Unfortunately Evie did miss, time and again, until her face was pink with frustration. “It’s t-too hard,” she said, her forehead puckered with worry. “Perhaps I should stop now and give someone else a turn.”

“Just a few more tries,” Annabelle said anxiously, determined that Evie should hit the ball at least once. “We’re in no hurry.”

“Don’t give up!” Daisy chimed in. “It’s just that you’re trying too hard, Evie. Relax—and stop closing your eyes when you swing.”

“You can do it,” Lillian said, pushing a lock of silky dark hair away from her forehead and flexing her slim, well-toned arms. “You almost connected with the last one. Just keep…watching…the ball.”

Sighing in resignation, Evie dragged the bat back to Castle Rock and lifted it once more. Her blue eyes narrowed as she stared at Daisy, and she tensed in preparation for the next feed. “I’m ready.”

Daisy tossed the ball gamely, and Evie swung with grim determination. A thrill of satisfaction shot through Annabelle as she saw the bat strike the ball solidly. It soared into the air, far into the oak grove. They all whooped in jubilation at the splendid strike. Shocked at what she had done, Evie began to jump in the air, squealing, “I did it! I did it!”

“Run around the baskets!” Annabelle cried, and scampered back to Castle Rock. Gleefully Evie circled the makeshift Rounders field, her garments a blur of white. When she reached Castle Rock, the girls continued to jump and scream for no reason at all, other than the fact that they were young and healthy and quite pleased with themselves.

Suddenly, Annabelle became aware of a dark figure rapidly ascending the hill. She fell abruptly silent as she ascertained that there was one—no, two—riders advancing to the dry meadow. “Someone’s coming!” she said. “A pair of riders. Hurry, fetch your clothes!” Her low-voiced alarm cut through the girls’ jubilation. They stared at each other with wide eyes and burst into panicked action. Shrieking, Daisy and Evie broke into a dead run toward the remains of the picnic, where they had left their dresses.

Annabelle began to follow, then stopped and turned abruptly as the riders thundered to a halt just behind her. She faced them warily, trying to assess what danger they might present. Looking up at their faces, she felt a bolt of chilling dismay as she recognized them.

Lord Westcliff…and even worse…Simon Hunt.

CHAPTER 10

Once Annabelle met Hunt’s stunned gaze, she could not seem to look away. It was like one of those nightmares that one always awoke from with a sense of relief, knowing that something so dreadful could never really happen. Were the situation not so completely to her disadvantage, she might have enjoyed the prospect of Simon Hunt rendered absolutely speechless. At first his face was blank, as if he was having tremendous difficulty absorbing the fact that she was standing before him dressed only in a chemise, corset, and drawers. His gaze slid over her, slowly coming to rest on her flushed face.

Another moment or two of suffocated silence, and Hunt swallowed hard before speaking in a rusty-sounding voice. “I probably shouldn’t ask. But what the hell are you doing?”

The words unlocked Annabelle from her paralysis. She certainly could not stand there and converse with him while she was clad in her undergarments. But her dignity—or the threads that remained of it—demanded that she not screech idiotically and dash for her clothes the way Evie and Daisy were doing. Settling for a compromise, she strode briskly to her discarded gown and clasped it to her front as she turned to face Simon Hunt once more. “We’re playing Rounders,” she said, her voice far higher-pitched than usual.

Hunt glanced around the scene before settling on her again. “Why did you—”

“One can’t run properly in skirts,” Annabelle interrupted. “I should think that would be obvious.”

Absorbing that, Hunt averted his face swiftly, but not before she saw the sudden flash of his grin. “Never having tried it, I’ll have to take your word on that.”

Behind her, Annabelle heard Daisy say to Lillian accusingly, “I thought you said that no one ever comes to this meadow!”

“That’s what I was told,” Lillian replied, her voice muffled as she stepped into the circle of her gown and bent to jerk it upward.

The earl, who had been mute until that point, spoke with his gaze trained studiously on the distant scenery. “Your information was correct, Miss Bowman,” he said in a controlled manner. “This field is usually unfrequented.”

“Well, then, why are you here?” Lillian demanded accusingly, as if she, and not Westcliff, was the owner of the estate.

The question caused the earl’s head to whip around. He gave the American girl an incredulous glance before he dragged his gaze away once more. “Our presence here is purely coincidental,” he said coldly. “I wished to have a look at the northwest section of my estate today.” He gave the word my a subtle but distinct emphasis. “While Mr. Hunt and I were traveling along the lane, we heard your screaming. We thought it best to investigate, and came with the intention of rendering aid, if necessary. Little did I realize that you would be using this field for…for…”

“Rounders-in-knickers,” Lillian supplied helpfully, sliding her arms into her sleeves.

The earl seemed incapable of repeating the ridiculous phrase. He turned his horse away and spoke curtly over his shoulder. “I plan to develop a case of amnesia within the next five minutes. Before I do so, I would suggest that you refrain from any future activities involving nudity outdoors, as the next passersby who discover you may not prove to be as indifferent as Mr. Hunt and I.”

Despite Annabelle’s mortification, she had to repress a skeptical snort at the earl’s claim of indifference on Hunt’s behalf, not to mention his own. Hunt had certainly managed to get quite an eyeful of her. And though Westcliff’s scrutiny had been far more subtle, it had not escaped her that he had stolen a quick but thorough glance at Lillian before he had veered his horse away. However, in light of her current state of undress, it was hardly the time to deflate Westcliff’s holier-than-thou demeanor.

“Thank you, my lord,” Annabelle said with a calmness that pleased her immensely. “And now, having dispensed such excellent advice, I would ask that you allow us some privacy to restore ourselves.”

“With pleasure,” Westcliff growled.

Before Simon Hunt departed, he could not seem to keep from looking back at Annabelle as she stood clutching her gown across her chest. Despite his apparent composure, it seemed to her that his color had heightened…and there was no mistaking the smoldering of his jet-black eyes. Annabelle longed for the self-possession to stare at him with cool disregard, but instead she felt flushed and disheveled and thoroughly off-balance. He seemed on the verge of saying something to her, then checked himself and muttered beneath his breath with a self-derisive smile. His horse stomped and snorted impatiently, pivoting eagerly as Hunt guided him to gallop after Westcliff, who was already halfway across the field.

Mortified, Annabelle turned to Lillian, who was blushing but admirably self-possessed. “Of all men to discover us like this,” Annabelle said in disgust, “it would have to be those two.”

“You have to admire such arrogance,” Lillian commented dryly. “It must have taken years to cultivate.”

“Which man are you referring to?…Mr. Hunt or Lord Westcliff?”

“Both. Although the earl’s arrogance just may edge out Mr. Hunt’s—which I call a truly impressive feat.”

They stared at each other in shared disdain for their departed visitors, and suddenly Annabelle laughed irrepressibly. “They were surprised, weren’t they?”

“Not nearly as surprised as we were,” Lillian rejoined. “The question is, how are we to face them again?”

“How are they to face us?” Annabelle countered. “We were minding our own business—they were the intruders!”

“How right you…” Lillian began, and stopped as she became aware of a violent choking noise coming from their picnic spot. Evie was writhing on the blanket, while Daisy stood over her with arms akimbo.

Hurrying to the pair, Annabelle asked Daisy in consternation, “What is it?”

“The embarrassment was too much for her to endure,” Daisy said. “It sent her into fits.”

Evie rolled on the blanket, a napkin concealing her face, while one exposed ear had turned the color of pickled beets. The more she tried to control her giggles, the worse they became, until she gasped frantically for air in between yelps. Somehow she managed to squeak out a few words. “What a s-s-smashing introduction to lawn sports!” And then she was snorting with more spasms of helpless laughter, while the other three stood over her.

Daisy threw Annabelle a significant glance. “Those,” she informed her, “are conniptions.”

Simon and Westcliff rode away from the meadow at a fast gallop, slowing to a walk when they entered the forest and followed a trail that wound through the wooded terrain. It was a good two minutes before either of them was inclined, or indeed able, to speak. Simon’s head was whirling with images of Annabelle Peyton’s firm, flourishing curves clad in ancient under-garments that had shrunk from a thousand washings. It was a good thing that he and she had not found themselves alone in such a circumstance, for Simon was certain that he wouldn’t have been able to leave her without doing something completely barbaric.

In Simon’s entire life, he had never experienced such potent craving as he had the moment he had seen Annabelle half-undressed in the meadow. His entire body had been flooded with the urge to dismount his horse, seize Annabelle in his arms, and carry her to the nearest soft patch of grass he could find. He could not imagine a more unholy temptation than the sight of her voluptuous body, the expanse of silken skin tinted in shades of cream and pink, the sun-streaked golden brown hair. She had looked so enchantingly mortified, blushing everywhere. He wanted to remove her ragged undergarments with his teeth and fingers; and then he wanted to kiss her from head to toe, taste her in sweet, soft places that—

“No,” Simon muttered, feeling his blood heat until it scalded the inside of his veins. He could not allow himself to pursue that line of thought, or his hard-thrumming desire would make the rest of the ride damned uncomfortable. When he had gotten his lust under control, Simon glanced at Westcliff, who appeared to be brooding. That was unusual for Westcliff, who was not the brooding sort.

The two men had been friends for about five years, having met at a supper given by a progressive politician with whom they were both acquainted. Westcliff’s autocratic father had just died, and it had been left to Marcus, the new earl, to take charge of the family’s business affairs. He had found the family finances to be superficially sound but ailing underneath, much like a patient who had contracted a terminal disease but still appeared healthy. Alarmed by the steady losses revealed by the account books, the new earl of Westcliff had recognized that drastic changes had to be made. He had resolved to avoid the fate of other peers who spent their lives presiding over an ever-shrinking family fortune. Unlike the silver-fork novels that depicted countless peers losing their wealth at the gambling tables, the reality was that modern aristocrats were generally not so reckless as they were simply inept financial managers. Conservative investments, old-fashioned views and illfated fiscal arrangements were slowly eroding aristocratic wealth and allowing a newly prosperous class of professional men to encroach on the higher levels of society. Any man who chose to disregard the influences of science and industrial advances on the emerging economy was sure to be abandoned in its churning wake…and Westcliff had no desire to be included in that category.

When Simon and Westcliff had struck up a friendship, there had been no doubt that each man was using the other to get something he wanted. Westcliff had wanted the benefit of Simon’s financial instincts, and Simon had wanted an entree into the world of the privileged class. But as they had become acquainted with each other, it became apparent that they were alike in many ways. They were both aggressive riders and huntsmen, requiring frequent strenuous physical activity as an outlet for an excess of vigor. And they were both uncompromisingly honest, although Westcliff possessed sufficient grace of manner to make his candor far more palatable. Neither man was the kind to sit for hours at a time to chat about poetry and sentimental concepts. They preferred to deal with tangible facts and issues, and, of course, they discussed current and future business ventures with keen enjoyment.

As Simon had continued to be a regular guest at Stony Cross, and a frequent visitor to Westcliff’s London house, Marsden Terrace, the earl’s friends had gradually come to accept him into their circle. It had been a welcome surprise for Simon to discover that he was not the only commoner whom Westcliff considered a close friend. The earl seemed to prefer the company of men whose perspectives of the world had been shaped outside the walls of noble estates. In fact, Westcliff occasionally claimed that he would like to disclaim his title, were such a thing possible, since he did not support the notion of hereditary aristocracy. Simon had no doubt that Westcliff’s statements were sincere—but it had never seemed to dawn on Westcliff that aristocratic privilege, with all its power and attendant responsibilities, was an innate part of him. As the holder of the oldest and most revered earldom in England, Marcus, Lord Westcliff, had been born to serve the demands of duty and tradition. He kept his life well organized and tightly scheduled, and he was the most self-controlled man that Simon had ever known.

At the moment, the usually coolheaded earl seemed rather more perturbed than the situation warranted.

“Damn,” Westcliff finally exclaimed. “I have occasional business dealings with their father. How am I supposed to face Thomas Bowman without remembering that I’ve seen his daughter in her underwear?”

“Daughters,” Simon corrected. “They were both there.”

“I only noticed the taller one.”

“Lillian?”

“Yes, that one.” A scowl crossed Westcliff’s face. “Good God, no wonder they’re all unmarried! They’re heathens even by American standards. And the way that woman spoke to me, as if I should have been embarrassed to interrupt their pagan revelry—”

“Westcliff, you sound like a prig,” Simon interrupted, amused by the earl’s vehemence. “A few innocent girls scampering about in the meadow is hardly the end of civilization as we know it. And if they had been village wenches, you’d have thought nothing of it. Hell, you probably would have joined them. I’ve seen you do things with your paramours at parties and balls that—”