The Regency Season: Wicked Rakes: How to Disgrace a Lady / How to Ruin a Reputation. Bronwyn Scott
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‘Race you! I’ve got the flask!’
‘But you don’t know where you’re going!’ Ashe and Merrick yelled in unison. This had always been the case; even at Oxford, Riordan had been heedless of the details, seizing the pleasure of the moment, ignoring the consequences. Merrick exchanged a knowing look with Ashe.
‘All the better to race me....’ The words floated back over the pounding of hooves on packed dirt. They needed no further encouragement to kick their horses up to speed and follow.
They found the pond as Ashe remembered it: a cool, shady oasis fed by a quick-flowing stream and perfect for the odd summer bathe. It was hidden from the casual eye by leafy willows and Merrick raced the others, wasting no time in divesting himself of his clothes, suddenly overcome with a desire to feel the cold water on his hot skin. He dived in, refusing to cautiously test the waters first.
The water closed over his head and he felt absolution. He reached out into the water with long strokes and began to kick, every stroke taking him further from London, from his father, from his ongoing battle for the freedom to be himself even if he didn’t precisely know who that was. In the water he was clean. Unfettered joy took him and he surged to the surface, shaking the water from his hair. Ashe was watching him, posed gloriously naked on a rock like a sea-god. Merrick reached up, grabbed Ashe’s leg and pulled. ‘Come on in, the water’s fine.’
Ashe gave an undignified yelp as gravity and Merrick took him sliding into the pond. ‘Riordan, get in here and help me!’
There was a swift movement on the banks as Riordan grabbed for a sturdy vine and swung into the mêlée. Chaos ensued—the good kind of chaos that washes away years and trouble. They wrestled in the water; they scrambled up the banks, making the dirt into mud with their dripping forms; they ran the perimeter of their sanctuary with loud whoops of pure exuberance, only to jump back in and start all over. For all the sophistication of London and its entertainments, Merrick hadn’t had this much uncontrived fun in ages. London’s haut ton would cringe to see three of their members behaving with such careless, naked abandon. But why not? There was no one to see.
Thank goodness no one could see her now. Dressed in a loose, serviceable gown of drab olive and scuffed half-boots, Alixe knew she didn’t look at all like a proper earl’s daughter. The family would have a fit. Another fit. The family wanted to have as few fits as possible. Which was probably why they’d let her go out wandering in the first place, despite guests arriving for the long-anticipated midsummer house party.
At the moment, Alixe didn’t care if the king himself was scheduled to arrive. She had a precious afternoon of freedom entirely to herself. The weather was fine and she was enjoying her tramp to the furthest edges of the family property, perhaps a bit beyond because she was feeling a little naughty. She had a destination in mind—an old summer house on the nebulous fringes of the estate, where she could settle in with her books and her work, all carefully packed in a cloth bag looped over her shoulder.
She was getting close to the summer house. The path was increasingly overgrown with fern and nearly obscured from plain view as she ventured further into the wooded area. She smiled and pushed aside some of the rampant undergrowth. It was cool here beneath the trees. Ah, there it was. She quickened her pace, taking the crumbling steps to the entrance two at a time.
Alixe opened the door and sighed. The old place was perfect. She should make a retreat out of it. She could scavenge odds and ends from the attics. Alixe put her bag down and surveyed the open-air room. It was more like a gazebo than an actual house, but it had infinite possibilities—a place where she could be alone, away from the family’s odious neighbour Archibald Redfield, away from everyone and all their expectations for her life. Alixe closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Ah, yes, she was blessedly alone.
Then she heard it: the sound of not being quite alone. Alixe turned her head towards the sound. A bird call? It came again—distinctly not a bird. It sounded like a human shout.
Oh, dear.
The lake.
Alixe was galvanised into action. Someone might be in trouble. She tore through the woods, running towards the shouts.
* * *
Alixe crashed into the lake clearing and came to an abrupt halt too late to rethink announcing her presence once it became patently obvious the only thing in risk of drowning were her sensibilities. Three men cavorted—really, that was the only word for it—cavorted in the water. They dove, they wrestled, they noticed her.
Oh, lord, they noticed her.
She didn’t want to be noticed. This was not what she deserved for playing the good Samaritan. She’d run pell-mell to the aid of three men swimming nude in a hidden lake. Someone could at least have the decency to actually be drowning.
‘Hello, are we making too much noise? We didn’t think anyone was around,’ one of them said easily, unfazed by her sudden appearance. He separated from his comrades and waded towards the shore, the receding water revealing him inch by marvellous inch until Alixe was sure of two things: first, she’d never seen such a finely made man in her life and, second, the finely made man was undoubtedly naked.
She should look away. But where to look? His eyes? They were too mesmerising. The sky wasn’t even that blue. His chest? Too well-sculpted, especially the tapered muscles at his abdomen.
Abdomen!
Oh, lord, she hadn’t meant to let her gaze or the water get so low. He was still moving towards her, unbothered by his nudity. She had to put a stop to it or she’d be seeing more than the firm muscles of his abdomen.
All her supposed good breeding failed her utterly. Her eyes remained riveted on the stranger’s midsection. It would only be a matter of seconds now before all was revealed. She should say something. What did one say to a naked man at a pond?
She opted for a casual response and tried to sound as if she ran into naked men all the time. ‘Don’t get out for me. I’ll just be going. I heard the shouts and thought someone might need help.’
Good. She sounded mostly normal.
Alixe took a step back from the lake and promptly fell over a log half-buried in the mud of the lake side. She landed hard on her backside. She could feel her cheeks burning. So much for normal.
The man laughed, not unkindly, and kept advancing. He was fully revealed now, his manly parts entirely visible. All she could do was stare. He was so magnificent that for a moment she forgot to be embarrassed, her curiosity unleashed at the sight of him. He was beautiful—that part of him was beautiful in a wild, primitive way. She’d not expected it.
‘Seems as though someone might need help, after all.’ The nameless, naked man stood over her with a hand held out, not that she had much attention for the hand when there were other dangling appendages in close proximity.
‘No, really, I’m all right.’ Her words rushed out in a flummoxed mess, her sense of propriety returning.
‘Don’t be stubborn, give me your hand. You don’t want to fall again.’ He held out his hand, insisting.
‘Oh, yes, my hand.’ Alixe offered it up as if she’d just discovered it and dragged her eyes a little further up his chest to his face. He was grinning at her with his whole visage: his smile wide and laughing, his eyes bluer than the cerulean of an English summer sky.
He tugged Alixe to her feet, not in the least nonplussed by his lack of clothing. ‘Your first naked man, I take it?’
‘What?’ It took her a moment to follow the question. It was hard enough to train her eyes away from the environs of his thighs, let alone follow a conversation. She opted for sophistication in the hopes of recovering her dignity. ‘No, actually. I’ve seen plenty in...’ She faltered here. Where would she have seen them?
‘Art work?’