The Magic of His Touch (May Day Mischief) by Barbara Monajem Page A

clearly, even with the moon
lighting up the garden, but she thought Lucasta’s nose curled. Did she smell
of...of what she and Alexis had done? Or just of Alexis? She took a few hasty
steps backward.
    Lucasta had already turned away. “Have you been rolling in the
dew again?”
    “No, what would be the use of that? It’s the wrong night.”
    “And it didn’t even work on the right night.”
    Oh, it had worked—but with ghastly results. At first, Peony’d
thought it hadn’t worked, and then that it had only affected her, but now she
realized that wasn’t the case. Alexis was indeed her true love—but she wasn’t
his. What Lucasta had said about naked young women trapping men into marriage
made complete sense now.
    “So why were you out here?” Lucasta said.
    “I’ve decided I like it outdoors at night,” Peony said. Strange
how an answer had come to her, just like that. “There’s nobody telling me what
to do next or how to behave. It gives me a great sense of freedom.” Not only had
she come up with a quick answer, but it was, unexpectedly, true.
    “Hmm,” Lucasta said, as if her mind was elsewhere. She held out
several sprigs of rosemary. “Take these, would you?” She moved along the path
and pinched off some fresh new mint leaves.
    Peony trailed behind her. “Why are you gathering herbs at this
time of night?”
    “To rid myself of a headache,” Lucasta said. Peony considered
asking why she didn’t use some of the dried herbs in the pantry—not that she
particularly cared. That wasn’t what she really wanted to discuss. She glanced
back and thought she saw Alexis’s still form by the orchard gate.
    “Come with me to the kitchen,” Lucasta said. “It would be a
great help.”
    Still unsure how to phrase her question for Lucasta, she
followed her willingly indoors and hovered while her cousin boiled water and
prepared not one, but two tisanes.
    “What is the other one for?”
    “Woman’s troubles,” Lucasta said, unusually curt. “Sorry I’m so
grumpy. I’ll be better once I’ve slept.”
    Peony carried the candle and led the way upstairs, opening the
bedchamber door for her. Lucasta set the tray with the tisanes on a table just
inside the door and turned to say good-night.
    “Wait,” Peony said. “Lucasta, are you—are you ever going to
marry Sir Alexis?”
    After a long moment of silence, her cousin said, “Why do you
ask?”
    “I’ve been wondering why you keep postponing it,” Peony said.
“If he’s such a kind and thoughtful man, he wouldn’t prevent you from writing
your folklore book even after you were married...would he?”
    “Probably not,” she said. “But you never know what a man will
do once he has the upper hand.” Why did she sound so bitter?
    “When I saw you together, I found it hard to believe that you
love him that...that way,” Peony said.
    Lucasta gave hard little laugh. “That’s why I’ve never asked
him here. It was easy to remain properly formal in London, but here someone was
sure to realize. He’s a dear friend, but marry him—no. I shall never marry. I’ll
be happier that way.”
    Peony wasn’t sure she believed that, either, and come to think
of it, hadn’t Lucasta’s woman’s troubles been only a week ago?
    “Are you worried about how he will feel?” said Lucasta. “You
needn’t be. Alexis is just like me; he doesn’t want to marry. Our engagement is
an arrangement for our mutual convenience, to keep matchmaking busybodies at
bay.”
    Knowing for sure that she’d done the right thing didn’t make it
any easier for Peony. She escaped to her room and indulged in a hearty bout of
tears.
    * * *
    Alexis woke with a start. Either the wind had risen
considerably, or one of Miss Whistleby’s ghosts, boggarts or bogeys was having a
restless night. More likely one of the latter , he thought, listening to the rhythmic
tapping of the ivy outside his window.
    He groaned and turned over. Yesterday, such a ridiculous
thought would