Thunder and Roses by Mary Jo Putney Page A

and off-balance. Then he recaptured his insouciance. “At Aberdare, my grandfather laid claim to all the virtues. Vice was the only thing left to me.”
     
    Clare scowled at him. “The old earl has been dead for four years, and you’re a grown man. Find a better excuse, or learn better behavior.”
     
    His expression darkened. “You scold more like a wife than a mistress.”
     
    Realizing that she had said too much, she said, “More like a schoolmistress than either.”
     
    “I’m sure that all your lessons will be sober, high-minded, and worthy,” he said thoughtfully. “But what lessons are you going to learn from me?”
     
    Though Clare remained silent, she knew the answer to his question: any lessons she learned from Nicholas would be dangerous ones.         
     
                  4
     
      It had been years since Nicholas had visited the old quarry, and then he had accepted it casually, without deeper thought. This time, however, he studied the rocky outcroppings more carefully. As he swung from his horse, he said, “This whole area appears to be slate with a thin covering of soil.”
     
    “A friend who knows about slate says it would take decades to quarry it all.” Clare stopped her pony and prepared to dismount, then froze when Nicholas came to help her.
     
    He looked into her alarmed face and smiled reassuringly. In her well-worn boy’s clothing, she looked younger and much less severe— an appealing urchin rather than a schoolmistress. “You must work on becoming more relaxed around me instead of reacting like a hen that has been cornered by a fox.” He helped her from the pony, then retained her hand in his. “A mistress is supposed to enjoy her lover’s touch.”
     
    Her fingers fluttered anxiously for an instant, then stilled as she accepted that he was not ready to release her. “I am not a real mistress.”
     
    “You don’t have to share my bed, but I intend to treat you like a mistress in other ways. Which means that you’ll find the next three months much more pleasant if you let yourself relax and enjoy it.” Gently he caressed her slim fingers with his thumb. “I like touching—female flesh is delightfully different from that of males. Your hand, for example. Small-boned, rather delicate, yet it’s not the soft, helpless hand of a lady who never does anything more vigorous than lift a fork. An enchantingly capable hand. If you should choose to use it for making love, it would be wondrously skilled.”
     
    Her eyes widened and her hand shivered within his. It was not a reaction of distaste. Clare hungered for physical warmth, though he doubted that she knew that herself. He must use that hunger, slowly coax it into a craving so intense that she could no longer deny it. But he must go slowly, because she was going to fight him every inch of the way.
     
    Again he wondered which would prove stronger: her virtue or his powers of persuasion. The uncertainty of the outcome made him feel more anticipation than he had known in years.
     
    He released Clare and tethered both mounts, then put a casual hand on the small of her back and escorted her across the grass to the nearest outcropping of slate. Through the layers of coat and shirt, he felt her tense, then relax and accept the familiarity. As he savored her supple movements, he gave an inward smile. Intimacy was a web spun of many strands, and each small submission on her part was a point won for him.
     
    When they reached the rocky projection, he moved away from Clare and examined the irregular layers of dark, light-absorbing stone. “I never realized that slate breaks in such flat planes.”
     
    “It doesn’t always—this is a particularly high-quality vein. But even the beds that have the most clay mixed in will make good roofing slates.”
     
    An idea occurred to him. “Stand back.” He lifted a sizable rock, then smashed it onto the outcropping with all his strength. There was an ear-piercing