Red Wine For Miss Parker - Another very romantic Comedy (Delicious Regency by Ruby Royce, Book 2) (2 page)

Now Darlington, he's quite a different character. He is smooth. I do not think I have ever met anybody who is as smooth as Lord Darlington. Everything he does is easy. The way he moves, the way he speaks, everything just comes to him effortlessly. Nothing ever perturbs him. Nothing provokes him. The most daring remarks are met with a somewhat weary smile. Oh, and he has the best possible manners! "Miss Parker, it's a pleasure to see you, as it always is, if you will permit me to say so" he had announced lightly with that fine voice of his, in the crisp accents of the highest aristocracy. That is another point. Nobody speaks quite as elegantly as Lord Darlington does. Funnily enough, Darlington is the one who always calls Surrey out for drifting into what Gigi has dubbed "The Aristo Hiss", that almost unintelligible mode of speaking Dominic St. Yves employs whenever he decides he has to let the rest of the world feel his absolute superiority —
 
or in that case "abslit spriorty".
 

Like Dominic St. Yves, James Crawford, the Earl of Darlington is the product of centuries of exquisite breeding and knows it. Although contrary to his friend Surrey, he would never make one feel how far above one he actually stands. And where Surrey is moody and dark, Darlington is golden. His hair is golden, his green eyes have golden flecks, yes even his skin has a golden tinge to it. He is quite alike in colouring to Eugenia, now that I think of it. But I don't think they are related in any way.

His frame is slightly wider than that of Lackerby, Darlington's more of an athlete, with broad shoulders and slim hips... the ideal of any sculptor.
 
His features do look chiselled and polished to me, so maybe he was not actually born from a mother's womb but sculpted from golden marble, if there is such a thing. I'll have to ask somebody. Who would know? Well, Darlington, I guess.

But he is ever so polished and despises any faux-pas. The first thing he had to say to Clara upon arrival had been "Don't you think this dress is somewhat osé for a girl of your age?" The poor Clara had not known what to say, it was a very thin dress, still nothing outrageous. But with Darlington everything needs to be "comme-il-faut!"

 
The Earl certainly has his share of female company, I'm sure of it, but he is so discreet that nobody would have any idea who his current favour resides upon. Most certainly it does not reside on me, he hardly..."

SPLASH.
 

Flora looked up as she heard the noise.
 

SPLASH.
 

There it was again. What was it? A fish? Flora peeked through the leaves towards the lake, but saw nothing. She was just about to return to her writing when she heard it again.
 

SPLASH.
 

It came from her right side, the side hidden from her view by the tree trunk. She closed the diary and tried to move around a little, holding on to the trunk.
 

SPLASH.
 

 
This time she saw it. It was an
arm
! And there! Another arm! Somebody swam there! There was an entire human body in the water. A man! The entire naked body of a naked man! Naked! Droplets glittering in the sunlight! On his naked, naked skin!

She could right away establish that it was a very well formed male frame paddling to shore.
 

Naked.

Where had he come from? At this part of the lake it was at least two miles wide at the narrowest point.
 

Flora looked down.
 

It would take her too long to climb down the tree. She was not high up but with her long skirts and the way she sat on the branch, it would not be an easy endeavour.
 

She had no choice but to stay where she was.
 

The man stopped.
 

Had he seen her? Flora's heart raced. If he saw her it would be dreadfully embarrassing.
 

The best thing to do, she decided, was to simply wait it out in the tree.

He reached the shoreline.
 

The water was still deep at the grassy ridge and he had folded his arms in front of himself resting his head on them, most likely exhausted from the effort of swimming across the lake.
 

All of a sudden he lifted himself. With one perfect movement he sprang out of the water and stood right in front of the tree.
 

Naked.

And then Flora fell.

Strangely, it took her an unnaturally long time to fall and the world almost halted when her face was on the same height as his groin.

With a loud "thump" she landed at his feet. A sharp pain went through her ankle but Flora did not even scream. She just lay there, on her back, looking up into the sky, debilitated by shock. Her entire body felt flushed and she was waiting for her brain to explode.

"Signorina, si è fatta male?" a voice asked from above.
 

Flora had begun to study the italian idiom, but the quickly uttered phrase was beyond her understanding, especially in her present circumstance.

"I believe I should try again. Are you hurt, Miss?" the voice asked again, this time in perfect English, as crisp as Darlington's or Surrey's could ever be.

Flora was blind with tears of shame.
 

Fortunately.
 

She did not want to see what most certainly hung just a few hands above her face.

The man must have come to a similar conclusion. "Might I borrow your scarf, Miss? I believe we would have an easier time conversing if my family jewels were covered."

What did he just say? He can NOT have said that!!!

 
Flora thought she must have somehow agreed - but maybe she had not - anyway, she felt her silken
stola
being pulled out from under her.

"There! I am decent now. You can look."

Flora did.
 

The afternoon sun was in her eyes and all she could behold was the glittering form of a Greek Olympian in complete undress, apart from the pink scarf he had wound around his middle.
 

"Holy Christ, that's my mothers scarf!" she cried out without thinking and hated herself for the dreadful habit of not being able to hold her tongue.

"Your mother is a Lady of taste, this is exquisite silk. And I am glad you found your speech, Miss. Would you have the kindness to answer my question regarding your well-being? Will you be able to walk on your own?"

Flora bit her teeth and tried to move her foot. It hurt.
 

She shook her head. "No, I believe, I can't, Sir. Might you call at the house and ask for a few servants to come and get me, there should be at least three valets with nothing to do. They would— "
 

Without much ado he leaned forward and lifted her up into his arms.

"No, you can't!" Flora shrieked as any good English girl would when suddenly snatched up by a naked man. A naked
wet
man!

"Of course I can, I have lifted much heavier weights, believe me. When I was in Germany, I once lifted a wine barrel that
 
weighed twice as much as you do. You are very small, you know. Has anybody ever told you?"

Floras cheek was pressed against his arm and she felt his hard body through her summer dress which was made of three
extremely
thin layers.
 

"They don't have to tell me, I know I am small, but
wait
! Where are you taking me? Do you know the way? We have to find Her Grace! The Duchess of Surrey! She lives here. We live here! I am her companion. She will take care of me! I believe she is on the veranda over to the left with— "

"HER Grace? Can it be true? Noooo... HER Grace? Really?" He began to laugh.

They rounded a corner and Flora could see the veranda where Gigi and Clara were served tea by Mariella the Housekeeper.

Gigi jumped up as soon as she saw the strange pair approach.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded imperiously, general's daughter that she was. "Unhand her, Sir. This instant!"

"You Grace, I believe?" The man was still laughing. "I wish I could, but I'm afraid she cannot walk."

"Clara, avert your eyes," Gigi snapped at her sister-in-law.
 

The man carefully lowered Flora down onto a bench.
 

"Thank you," she whispered and for the first time, dared to look up at his face. He was... breathtaking! Breathtaking! BREATHTAKING!!!

His moist, dark hair framed a face of supernatural beauty, with sapphire blue eyes framed by long, thick black lashes. His cheekbones were high and his mouth must have been painted by the great Botticelli himself, but his face was not similar to this painter's well known angels, oh no, it was far too masculine for that!
 

The droplets on his chest and and arms shone like diamonds in the sunlight.
 
And a sweet melancholy, a longing, an urgent need lay in this features that appealed to Flora's most womanly instincts. She gazed at him in awe.

 
Much to her distress, he did not longingly gaze back at
her
, but at the disgustingly slender, charmingly freckled, honey-blond Clara St. Yves, the only one of the Surrey siblings who had apparently taken after the father.
 

Of course he would gaze at Clara.
 

No, now he gazed at Gigi.
 

Now back at Clara.

It was always the same with the tall blondes. Flora hated them. Well, not as human beings, they were her friends after all, but as blondes, she hated them.
 

"Coo coo, Clara," the man sang cheerfully and winked at the attractive girl, who was staring at him with her mouth wide open.
 

That man is insane!
 

Only then both Flora and Gigi noticed Mariella, who had sunk down to her knees. "Su' Altezza Reale!" she wailed and bowed her head.

Altezzawhat? What does it mean? "Alto" means "high". Is she praying? These Italians are very devout!

Suddenly Clara shot up with a loud shriek, clutched her hands to her breast and ran towards the man. She threw herself at him and screamed "FRANKIE!!!"

Palazzo Sforza, Lake Maggiore, Lombardy, that very moment

 
Su' Altezza Reale Francesco di Chiaroburgo-Sforza, or to put it in more complete and understandable terms: His Royal Highness, Francis Ferdinand Joseph of Karlsburg-Sforza, Archduke of Lombardy, youngest brother to the ruling Grand-Duke, nephew to the Austrian Emperor, 17
th
in line to the re-established throne of France, great-nephew to his Holiness the Pope, cousin to the Duke of Surrey and a formidable swimmer, bestowed a kiss on Clara's freckled cheek.

He inspected her closely, holding her by the chin, turning her face from left to right, up and down then asking her to turn around.
 

"You are a woman!" he exclaimed indignantly.

Clara's eyes were wet with tears and she beamed at him without saying a word.
 

It was true. The last time he had seen her, she had been only nine years old, a lanky girl with cornflower blue eyes and a face full of freckles, looking up to their elder siblings, yearning for their approval.

Past events long pushed from his mind came rushing over the Prince like a wave.

Carlotta Sforza-St.Yves had died giving birth to Clara and the older St. Yves children had felt hostile towards the new sister who, in their eyes, had murdered their mother.
 

It had been Francesco, the exiled cousin, who had taken it upon himself to be the little creature's friend.
 

The old Duke, her father, had suffered a severe stroke at the news of his wife's death and it was to be an ailing from which he would never recover until his death in 1812, two years before Francesco was allowed to go back to his own country.
 

In those days Clara and Francesco had grown an alliance of the lonesome and despised.
 

Francesco had been the one to correct Clara at the dinner table.
He
had instructed her governesses and teachers,
he
had found a pony for her to ride. The little lass, who had looked so different from all the other Surrey children, had come to
him
 
to report her newest accomplishments or to ask him whether she should dare ask Gloria or Hermione for help with her piano lessons.

 
They would
not
help her, but Francesco could make them.
 

His one trump, alone and separated from his family for reasons of dynastic protection, had always been his name and rank. He was a Prince of Karlsburg.
 

Where the St.Yves children were to be addressed as "My Lord" or "My Lady",
 
Francesco was "Your Royal Highness". They had loathed him for it.
 

He had always held various privileges whilst living in Seventree, privileges often begrudged him, especially by the heir.
 

As a boy, Dominic St. Yves had been vain and hostile towards the easy going, outspoken and spoiled Francesco. Later, much to Francesco's relief, Dominic had gone to Eton and the two young men hardly ever met.
 

 
As the new Duke of Surrey, Dominic had turned into an autocratic, severe young man, with a responsibility for thousands of people, a seat in the House of Lords, sisters coming of age, vast properties in Britain, Europe and in the Americas, and countless duties, which left him no time at all to worry about a tolerated cousin or a much younger sibling.
 

Fortunately, in time, Elizabeth St. Yves had turned into a good-hearted young woman and after having married the Earl of Barnham she had taken Clara under her wings.

Now Clara was a woman grown, still a little lanky, but very pretty. There was a vibrant intensity in her that she must have acquired after he had left.