Thunder & Roses Read online

  "Zebras are at home in the blazing African sun and the endless plains. I was afraid that in damp, rainy Wales, they'd fall into a decline and die on me. The peacocks complain about the weather constantly, but since I'm not the one who brought them here from India, I refuse to feel guilty."

  "Everyone complains about the Welsh weather. It is the greatest single source of Welsh identity."

  He chuckled. "True. Yet I missed the weather when I was away. It's always changing, which is more interesting than week after week of boring sunshine."

  Three more penguins hurried themselves into the water. Nicholas said, "It's best to observe them below the surface. It's like watching an underwater ballet. They play together like otters." An expression of unholy mischief crossed his face." Let's watch them. It's a warm day—perfect for a swim." He moved a dozen steps away from the pebble beach and stripped off his coat and waistcoat, then began to untie his cravat.

  Penguins forgotten, Clare's jaw dropped. "You can't just take off your clothing and jump in the lake."

  "Of course I can." He dropped his cravat on his other garments. "If you were a proper mistress, you would, too. Though in that case we might not get as far as the water."

  "You aren't serious," she said nervously.

  "Ah, Clare, how little you know me." He sat on a rock and tugged off his boots, then stood and unbuttoned the throat of his shirt. "I hope the penguins don't decide to use my clothing for nest-building—my valet would be furious."

  As he pulled the shirt over his head, exposing a large swath of smooth, dark skin, she stammered, "S-stop. This isn't decent."

  "Why? Penguins, zebras, peacocks, and all the rest of the earth's creatures go about in the skin God gave them. It's downright unnatural for humans to always cover themselves. In warmer parts of the world, they don't." Laughing, he tossed his shirt onto the growing mound of clothing.

  His chest and shoulders were as beautifully muscled as a Greek statue, but warm with life, more inviting than marble could ever be. Clare was paralyzed, unable to look away from the ebony hair that dusted his chest, then arrowed down his hard midriff in a dark line that disappeared behind the edge of his pantaloons.

  "Sure you won't want to join me? The water will be cold, but the sun is warm and a penguin ballet is a rare sight." He began unbuttoning his pantaloons.

  Clare bolted. Without looking back, she gasped, "I'll wait with the horses."

  His laughter followed her into the woods.

  Clare ran until she could no longer see the lake, then stopped and clung to a tree, her heart pounding. As she struggled to regain her breath, she made an appalling discovery.

  She had wanted, rather desperately, to stay and see his naked body.

  Bark chipped away as her nails bit into the tree trunk. How could she want something so immoral? How could twenty-six years of irreproachable behavior be forgotten so quickly?

  Her feverish mind sought for a calm, rational excuse for going back to watch him swim. Perhaps... perhaps observing Nicholas now would diminish his air of masculine mystery, so that if he behaved so outrageously again she would be able to take it more in stride?

  Even as she formulated the thought, she knew it was a lie. The simple truth was that her willpower was not strong enough to prevent her from returning. Face tight with self-reproach, she turned and quietly retraced her steps through the grove. When she reached the edge of the woods, she concealed herself behind a shrub, knowing that if Nicholas saw her, she would die of shame.

  His back to Clare, he was walking into the water, his skin glowing golden in the sunlight. She stared, fascinated, at the strong arc of his spine and the taut muscles of his buttocks and thighs as they flexed with every step. He was gloriously pagan, as much in harmony with nature as the wind and the trees.

  She caught her breath, heart aching with the knowledge that she could never be Eve to his Adam.

  When the water was thigh-high, a penguin whizzed by him. Instantly he dived forward and vanished, staying under so long that Clare began to feel concerned. Then he surfaced halfway across the lake, laughing and surrounded by penguins, his black hair slicked over his head and neck.

  How many other women had seen him like this and yearned over his beautiful, masculine body?

  How many women had he casually seduced and forgotten?

  The thought instantly sobered her. Nicholas was a rake and a philistine who made no attempt to deny that he had done despicable things. Clare's presence in his life was accidental and temporary; instead of mooning over him like a lovestruck milkmaid, she must concentrate on surviving the next three months with her dignity and reputation intact.

  And yet the sight of him stirred emotions that she had not known she was capable of feeling.

  Blindly she slipped into the woods and made her way back to the horses. Feeling shaky and horribly alone, she put her arms around Rhonda's neck and hid her face against the warm skin.

  With a sick feeling in her stomach, she recognized that she was vulnerable to Nicholas's lethal charm. When she had accepted his challenge, she had believed herself too strong, too moral, to succumb to the weaknesses of the flesh. Yet a few hours in his company made her suspect that his wiles might be more potent than her principles.

  If Clare was the woman people thought she was, she would have the strength to resist, but she wasn't.

  She was a fraud.

  All her life, she had worked hard to convince those around her that she was truly spiritual. She had been the model of a devout Methodist, helping those in need, offering comfort to those who were afflicted. And her charade had been successful, for it had never occurred to anyone to doubt the faith of Thomas Morgan's daughter.

  Yet in her heart, she carried the shameful knowledge that she was an imposter. Never had she experienced the passionate inner knowledge of God that was the heart and soul of her religion. Not once had she known the ecstasy of divine grace, though she had seen it in those around her.

  That failure had been her dark secret, never revealed to anyone. Not to her father, who assumed that her spirit was as true as his own; not to Owen Morris, who as her class leader was also her spiritual director.

  It wasn't that she lacked faith. She truly believed that the world was shaped by divine purpose; that it was better to behave with kindness than cruelty; that service was life's highest purpose. Most of all, she believed—she needed to believe—that deeds were more important than words. When the time came for her to be judged, perhaps her works would outweigh her spiritual failings.

  She pressed her fist to her mouth to suppress a despairing sob. It was horribly unfair—she was not an innocent pagan who could respond to Nicholas without guilt. Yet neither was her faith powerful enough to give her the strength to withstand him serenely.

  But of one thing she was sure; the next three months were going to teach her about hell.

  Chapter 5

  One of the penguins had absconded with Nicholas's cravat, but the rest of his clothing had been left alone. After roughly toweling himself off with his waistcoat, he dressed, then made his way back to the horses, whistling softly. Clare was sitting cross-legged beneath a tree, her expression remote. To his regret, there was no sign of the charming bashfulness she had exhibited when he had started to undress.

  Offering her a helping hand, he said, "You should have joined me. The penguins were in fine form."

  Ignoring his hand, she got to her feet unassisted. "I'm sure that I would have been so dazzled by you that I wouldn't have noticed them," she said witheringly.

  "Ah, I am beginning to make an impression on you," he said with delight.

  "I would never deny that."

  Clouds had covered the sun and chilled the air, and the ride back was a quiet one. After stabling the horses, Nicholas escorted Clare into the house. He was pleased to see that she now accepted his casual touch as normal.

  His good mood evaporated as soon as he stepped into his grandfather's house. As he ushered her into the main dr
awing room, he asked, "What do you think of this place, Clare?"

  "It's very grand," she said after a slight pause.

  He studied the room with distaste. "But do you like it?"

  She frowned. "That's not a fair question. I'm a simple woman, with cottager tastes. I know how to appreciate an oaken chair, or a whitewashed wall, or a well-made quilt, but I know nothing of fine furniture, or art, or aristocratic style."

  "That doesn't mean your opinion is valueless. Does this house please your senses?"

  "To be honest, I find it oppressive." Her gaze traveled around the room. "There's too much clutter. Every inch of space seems to be filled with patterns, or fabric, or bits of china whose value could feed a poor family for a year. No doubt everything is in the best of taste"—she ran a finger across the top of a picture frame, then frowned at the dust—"though the housekeeping could be improved. But I prefer my cottage."

  "Too much clutter," he repeated. "My sentiments exactly. Gypsies don't like being indoors at the best of times, and this house has always made me feel suffocated."

  "Do you think of yourself as a Gypsy?"

  He shrugged. "When it suits me." He lifted a porcelain figurine that depicted a lion devouring an undutiful child. Not surprisingly, his grandfather had been fond of it. Nicholas had always wanted to smash it to pieces.

  Well, why not? With one swift movement, he hurled the figure into the fireplace. It shattered with a satisfying crash.

  Pleased, Nicholas turned to Clare, who was watching him warily. "I give you permission to change whatever you want," he said. "Pack away the clutter, hire more maids. Clean, paint, paper—whatever you think best. Since it's your fault that I'm going to spend more time in this mausoleum than I had planned, you can jolly well make it livable. Buy what you think necessary and have the bills sent to me. Not only will that pump money into the local economy, but you'll gratify Williams no end. He finds his post here rather boring, I think. I'll instruct him to follow your orders as he would mine."

  "Is it part of a mistress's job to redecorate her lover's house?" she asked with dismay.

  "Most mistresses would swoon with delight at the opportunity," he assured her. "Would you like to visit the attics? There are masses of furniture up there. You might find things that are more to your taste."

  Looking a little dazed, she said, "Later, perhaps. Before I make any changes, I will have to observe and think."

  "Wise woman." He glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. "I must meet my steward now, so I'll leave you to your own devices for the rest of the afternoon. We dine at six. If you wish to bathe first, ring from your room. The staff should be able to manage hot water. Until dinner?"

  He withdrew, already feeling less oppressed by the house. Three months of Clare's sturdy good sense should improve Aberdare immeasurably. Perhaps, in time, it might no longer feel so much like his grandfather's house.

  * * *

  Clare spent the next hour examining the public rooms. The basic layout and proportions were appealing, but the furnishings seemed to have been chosen more for grandeur than comfort, and there was too much of everything.

  When she finished her survey, she went to her bedchamber, which was as large as the whole ground floor of her cottage. It was also cluttered, but the blue draperies and bed hangings were pretty. If she removed all the unnecessary furniture and the two dismal paintings of dead animals, it would be quite pleasant.

  Feeling drained, she self-indulgently flopped across the bed, then folded her hands behind her head and thought about what had happened since she had arrived at Aberdare. It seemed as if days rather than hours had passed.

  She was still incredulous that the earl had casually handed the reins of his household to her, with blanket permission to spend what she wished. But now that she had recovered from her surprise, she relished the prospect of improving this gaudy, dusty, neglected mansion. For the rest of the afternoon, she thought, made lists, and jotted down questionsto herself.

  She was drawn from her plans when the clock struck five. Time to prepare for her first dinner with Nicholas.

  Work had steadied her, and she no longer felt as emotionally fragile as she had by the lake. Nonetheless, being in such a grand house was unnerving. Even ringing for a bath made her uncomfortable, since the Morgans had never had any servants.

  Trepidation vanished when the little maid who responded to the bell turned out to be a former student. Dilys was a sweet-natured girl who had always adored her teacher, and she accepted Miss Morgan's presence as if it were perfectly natural for a schoolmistress to be the guest of an earl.

  For her part, Clare found that asking Dilys for a bath was no harder than asking a student to recite the times tables. However, she was unable to stop herself from helping when Dilys staggered into the room with two heavy coppers of steaming water. If she were a real lady, Clare supposed that she would have stood by and let the girl struggle.

  The enormous hip bath was delightful; Clare had never had the luxury of so much hot water. She soaked for so long that she had to fix her hair and dress in a rush.

  Only one of her gowns was suitable for evening wear, and it was old and had never been stylish. However, the rich blue fabric matched her eyes, and the neckline revealed several inches of smooth skin around her throat.

  She glanced down at herself and tried to envision what she would look like in a fashionably low-cut gown. Regretfully she realized that even if she owned such a garment—and had the courage to wear it—the result would be unremarkable.

  After brushing her hair and pinning it into a shining coil at her nape, she examined herself critically in the mirror. The moist heat of the bath had caused her dark hair to wave softly around her face, lessening her usual severity. Fortunately her complexion was good and she had naturally rosy Welsh coloring.

  Her reflection showed that she appeared exactly as she was: a modest woman of modest means. For the sake of her pride, she looked as good as she was capable of looking, yet she was too ordinary to drive the Earl of Aberdare to uncontrollable lust. Thank heaven for that. It was bad enough that he viewed seducing her as a game; if his heart and loins were really in the pursuit, she might not be able to withstand him.

  Wiping palms that were suddenly damp, she went downstairs to dinner. The day would soon be over, and she couldn't help wondering when the earl would collect his kiss. Even more important, how would she react when he did?

  Nicholas was already in the family drawing room, pouring a drink from a decanter. Dressed in beautifully tailored black coat and pantaloons, he looked ready to dine with the Prince Regent. She paused in the doorway, momentarily struck by the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. What on earth was she, plain Clare Morgan, doing at Aberdare?

  Hearing her steps, he looked up and halted in mid-gesture, his expression arrested. "You look lovely tonight, Clare."

  There was such warmth in his voice that she shivered. Not only was he rich and handsome, but he had the ability to make a female feel beautiful and cherished. Perhaps that was an essential talent for a rake, for a woman would give a great deal to keep that expression in a man's eyes.

  "Thank you," she said, trying to sound as if compliments were common in her life. "Would it be improper for me to observe that you are a sight to break any impressionable girl's heart?"

  He looked hopeful. "Are you impressionable?"

  "Not in the least." She tried to sound stern, but couldn't help smiling.

  "A pity." He reached for a different decanter. "Would you care for a glass of sherry?"

  She actually considered accepting for a moment, but shook her head. "No, thank you."

  "That's right—Methodists avoid anything that might be considered strong drink." He set the decanter down and thought. "You drink ale, don't you?"

  "Of course—everyone does."

  He lifted a bottle. "Then try some of this German wine. It's milder than most ales." When she still hesitated, he said, "I swear this won't make you so drunk th
at you'll dance on the table." He gave an elaborate sigh of regret. "Unfortunately."

  She chuckled. "Very well, I'll have some. But you needn't fear for your table—I don't dance, either."

  "Good God, I'd forgotten that." He opened the bottle and poured her a glass of wine. "What do Methodists do to amuse themselves?"

  "Pray and sing," she said promptly.

  "I shall have to broaden your repertoire." He handed her one of the glasses. "Shall we drink to a mutually satisfactory conclusion to our association?"

  "Very well." She lifted her glass. "Three months from now, may the mine be safer and the village of Penreith healthier, wealthier, and happier. In addition, I hope that you will have seen the spiritual light and become a sober and godly man, and that I will be home again, reputation and career intact."

  He clinked the rim of his glass against hers, his black eyes gleaming. "My definition of' mutually satisfactory differs in several details."

  "Which are?"

  He grinned. "I'd better not say. You'd empty the rest of your wine over my head."

  With mild wonder, Clare realized that she was bantering with a man. And not only was she carrying on a teasing conversation with suggestive undertones—she was enjoying it.

  Her sense of being sophisticated and in control vanished when she made the mistake of glancing into Nicholas's face. He was studying her with a mesmerizing intensity that was as palpable as a touch. As she looked into his dark eyes, she felt trapped, unable to look away. Her blood swirled with unaccustomed heat, rushing to each spot touched by his slowly moving gaze. First her lips tingled, then her throat pulsed, almost as if he were caressing them with his fingertips.

  When his gaze drifted to her breasts, her nipples tightened with yearning sensitivity. Merciful heaven, if he could affect her like this when he was a yard away, what would happen when he finally touched her?

  Before she could become completely unnerved, she was saved by the soft gong of a dinner bell. Nicholas turned his head, freeing her from the spell of his gaze. "Shall we see what the cook is capable of? I haven't had a real meal since returning to Aberdare, so I have no idea how skillful he is. In fact, I don't know if the cook is a him or a her."