Page 41 of Nothing But a Rakehell
“The farmers were very serious about it. It was lovely, too. You could tell they had practiced. They visited everywhere and then ended by going out to the orchards to sing to the fruit trees. They believe it wakes them and ensures a good harvest.”
“Fascinating.” Sterne was staring down at the stone in his hand. “Oh, I say, you’re the expert in this group. Is this what we’re looking for?”
“Let me see.” She leaned down to take the rock and Keswick froze. This was by far the lowest décolletage he’d seen her wear, and it strained as she bent over. “Oh, yes. It’s a partial ammonite, I believe.” She handed it back and straightened, and Keswick heaved a great breath of relief.
It caught her attention. “What about you, my lord? Your mother was Irish, you said. Did she introduce any interesting and different traditions to your holidays?”
He didn’t answer. She had bent down again and was searching among the greens piled at her feet. The green over-gown dipped low to cup her breasts. The pretty little gold clasps that held the bodice together labored to contain her.
Could Lycett see her from his vantage point? Was Sterne watching her bosom swell over, too? His blood rose to an instant boil at the thought, and he turned to his friend—to find him staring at him, not her.
“Kes?”
“What? Yes?”
“Irish holiday traditions?” Lady Glory prompted.
“Oh. Yes.” He tried to pull his thoughts together. He had to look away from the bounty before him. “Yes, my mother was a great one for placing candles in all of the windows on the eve before Christmas. She insisted that the weary travelers must know they had a welcome, should they need one.”
“That is very sweet.” She sat up. “You know, Mr. Sterne, there is another tradition I heard about, in this part of the country. It takes place in the spring, though, not at the Christmas holidays. At the church in St. Briavels, I believe.” Frowning, she searched the crowd beyond them. “It has something to do with tossing and catching bread and cheese. The morsels become . . . lucky talismans, perhaps? You should ask Miss Munroe about it. She is likely to know all of the particulars.”
“Is she?” Sterne stood. “Well, I’ve searched through all of these, in any case. I’ll go and ask her.”
Keswick climbed to his feet, as well. “No, you stay and I’ll go and fetch her.”
“I’m already up,” Sterne said with a devilish grin. “Lady Glory, I leave you in Keswick’s capable hands. Don’t hesitate to make him fetch and carry for you.”
Sterne strode off, the traitor. Keswick looked down at the chit watching him thoughtfully, her cognac-tinted eyes shining. “Don’t look so worried, Keswick. I’m not going to send you on a forced march.”
* * *
Glory stared up at Keswick,his big, wide-shouldered form framed by the bright sky and sparkling water, and she felt a little thrill. Several little thrills, actually.
The foremost one, oddly, was of gratitude. Of all the men to stir up a whirlwind of chaos inside of her—she was glad it was this one. He shifted, fidgeting and frowning. He was clearly agitated. Distracted. Likely annoyed with her, still. But he did not become ill-mannered, short or dismissive. He did seem uncommonly focused on her, though.
And that led straight to all of those other thrills. All the little tremors currently knocking about her interior, waking up heretofore sleeping bits of her and setting them all aflame.
“You should,” he said.
She blinked. She’d let herself become distracted by the sheer, sharp-edged bulk of him. “Should what?”
“You should send me marching out of here. In fact, I volunteer. I’ll quick step back to the house to fetch you” . . . he circled his hand around his chest . . . “one of those filmy, lacy things.”
She watched his hand, frowning. “Filmy . . . a fichu, do you mean? Why?” She looked down. “Have I spoiled my gown?”
“You’ve forgotten a section of it, rather.”
She scowled up at him. “Are you criticizing my gown?”
“No. I’m only informing you that there is not enough of it.” This time he pointed to her chest and made that circling motion. “Right about there.”
Her heart pounded. How could he be so irritating and . . . stimulating, at the same time? “The neckline of this gown is perfectly in line with fashion—and with those worn by other ladies here.”
“Are you sure?” He sounded dubious.
“Perfectly.” She decided to be encouraged by his interest. Perhaps it bided well for her plan. “In fact, this décolletage is more modest than some others right here in this gathering.”
“Is this bucket taken?” Lady Tresham appeared and sank down upon Sterne’s abandoned, makeshift seat.
