Initially, it had astonished her that her mother possessed any book on erotic love, much less several. It made her wonder if her mother had not dismissed all notions of carnality and only purported to do so. Perhaps there had been secret lovers after Vera's father.
Curious indeed, but Vera would never have that answer.
She merely knew that she had read the texts countless times over the years and stared at the illustrations of couples locked and entwined until the pages of the books were fragile and well-worn under her fingers…and parts of her anatomy throbbed and ached—so much so that she had learned to touch and rub and fondle herself to fulfillment.
For the last few years now, Vera had become quite adept at achieving her own arousals. She might not have a partner, but there was nothing frigid about her.
The stablemaster looked her up and down critically, and she knew the lewd man thought her not only inexperienced but ignorant. It irked her. She knew it should not. She knew a proper and upright unmarried woman would not be insulted at the designation of 'frigid'. It would be a point of pride. It would mean she was modest and modesty was a virtue.
But he meant it as an insult, and that was enough to annoy her.
Holding her ground, she lifted her chin, propping her hands on her hips, and dipping her voice to a taunting whisper. “You know nothing of what lies beneath my skirts and you never shall.”
His dark eyes seemed to grow impossibly darker, and he lashed back, “What makes you think I'd even want to know what's beneath the skirts of a dusty ol' virgin like you?”
She tried not to flinch at that.
He smirked. “Plenty of hot-blooded and willing lasses around here.”
“Yes,” she said flippantly. “Plenty of thrill and mysterious allure with all those very willing lasses. I'm sure you enjoy the hunt when it comes so very easily for you.”
His expression turned cross.
She continued, “A different liaison every day of the week.” She gave a shrug and tsked. “How very predictable and . . .” She angled her head, reaching for the word and arriving at it. “Boring.”
His eyes widened. “Boring.”
“Indeed. Boring,” she agreed with a nod of perfect nonchalance. Vera didn't know why she was toying with him in this manner. It was childish of her. Perhaps years of frustration were finally bubbling to the surface. All the sniping and fighting and watching him flit from one maid to another.
She wanted to provoke him.
As he continued to glower at her, she swept past him. “Good day, Mr. Blackthorne.”
Humming with satisfaction, she left him standing there staring after her, the basket swinging at her side. She was profoundly pleased that she had the last word. If he said anything, she didn't hear him behind her, and nothing on earth would make her look back.
Over an hour later, Vera was working on filling her basket with plump blackberries—eating one for each one she picked and humming lightly under her breath—when thunder growled on the air like a beast roused and stirring from its slumber.
She paused where she squatted in thick swaying grass, elbow deep in bramble, and glanced warily at the sky.
Another rumble quickly followed.
“Blast it.” She expelled a breath, her hands motionless amid the berries and thick shrubbery, as though if she were still enough she would go unnoticed by Mother Nature and spared her wrath.
Clouds rolled in, their underbellies dark and swollen.
Don't let him be right. Don't let that blasted man be—
She gasped, realizing she had squished several berries between her fingers and the dark juices were now running down her hands, clear all the way to her wrists.
She straightened into a standing position, shaking out her hands, sending berry juice flying as she lifted her face to study the quickly altering skies.
Vera glanced down at her partially filled basket, debating if she had gathered enough for the tart or if she had time to gather more berries before
The first drop of rain landed fat on her cheek.
It was too late.
The time for berry picking had come to an end.
Perhaps if you had heeded Rufus Blackthorne's advice you would not now find yourself in this unenviable situation.
Not that she would ever admit that. She was loath to even admit it even to herself.
The amount of berries inside her basket would have to be enough. She knew her aunt was already cross with her, and Cook had a notoriously bad temper when he did not get his way, and yet Vera did not relish standing in a field whilst it rained and thundered overhead.
Lifting her skirts, she tromped through the grass. The rain fell harder, picking up speed until it was a ceaseless drum of applause in her ears. Her skirts were soon drenched, dragging heavily at her ankles and whipping heavily around her boots.
Lightning burst across the deep indigo sky in a zigzag pattern. Moments later a boom of thunder shook the earth. She jerked, but pushed on, struggling to increase her pace. Not an easy task. The sodden ground sucked at her boots.
Water dripped from her nose and sluiced down every dip and hollow of her body beneath her garments. It was miserable. Not an inch of her was spared.
Thunder rumbled anew. So very close. The earth itself seemed to vibrate underneath her. Frowning, she glanced around as though expecting to see proof that lightning had struck nearby. There was no smoking, charred soil anywhere.
And then she spotted the source of the thunder.
It was not thunder at all.
A horse and rider advanced, hooves pounding over the ground, sending mud and bits of grass flying.
Relief warred with resentment inside her chest. She wanted no help from Rufus Blackthorne, but she wanted to escape this wretched storm.
His face was as thunderous as the skies, and her stomach pitched at the sight. He rode up alongside her and extended an arm. She gazed in consternation at the broad-palmed hand stretched toward her.
She did not want to accept it.
She did not want to accept his help or touch his hand or put herself atop that horse in proximity to him.
“Take my hand,” he directed over the beat of rain.
Her discomfort won out.
After all, the sooner she was astride that horse, the sooner she would arrive somewhere with four walls and a roof where she could dry off and not get struck dead by a bolt of thunder.
Ideally, the option involving not dead was always the better choice.
She clasped his hand, and he swung her up easily behind him. Her skirts bunched around her thighs, but she supposed that was a minor concern given the circumstances.
Even wet, his immense person radiated heat and she dropped her forehead to his back as though that would shield her from the chilly deluge. It was futile. He was as soaked as she was, but that did not stop her hands from clenching in the saturated fabric covering his back. Her fingertips pressed in deep, nails sinking into firm flesh, comforted and assured by the solid warmth of him.
Suddenly they stopped. She lifted her head.
She expected it would take his horse another twenty minutes at least to carry them to the shelter of the stables, but they'd been riding for less than five minutes. Blinking against the onslaught, she peered through the downpour around them.
“Why have we stopped?” she asked just as thunder cracked loudly over them, startling the horse. The beast danced sideways, but Rufus quickly had him in hand, calming him with some indecipherable words and deftly stroking his neck.