related to the Thorntons.’
‘Sir Gerald Thornton is my father.’
His eyes widened as a slow realisation of who she really was made its way from the wound that had been inflicted on his heart so many years ago and never healed. ‘I see,’ he said, giving no indication that he knew more about her that she would like. ‘Forgive me if I seem surprised.’
‘Why should you be?’
‘It’s not every day I come across a young woman cavorting near-naked with two gentlemen in the same state of undress.’
Unashamed of her behaviour and resenting his interference, she threw back her shoulders and lifted her head haughtily, unaware as she did so how the gesture lifted the roundness of her pert breasts and caused Max to experience an exquisitely painful sensation in the pit of his belly.
‘One of the gentlemen happens to be my brother.’
‘And the other?’
Turning her head, she looked in the direction of the lake. There was no denying the look of melting adoration when her eyes lit upon James’s bobbing fair head as he continued to swim away from her.
‘Oh, goodness, he—he’s…’
‘A close friend?’ Max suggested softly.
Her head swivelled round to find his eyes probing hers. As she comprehended his meaning, bright pink stained her cheeks, her expression telling him they were in love so there was nothing wrong with what they were doing. ‘Yes—yes, he is. He is also a gentleman, which you clearly are not.’
Max raised a sardonic brow at her tone and contemplated her snapping green eyes. ‘That’s quite a temper you have there.’
‘Yes. It can be quite ferocious when I’m provoked. Now, please go away. We are enjoying the sun and minding our own business. I suggest you mind yours. You are intruding.’
‘You have plenty of cheek, I’ll say that,’ he chuckled softly.
‘Say what you like. I don’t care. Just go away.’
‘Hostile, too. I don’t usually encounter such hostility on a first encounter.’ Max looked down at this spirited young woman, her flashing eyes and defiant chin elevated to a lofty angle. He cocked a dubious brow. ‘However, I would have supposed a true gentleman would not engage in this kind of sport with a gently reared young lady. I find it hard to believe your father allows such wantonness.’
Her hand pushed back the heavy weight of her hair from her forehead. ‘He doesn’t know; besides it’s none of your business, Mr…’ She shrugged for she couldn’t care less who he was. ‘Whoever you are.’
‘Maxwell Lloyd,’ he provided, finding himself unable to look away from her. In his experience, beautiful females were always conscious of their appeal and the fact that she either didn’t care, or didn’t know, further added to her allure. Firm hard flesh, he thought—she would be hard and soft in all the right places. Damn it! What was wrong with him? It wasn’t spring, when a man was expected to have aberrant thoughts, when the wind was soft on exposed flesh after a long, hard winter—when sap was rising—and she was right. What had it to do with him?
Suddenly the sun was painfully, unbearably brilliant. He wanted to ride away. What did he care for these three young people enjoying the day and each other? And at the same time he wanted to prolong the moment, to keep the girl talking—this special girl—to fill his eyes and his ears with the sight and the sound of her.
The name was unfamiliar to Christina. She tossed her head haughtily. ‘No matter. Please go away. Not only are you a trespasser, you are offensive.’
‘I apologise if that’s how I seem to you, Miss Thornton. But I have to say that you are the rudest, most impudent young woman I have ever come across, and I have every sympathy with your parents,’ he told her calmly, ‘and why they don’t take you in hand I can’t imagine. My father would have had you thrashed and locked in your room with nothing to eat and drink but bread and water for a week.’
For an incredulous moment Christina was speechless, then, forgetting her intention to walk away, she glared up into his far-too-handsome face, with authority and arrogance stamped all over it, her eyes two brilliant chips of ice. That was the moment she decided he was detestable.
‘I can thank God he is not my father, who is more civilised,’ she hissed. ‘I am perfectly content with the one I’ve got. I don’t give a damn who you are or where you come from—’
‘You also have a dirty mouth, Miss Thornton,’ Max reproached her mockingly.
Christina could feel the colour burning on her cheeks as she gazed at him with pure loathing. ‘I say what I like. My only concern is that wherever it is you do come from you return there and stop bothering me.’
Max grinned affably and prepared to ride away. ‘I think I like bothering you, Miss Thornton, and I shall enjoy bothering you a good deal more before I’m done.’ Inclining his head politely, his eyes doing one last quick sweep of her delectable body, he said, ‘Good day’, and rode away.
When the stranger had disappeared back into the woods, somehow Christina managed to turn and make it back to the edge of the lake. Suddenly the brightness had gone out of the day and the breeze held a bitter chill. Stepping into the water, feeling the coldness lap at her ankles, she paused and took a deep breath and tried to stop the angry trembling inside. What a dreadful, dreadful man, even more dreadful than any man she had ever met, and she detested him thoroughly.
Suddenly James rose out of the water and splashed towards her, his lips stretched in a wide smile over his youthful face, his blue eyes laughing and so very appealing, and suddenly the warmth came back into the day and the obnoxious Mr Lloyd was forgotten.
The Thornton family had a long and distinguished history in Cambridge. In the reign of Queen Anne, William Thornton, a man who revelled in hunting and was a lover of all country pursuits, had bought several hundred acres of farmland and forests, built the magnificent Tanglewood and settled his family there.
It was so named because of the thick woodland that had to be cleared so the house could be built. It stood at the end of a drive of beech and oak like a timeless old lady, its brooding structure of mellow stone preserved for centuries, looming out of the shadows of another time.
Having separated from James and Peter, Christina made her way to the back of the house. It would never do if Mama saw her in her bedraggled state. Hopefully she’d make it to her room and she would be none the wiser.
She entered the servants’ block, with its numerous rooms housing at least fifteen servants, as furtively as any criminal. Unfortunately she had to go by the kitchen, which was the proverbial hive of industry, with extra catering staff employed to assist cook with the evening’s dinner party. She would be lucky to pass unnoticed. She didn’t. Holding her breath as she sneaked past the open door, she froze when Mrs Barnaby’s voice boomed out.
‘Miss Christina! Well, I never.’
Carrying her stockings, her skirts saturated halfway up to her waist, her wet petticoat uncomfortable beneath her dress, with her face a picture of guilt, Christina slowly turned and looked into the cavernous kitchen with its ranges, dressers and gleaming copper pans and a massive central table. Kitchen maids, preparing ingredients for Mrs Barnaby’s use, and scullery maids, scouring pans at a large pot sink, paused in their work to gape open mouthed, their eyes popping out on stalks, at the young miss who resembled a drowned rat. Although it was nothing new. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen her in a similar state—often much worse.
Attired in a pristine starched white apron and cap, moving towards her, her hands on her ample hips, Mrs Barnaby’s eyes ran up and down her appalling appearance disapprovingly. ‘Why, Miss Christina, it’s plain to see you’ve been on one of your jaunts. I don’t know what your mama will say to this.’ Hadn’t she seen her crossing the park in the direction of the lake with Mr Peter and his friend hours ago, their laughing faces