He opened and closed the door carefully, mindful of the noisy hinges. When he stepped outside, he spotted a flash of her pale dress in the distance against the murky air, disappearing into the tree line.
Where was she going?
He followed, sticking to the narrow path that led through a thick copse to a pond. He stepped out on the bank warily, glancing around. He didn’t see her.
The burbling little body of water was secluded. Even in the predawn darkness, it was covered by the shade of several large oak trees, blocking out most of the moonlight.
Was she meeting someone? Her betrothed? Someone else?
An uncomfortable sensation spread through him, almost as though a great weight was pushing down on him. He rubbed at the center of his chest, hoping that might alleviate the strange discomfort. It did no good.
He knew so little of her. Other than that she felt ripe and yielding in his hands and moved like the sweetest seductress.
Dropping his hand, he turned to go, telling himself that whatever she was up to was of no matter to him. Charlotte Langley was not his mystery to solve.
The sound of water splashing stopped him. Turning, he looked back out at the water and spotted her.
The air trapped in his chest.
She floated on her back, those teacup breasts she had displayed for him so eagerly earlier now perched and bobbing above the water as she glided, silent as a raft.
She swam in the nude? The chit lacked all decorum . . . all modesty.
And he’d never been so intrigued in his life.
His concern ebbed at the sight of her. She looked so peaceful, floating with her eyes shut. Not at all distraught.
He cleared his throat to gain her attention, but she did nothing that indicated she was aware of him. She didn’t hear him with her ears underwater apparently.
He considered her for a moment, glancing around at the quiet woods surrounding them. Looking back at her, a small smile curled his lips. Drifting through the water like a woodland sprite in the softly purpling air, she seemed more magical than real.
This whole night felt unreal to him.
Perhaps it was all a bit of fantasy. The memory of her most sensual assault, her body riding him in hungry vigor . . . Perhaps it was all imaginary, an illusory whim invented within the secret longings of his mind.
A dream.
A dream where anything could happen. Where impulses could be followed with no fear and no consequence.
Certainly none of the wanton images of her matched up with his memory of the girl from the tediously dull dinner party.
She’d come across as so very boring. A dull, vapid creature alongside her dull, vapid betrothed. He’d dismissed her as one would the wallpaper of a room. Something that existed . . . something one was consciously aware of but could not be counted upon to recount in any degree of detail later.
Except now he could not forget her. Not the feel of her. Not the sight of her.
Especially not this sight of her.
His skin felt overheated again. The water beckoned, tempting him—almost as much as she tempted him.
Of course, he wouldn’t dare. Despite their earlier intimacy, he would not be so bold as to join her in the pond. Not without express invitation. To do so felt vaguely predatory . . . diving into a pond occupied by an unsuspecting naked female. It was enough for him to watch her, so vulnerable and appealing and . . . remarkable. She was remarkable and she astounded him.
He’d been wrong about her, and watching her now only reinforced that. She had sparked his interest. His heretofore dormant interest, and he could not look away.
He could not ignore such a turn of circumstances.
She could be the answer to his return to self.
Hope stirred in his chest. He wanted that. He wanted to feel less confused . . . less lost. He wanted to be his old self again—living in carelessness and freedom with no taste of sorrow in his mouth. With no grief in his heart.
He shook his head. It had been a long time since he’d bedded a female.
Clearly too long for one slip of a girl to affect him thusly, even if she was enticingly wet at present and without garments. He was no green lad. He’d seen plenty of naked women before. The sight did not typically undo him. Clearly this naked woman was singular in that aspect. Ah, bloody hell.
Of all the women for whom he should experience this awakening . . . it had to be a kinswoman to Warrington. And she was betrothed, no less.
She was encroaching closer to the bank, still unaware of him, still on her back, still floating on the surface of the water with her small pert breasts proudly on display.
His mouth dried.
Evidently his tastes had changed and he was only just now becoming acquainted with that fact. From now on, he would know.
From now on, he would know he preferred his women repressed, seething cauldrons of desire ready to boil over onto him. Slender wispy females who looked—deceptively—as though they would run at the first kiss.
The purple air softened to a pale gray. He lifted his face to smell the clean scent of impending day. Dawn would be here soon. People would be about their day. Perhaps not here in this secluded glen, but on the estate. It was time to find his voice and alert her to his presence.
He lightly cleared his throat, hoping this time she heard him. “I had no idea this pond was frequented by mermaids.”
Thankfully, his voice escaped in an even tone, reflecting none of the desire shuddering through him.
Chapter 6
Apparently she heard him. She flailed, dunking herself underwater.
Kingston watched as she came up sputtering, water splashing all around her, her mermaid hair sluicing over her face, shoulders and chest, clinging like coils of golden kelp.
“What are you doing here?” She slicked her hair back from her face to gaze at him, blinking spiky wet eyelashes as though she could not quite believe her eyes.
He scanned her water-speckled face, the compulsion to stride directly into the water and lick the droplets from her skin hard-fought. She looked younger, her delicate features fragile as she gazed at him in astonishment.
Licking the water from her face would not be the thing to do right now. Most definitely not.
Splotches of red marked her face. She appeared close to apoplexy.
“I heard you leave the house,” he explained.
“So you followed me?” Her bare shoulders bobbed above the waterline as she treaded water, her pale skin gleaming.
“I was worried . . . after earlier tonight—”
“You thought me mad? Unhinged? You thought me in need of monitoring?” She launched the questions at him like arrows, her eyes hot with temper . . . or perhaps it was some other emotion.
That wild-eyed glazed look was still there.
He shook his head slowly, quite certain no other female had ever made him feel so doubtful of himself. With her, he felt as though he were fumbling around in a dark chamber. “I did not say that.”
Although it was not far off from his thoughts.
She swept her gaze over him. “You should not be here.”
“I merely wanted to assure myself you are—”
“I am quite well,” she snapped in a tone that conveyed the exact opposite. As did the stormy look of her gaze.
“I’m happy to escort you—”
She laughed briefly, the sound rather shrill and desperate. “That would be highly improper.”
Now she was concerned with propriety? Now? Who was this strange creature?