“Eat the picnic that George so thoughtfully brought,” Valentine said.
“No, I mean…”
“I know what you mean. I’ll take a look around but I doubt I’ll find anything. If the Crusader’s Rose was here then it’s long gone. We’ll just have to move on to the next name on the list, and hope for better.” He looked at her, as if waiting for something. “You haven’t told me that there’s a chance I may never find the rose, that I should prepare myself for failure.”
Marissa gave him a puzzled glance. “I wouldn’t say anything so spineless.”
His mouth curled into a reluctant smile. “No, I d
on’t believe you would.”
George arrived with the basket and a rug to lay out on the grass. He wandered over toward the mill and the shade thrown by the old building. Here he shook out the rug, setting it by the pond where the water was deep and green, beams of sunlight barely penetrating the surface, while insects darted above. At any moment, thought Marissa, a woman’s hand might rise up from the depths, clutching a gleaming sword.
The thought made her smile.
“Mrs. Beaumaris has outdone herself.” As they made themselves comfortable, George was investigating the contents of the picnic basket. “There’s cold roast lamb, lobster salad, cherry tart…and a bottle of champagne!” He began to wrestle with the cork.
“What are you thinking?”
Marissa turned and found Valentine watching her from beneath his lashes. He was resting on his side, his long body stretched out on the rug and propped up by an elbow. He was twisting a blade of grass between his fingers, and one of his legs was bent at the knee, the cloth stretched over the thickness of his thigh. His jacket had fallen open and she could see the muscles of his chest beneath the thin linen shirt.
It was impossible not to remember him half-naked, his mouth hot on hers, as she sank down onto his lap and his fingers stroked her most secret places.
Marissa felt a tremor run through her, and beneath her skirts she squeezed her thighs tightly together, trying to ease the ache that was centered between them. Somehow, when George handed her a glass of champagne, she managed to thank him in a calm voice, as if her skin were not feverish and her thoughts full of wicked, unladylike longings.
“To us!” he announced.
She smiled and took a sip. The liquid was cool and delicious and this time her delight was unfeigned. “To us.”
Valentine gulped some of the champagne, but he was still waiting for her to answer his question.
“I was thinking this could be the watery place where King Arthur commanded Excalibur to be thrown, when he lay dying.”
“Romantic fairy tales?” he said, brushing his hair out of his eyes and frowning at her. “I thought you were a woman of intellect and reason.”
Marissa took another sip of her champagne. “I am. But I also believe that we do not understand everything in our world and therefore we should keep our minds open to the possibilities.”
Valentine grunted a noncommittal answer. He emptied his glass and glowered at the sunny meadow surrounding them. He seemed to be following his own thoughts, and after a moment he said, “Can Abbey Thorne really be the only manor surviving from the days of the Crusader’s Rose? I would never have believed it.”
“I don’t think you realize how lucky you are,” she said quietly. “You live in a place that has been in your family for centuries, surrounded by the belongings and memories of generations. Abbey Thorne Manor belongs to you, but you also belong to it. My family has kept very little of the past. My father says he doesn’t believe in the burdens of history, and although in some ways that may be a good thing, in others it means we are like plants without our roots in the soil. We do not belong to anything or anyone.”
She hadn’t meant to say so much on a subject that was painful to her, but her tongue had run away with her—or perhaps it was the excellent champagne.
“This does look good,” she said, beginning to fill a plate from the picnic basket. “And I am famished.”
“Mrs. Beaumaris always sent me back to school with a jolly good feast,” George said, eyeing his own plate with pleasure. He glanced up at her. “Didn’t you attend some finishing school or other, Marissa?”
“Miss Debenham’s Finishing School,” she said with a reminiscent smile.
“I thought your parents weren’t interested in the social niceties?” Valentine interrupted, digging his fork into the lobster salad.
“My grandmother is, however.”
“Do Bohemians value etiquette and manners? Don’t they prefer to live their lives outside the strictures of society?”
Marissa smiled in the face of his suspicion. “Not all of them, Lord Kent. My grandmother has always been very keen on etiquette and manners.”
And giving herself up to pleasure, she almost added, stopping herself in time. It didn’t matter, though. Valentine read her unspoken words in her eyes and something in his own flashed like a sapphire in the sun. “Pleasure” seemed to be occupying both their minds to a dangerous degree.