Regency Surrender: Infamous Reputations: The Chaperon's Seduction / Temptation of a Governess. Sarah Mallory
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beckoned to one of the servants who came forward. ‘You see I have brought three small baskets for you to fill, and to save you young ladies ruining your gowns there are aprons for you to put on.’
Lady Wakefield laughed. ‘Then there can be no objection. You have thought of everything, ma’am!’
* * *
They dined well on cold meats and cakes washed down with wine or small beer, but soon the effects of good food and the heat of the day took their toll. The party became less noisy and conversation began to die away to a soft murmur that Phyllida found quite soporific. Her eyelids were beginning to droop when she heard Penelope Desborough’s eager voice.
‘May we go and collect blackberries now, Mama?’
Mrs Desborough and Lady Wakefield were nodding sleepily, their spouses already snoring gently in the warm sunshine. As the young ladies donned their aprons Phyllida glanced across at the hedgerow. It meandered away for quite some distance and she was suddenly struck with misgiving. Of course, the gentlemen might not go to help, but Mr Fullingham was already on his feet, followed quickly by Adrian Wakefield and Richard Arrandale.
She jumped up, which caused Mrs Desborough to exclaim, ‘What’s this, Lady Phyllida, do you wish to collect berries too? I made sure you would want to rest a little.’
‘No, no, I am not at all tired,’ Phyllida assured her.
Mrs Desborough sat upright, looking perturbed.
‘But there are only three baskets, and I have no more aprons, ma’am, your gown—’
‘Oh, that is of no consequence,’ she replied airily.
Ellen laughed. ‘I doubt if Matlock will agree with you, Philly! But never mind that. Here, you may have my basket, and I shall share with Penelope.’
The arrangements settled, they moved off towards the hedgerow.
Richard fell into step beside her.
‘Three gentlemen, four ladies,’ he murmured.
‘Even numbers are not required for berry picking, Mr Arrandale.’
‘Nor is a chaperon, Lady Phyllida.’
She put up her chin. ‘That, sir, depends upon the company.’
* * *
Ellen had stopped by the hedge and her voice floated across on the still air.
‘Adrian, will you help me and Penelope to fill our basket?’
Mr Fullingham stepped up. ‘Allow me, Miss Tatham—’
‘Ah, sir, I was hoping you would help Julia, because you see that she cannot quite reach those berries at the very top, there, and they look so delicious...’
He was subjected to a dazzling smile and Phyllida smothered a laugh as the gentleman went off to do as he was bid. She glanced towards Richard and saw that he was grinning at her. Caught off guard, she blushed and looked away, but her confusion increased when she heard Ellen’s next words.
‘That leaves Mr Arrandale to help Phyllida.’
That could not please him any more than it pleased Phyllida. He would surely protest. She waited, but after a brief hesitation he swept a low bow.
‘Your wish is my command, Miss Tatham.’
Phyllida glared at him and without another word she hurried away to begin filling her basket.
* * *
Mrs Desborough was right, the tall hedgerows were thick with ripe blackberries and Phyllida worked steadily. Her gloves were soon stained with berry juice and she had to take care to prevent herself from becoming caught up on the brambles. Richard Arrandale was only feet away from her. His body and the lush, straggling hedgerow hid the others from her sight although their voices floated to her from time to time. They were distant, unimportant. All that mattered, all that she could think of, was the man beside her. He had removed his gloves to pick the fruit and she found herself watching his long lean fingers as they gently plucked each soft, plump berry.
They worked in silence. Phyllida had placed the basket on the ground between them and was surprised at how companionable it felt. She was aware of the birdsong, of the hum of insects and the warmth of the sun on her back, but more than anything she was aware of Richard at her side. Occasionally he moved closer and pulled down the higher stems for her to collect the soft fruit, or held aside the thick branches so she could reach deep into the heart of the bush.
Clearly, it was her duty to keep Richard Arrandale away from Ellen, but there was no denying that she was enjoying herself, more than she had done in a long time. The thought surprised her and she realised how staid her life had become, not only the twelve months she had spent in mourning at Tatham Park but the years before that. Years spent running a household and looking after an ageing husband.
I became a matron at eighteen, she thought, as she reached between two long branches to pluck a few particularly juicy berries. I was caught up in the duties of being a wife and mother as soon as I left the schoolroom, with no time for frivolous pastimes.
‘Oh!’
A thorn had penetrated the soft kid of her glove and pierced her finger.
‘Keep still.’
Richard was at her side immediately and she found it impossible to remain silent.
‘I fear I have no choice but to obey,’ she told him. ‘The thorns have caught at my sleeve.’
He stepped closer and she was painfully aware of the hard wall of his chest against her back. Her mouth dried, he filled her senses. She breathed in the masculine smell of him, the mix of soap and leather and an indefinable hint of musky spices. Surely she was imagining the thud of his heart against her shoulders, but she could feel his breath on her cheek and she trembled.
‘Steady now.’
One hand rested on her shoulder while the other reached past her to lift away the offending thorny tentacle.
‘There, you are free.’
Free? How could she be free when her whole body was in thrall to him? When he was so close she could feel the heat of him on her back? Phyllida shook off the thought and carefully withdrew her arm from the briars. When Richard removed his hand from her shoulder she felt it immediately, a yearning chill and an emptiness that was almost a physical pain. She stepped back and turned, only to find that he was close behind her, less than a hand’s width away, his broad chest and powerful shoulders filling her view, like a cliff face. She was distracted by detail, the fine stitching of his exquisitely tailored blue coat, the double row of buttons on his pale waistcoat, the snowy folds of linen at his neck. The hammering of her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. Surely he must hear it, see how shaken she was? She tried to speak lightly to divert his attention and her own.
‘Thank you, sir. I fear I could not have extricated myself without ruining this gown.’
She stretched her cheeks into a smile and looked up, confident she could ask him calmly to let her pass, but her gaze locked on to his mouth and the words died in her throat as she studied the firm sculpted lips. She was distracted by imagining how they would feel on her skin. She swallowed, forced her gaze upwards but that proved even more dangerous, for his blue eyes held her transfixed. She was lost, unable to move. She could no longer hear the skylark’s distant trill, nor the laughing voices of those picking berries further along the hedgerow. The world had shrunk to just the two of them. Anticipation tremored through her when he ran his hands lightly up her arms and the skin beneath the thin sleeves burned with his touch. His fingers came to rest upon her shoulders, gently pulling her towards him as he lowered his head to kiss her. She made no effort to resist. Instead her chin tilted up and her lips parted instinctively as his mouth came closer.
It was the lightest contact, a slight, tantalising brush of the lips, but Phyllida felt as if a lightning bolt had struck her, shocking her, driving through her body