. “You may as well turn the carriage around now. This is not in the terms of our agreement.”

“You wanted a loving home. He’ll be adored.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But not for himself. Not for the otter he truly is, deep down.”

Gabe pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ve come this far. I’m not turning back now.”

“Waste the time if you like. I won’t leave him there.”

“I think you will. You can tell me you intend to refuse. But once we’re there, and you’re standing before a bright-eyed, hopeful boy? You won’t be able to say no. Your heart is too soft.”

Her body was too soft, too.

She leaned forward, holding the otter in one arm and reaching for a basket with the other—a pose which just happened to give him a view straight down her bodice. Her sweet, tempting breasts pushed across the muslin shelf of her bodice.

Gabe clenched his hands into fists at his sides.

Just when he’d managed to stop ogling her breasts—although he hadn’t yet managed to cease thinking of them—the carriage slammed to a halt.

Lady Penelope bounced off her seat, straight into his lap.

Breasts and all.

As landings went, Penny’s wasn’t a graceful one. When the carriage abruptly halted, she wished she could claim she’d made an elegant slide into his waiting, heroically muscled arms.

Sadly, the truth was quite different.

When the carriage lurched to a halt, she’d been leaning forward to retrieve a morsel for Hubert. The force launched her from her seat, propelling her toward Gabriel. She landed with her nose mashed against his chest and her breasts spilled across his lap.

Marvelous. Simply marvelous. What a lady she was.

He hooked his hands under her arms and lifted, peeling her face from his satin waistcoat. He settled her on his knee. “Good God. Tell me you’re not hurt.”

“I’m not hurt.”

“Can you move all your fingers? Your toes?”

“I think so.”

Apparently, he found these assurances unsatisfactory. He untied her bonnet and flung it aside. His eyes darkened with concern as he searched her face. Taking hold of her chin, he turned her head to either side, scanning her cheeks and temples for bruises. Then he skimmed his hands over her shoulders and down her arms. All the way to her fingertips, which he gave a firm squeeze.

Inspection complete, he laid a hand to her cheek. His thumb brushed her bottom lip. “You’re certain you’re not injured?”

She shook her head.

Injured? No.

Electrified? Possibly.

Most definitely breathless.

She was dizzied by his closeness, his touch, and above all, his unexpected tenderness. A shaft of sunlight pierced the carriage, dividing her between hot and cool. She felt the fierce pounding of a heartbeat. Hers, probably, but she couldn’t be certain.

Penny was so disoriented, in fact, that she did the unthinkable.

She completely forgot about the animals. For several seconds, at least. Perhaps a minute, or even two.

A squawk jolted her back to her senses.

“Delilah.” She scrambled to her feet and searched the carriage. “Hubert.”

Happily, she found both parrot and otter at her feet. By the way Delilah bounced and flapped about her upended cage, she was rattled but uninjured. Penny scooped Hubert into her arms, rolling him over to look for any wounds or bleeding.

Finding none, she exhaled with relief.

By now, Gabriel had alighted from the carriage, presumably to investigate the reason for their sudden stop. Within moments, he returned—looking every bit restored to his typically unpleasant self.

“These damned country roads. The carriage went into a rut, and now one of the wheels needs repair.”

He offered her his hand, and she accepted it, rearranging her disheveled frock as she alighted from the coach and her boots met the rutted dirt road.

“There’s a village we passed, a mile or two back. The coachman will walk there to find a smith or wheelwright.” He looked about them, taking in the sunny countryside. “I suppose this is as good a place as any to stop. The horses will be needing a rest and water, at any rate. Looks as though there’s a stream.” He nodded toward a line of trees and shrubs not far from the road.

“We may as well make the most of the delay.” Penny retrieved a hamper from inside the coach and looped it over one wrist, tucking Hubert under her other arm. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.”

“I brought sandwiches. Assuming they weren’t completely smashed in the upheaval.”

She walked toward the creek and selected a spot that was sufficiently shaded by budding branches, but not too damp underneath. She withdrew a square of gaily printed linen from the hamper, snapped it open, and spread it over the ground. “We can have a picnic.”

He frowned. “What, on the ground?”

“That’s what a picnic is, usually,” she teased. “Have you never attended a picnic before?”

He didn’t answer, which was an answer itself. He had never attended a picnic before. Too busy ruining fortunes and seizing property, she supposed.

“Then you must come and join this one,” she said.

Penny made herself comfortable, tucking her ankles beneath her skirts as she sat on the ground. Hubert stretched out beside her, angling for a belly rub. She couldn’t possibly refuse.

As it happened, the sandwiches were only slightly smashed. Penny unpacked them from their brown paper wrapping and arranged them prettily on a wooden cheeseboard.

“I packed fizzy lemonade, as well.” She withdrew a corked jug. “Although considering our recent tumble, we might want to hold off on opening it.” She presented him with the platter of sandwiches. “Here.”

He took one from the tray and angled it for inspection. “What sort of sandwiches are these?”

“Just try them.”

Penny knew from experience that revealing her recipes in advance wasn’t a good idea. People tended to look askance at her unconventional ingredients. But once given a fair try, her sandwiches never failed to win over even the most choosy of palates.

“Go on,” she said. “I made them myself. Have a taste.”

Oh, God. The taste.

As his teeth sank through the sandwich, Gabe experienced a sensation that, for him, was exceedingly rare.

Regret.

The flavor hit him like a punch to the face. His jaw muscles ceased to function. They simply refused to chew. The mouthful of … whatever this was, as it clearly did not qualify as food … sat on his tongue, growing softer and slimier.

“What,” he said, finally choking it down, “was that?”

“It’s my latest recipe.” She beamed. “Roast leaf.”

“It’s gone off. That’s not like any roast beef sandwich I’ve ever tasted.”

“No, no. Not roast beef. Roast leaf.”

He stared at her.

“I’m a vegetarian,” she explained. “I don’t eat meat. So I create my own substitutions with vegetables. Roast leaf, for example. I start with whatever greens are in the market, boil and mash them with salt, then press them into a roast for the oven. According to the cookery book, it’s every bit as satisfying as the real thing.”

“Your cookery book is a book of lies.”

To her credit, she took it gamely. “I’m still perfecting the roast leaf. Perhaps it needs more work. Try the others. The ones on brown bread are tuna-ish—brined turnip flakes in place of fish—and the white bread is sham. Sham is everyone’s favorite. Doesn’t the color look just like ham? The secret is beetroot.”

Gabe tried them both. The tuna-ish was a dubious improvement over the roast leaf. As for the sham … it might very well be his favorite of the three. But considering the choices, that wasn’t saying much. He stuffed the remainder of the sandwich into his mouth and chewed.

“Well?” she prompted.

“Are you asking my honest opinion?”

“But of course.”

“They’re revolting.” He swallowed with reluctance. “All of them.”

“I like them. My friends like them.”

“No, they don’t. Your friends find your sandwiches revolting, too. They just don’t want to tell you so, because they’re afraid of hurting your feelings.” He shook his head as he reached for another triangle of white bread and sham.

“If the sandwiches are so revolting, why are you eating more of them?”

“Because I’m hungry, and I don’t waste food. Unlike you and your friends, I never had the luxury of being choosy.”

He tore off half the sandwich with a resentful bite. As a boy on the streets, he would have begged for the scraps she threw her dog. In the workhouse, on the two days a week they were given meat, he’d sucked the gristle and marrow from every last bone.

This woman—no, this lady—could fill her dinner table until it creaked beneath the weight of roasts, joints of mutton, game fowl, lobster.

Instead, she ate this. On purpose.

The thought made him viscerally, irrationally angry.

He pulled the shilling from his waistcoat pocket and tapped it against his thigh. “I don’t know why I’m bothering to explain. You wouldn’t understand. Can’t understand. You’ve never known true deprivation.”

“You’re right,” she agreed.

Gabe didn’t want her to agree. He wanted to stay angry.

“I haven’t known that kind of hunger. I choose not to eat animals, and I know it’s a luxury to have that choice. It’s a luxury to have any choice. And I also know people find me ridiculous.”

“Not ridiculous.” He flipped the shilling into the air and caught it one-handed, his fingers trapping the coin against his palm. “Sheltered. Trusting and naïve.”

“I’m not so sheltered and naïve as you imagine.”

He could only laugh.

“I’m being sincere.” She picked at a blade of grass. “My youth wasn’t idyllic, either.”

“Let me guess. Beau Brummell snubbed you at a party once. I can only imagine how the nightmares haunt you to this day.”

“You know nothing of my life.”

“So there were more trials, were there?” He flipped the shilling into the air again, catching it easily. “The milliner’s ran out of pink ribbon.”

“Stop being cruel.”

“The world is cruel. This world is, anyway. Tell me, Your Ladyship, what’s it like in your fairy-tale land?”

She snatched the shilling from his hand. As he looked on in irritation, she stood, cocked her arm, and winged the coin with all her strength.

He pushed to his feet. “You just tossed away a perfectly good shilling. I can’t imagine a better example of your pampered existence. That’s a day’s wages for a workingman.”

“You have millions of shillings, as you’re so fond of telling everyone.”

“Yes, but I never forget that I came from far less. I couldn’t forget that, even if I tried.”

“I have tried to forget. To forget where I came from, to deny the past. You don’t know how I’ve tried.” Her voice crumbled at the edges. “I may not have known poverty, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t known pain.”

Gabe pushed a hand through his hair. He recognized the ring of truth in her voice. She was being honest, and he was being an ass.

Her character was finally coming into focus. He didn’t know who or what had hurt her, but the blade had sunk deep. The world didn’t hold enough kittens to fill that wound—but that hadn’t stopped her from trying.

Gabe gentled his voice. “Listen …”

“Oh, no.” She wheeled around. “Hubert’s missing.”

“Who’s missing?”

“Hubert! The otter. The only reason we’re stranded here in Buckinghamshire, remember?”

Oh, yes. That Hubert.

“How could I have been so careless?” She shaded her eyes with one hand and searched the area. “Where could he have gone?”

“Considering that he’s a river otter, I’m going to take a wild guess and say the river.”

She’d apparently come to the same conclusion. Gabe followed her as she raced toward the stream’s edge.

“Hubert!” She cupped her hands around her mouth like a trumpet. “Hyoooo-bert!” She plopped down in the damp grasses and began tugging at her bootlaces.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to look for him.”

Once she had the boots kicked off, she hiked up her skirts, untied a beguiling pink garter, and began rolling the white stocking down the tempting contours of her leg.