The Magic of His Touch (May Day Mischief) Read online

  England, 1804

  Tired of being paraded before every eligible bachelor, Peony Whistleby decides it’s time to find her true love—through the ancient custom of rolling naked in the dew on May Day morning. But the magic goes awry when she is caught in the act—and by an entirely unsuitable man. And yet, the way his eyes linger upon her flesh ignites a sensual craving that can only be satisfied by his touch…

  Book one of the May Day Mischief duet.

  The Magic of His Touch

  Barbara Monajem

  Contents

  The Magic of His Touch

  Historical Undone BPA

  Copyright

  Warwickshire, 1804

  “I’m going to roll naked in the dew,” said Peony Whistleby. She set down her broom, flung herself onto the ancient tester bed and said it again.

  She had just finished sweeping, dusting and airing the Haunted Bedchamber at Whistleby Priory. None of the servants would venture near the room, so if she didn’t take care of it, no one would. Besides, this was the only place in the house where she could be alone—except for the ghosts and bogeys, if they happened to be about. She thought they would approve of the step she was about to take.

  Her father and Aunt Edna wouldn’t. Nor would her cousin Lucasta, but she might understand what had driven Peony to take such a drastic step. Peony followed the maze of stairs and corridors to the library where Lucasta was hard at work on her research. Peony seated herself on the sofa, folded her hands in her lap and promised it aloud for a third time. “I’ve decided to roll naked in the dew.”

  This time, said before a living witness, it truly felt like a vow.

  Lucasta spattered ink on her precise, perfect notes and cursed. It was she who had told Peony about the custom of rolling in the dew on May Day to call one’s true love to one’s side. “Have you lost your wits?”

  “That would be another solution to my problem,” Peony said, “but only as a last resort.”

  Lucasta tore the page out of her notebook and began a fresh one. “Peony, this is no laughing matter.”

  “Nor is being paraded before one eligible bachelor after another when none of them are interested in me,” Peony said. “The instant Aunt Edna heard the Earl of Elderwood was coming here, she starting planning entertainments. Dinners, card parties and even an evening party with dancing, not to mention everyone in the county coming to call day after day after day. It will be as bad as a London Season, only I shan’t be able to cry off any of the engagements.”

  Lucasta made a face. “I don’t know what possessed Alexis to invite Lord Elderwood here.” Sir Alexis Court was Lucasta’s long-time fiancé. Peony had never met him, but he sounded like a wonderfully reasonable and patient man. He had already agreed to postpone their wedding several times, as Lucasta wanted to finish her magnum opus on folklore before embarking on a new career as wife and mother. “I wish neither of them were coming. They will interrupt my work at a most critical time.”

  “But don’t you want to see your betrothed?” Peony asked. In the three years they’d been engaged, he had never come for a visit. They’d seen one another briefly during the London Seasons, but surely that wasn’t enough.

  “Yes, of course,” Lucasta said testily, “just not right now.”

  Peony couldn’t imagine choosing to be separated for so long from a man she loved.

  “I daresay it won’t be so bad,” Lucasta said. “Aunt Edna has already tried foisting all the locals onto you. She must know by now that none of them are going to come up to scratch.”

  Men seldom were interested in Peony; she was too tall, with an almost boyish figure, pale flyaway hair, boring blue eyes and what Aunt Edna described as no conversation. This was most unfair, as Peony had plenty to say to other females, but she had no notion of how to flirt. “That’s never stopped her before,” she said. “But this time it’s much, much worse. She wants me to set my cap at the earl!”

  Lucasta went into a peal of laughter, quickly suppressed. “I’m sorry, Peony, but that’s absurd. You’re incapable of setting your cap at anyone, and Lord Elderwood is a rake without the slightest interest in marriage.”

  “I know that.” Peony twisted her hands together. “But she has got it into her head that this is a God-given opportunity, and that I should be grateful and do my utmost to catch him, as I would become a countess. What do I care about that? I want to marry a man I can love, and I could never love the earl. There is something about him that is positively strange. He gives me the shivers.”

  Lucasta set down her pen, raising elegant brows. Everything about Lucasta was elegant—her face and figure, her graceful carriage, her confidence and composure. “Surely he’s not that dreadful.”

  “He’s not bad-looking,” Peony said. “In fact, most women find him attractive. Haven’t you noticed? At each occasion, a different one is seen hanging on his arm, and more than one poor girl has gone into a decline because he didn’t return her interest.”

  Those brows became incredulous—almost scornful. “That gives you the shivers?”

  Peony shook her head. “No, it’s that he doesn’t even try to attract them. He practically ignores them, and yet they come to him like moths to a flame. It’s...uncanny.”

  Lucasta’s shrug was so faint as to be almost nonexistent. She frowned at something on the page and picked up her pen again.

  “The idea of marrying him makes me ill,” Peony said. “I tried to discuss it with Papa. I told him I disliked the earl and would never consider marrying him, but he said I must do my duty and obey Aunt Edna, and if the earl is so kind as to offer for me, I must accept.”

  “Calm down,” Lucasta said. “He won’t offer for you.”

  “I know that!” cried Peony, hurt in spite of herself at Lucasta’s callous acknowledgment of her lack of feminine charms. “I shall be shoved forward and scolded and mortified while he’s here, and berated and pitied when he’s gone.” Peony’s insides churned at the thought of it all. Lucasta meant well, but the last thing Peony needed was a painful reminder that most likely no one would offer for her. Ever.

  Unless she called him to her side with magic. “I can’t bear it anymore. If by rolling in the dew I shall find my true love—”

  “You won’t,” Lucasta said, painstakingly at work on her folklore research once again. “It’s nothing but a foolish custom. If it ever had any result, it’s because young men who wanted to gape at silly girls got caught doing so and were forced into marriage.” She sniffed. “There is no such thing as magic.”

  Yes, there is. Magic was a great part of the heritage of Whistleby Priory, which over the centuries had had more than its fair share of ghosts, hobgoblins, fairy rings and so forth, although not, as far as Peony knew, that particular May Day custom.

  * * *

  There was always a first time.

  “No modern woman in her right mind would disrobe at dawn on the first of May—or any day, for that matter—and roll in a meadow,” Lucasta said. “At best, she will be stared at by curious wildlife and catch cold, and at worst... I shudder to think.”

  Some cowardly part of Peo
ny shuddered, as well. To be sure, calling upon magic was a little risky, but she’d had enough of the alternative, which was much, much worse.

  “I wish I hadn’t told you about it,” Lucasta said.

  “And I’m passionately glad you did.” Peony mustn’t let her cousin’s worried frown deter her. Tomorrow was the first of May; Sir Alexis and Lord Elderwood were due to arrive any day now. “I believe it’s meant to be. At any other time of year, I shouldn’t have had this option. I’d have been obliged to go through torment while the earl was here and for months afterward. Either that, or try to change Aunt Edna’s mind.”

  “Now, that really would require magic,” Lucasta said.

  * * *

  In the chill of the next morning, Peony wasn’t so sure magic was on her side or that it even existed. Lucasta had spent the evening arguing and cajoling by turns, promising to support Peony through all the social occasions that loomed ahead. This was noble of her, since she would far rather concentrate on her research, but it wouldn’t work. Peony would appear more awkward than ever when contrasted with her cousin’s elegant figure and cool self-possession. Eventually Peony had pretended to waver, just to get Lucasta to leave her be.

  She’d slept poorly, waking over and over, and now, in the darkness before dawn, discouragement pressed about her like a dense gray cloud. But she mustn’t let fatigue deter her, or, although she would never admit it, a prickling of fear. Today was the most important day of her life.

  She dressed hurriedly in a shift and an old wool round gown that had once belonged to her mother, who had died when she was a child. It was a little too big for her, so getting it on and off would be quick and easy. She had to do without stays, for she couldn’t lace them without help. For once, Peony was glad of her small breasts; nevertheless, she felt dreadfully fast without her stays.

  How could anyone imagine Lord Elderwood would take the slightest interest in her? A rake such as he wouldn’t think much of her tiny bosom after bedding buxom women far and wide.

  She tied her hair with a ribbon and, gripping her half boots in one hand and a candlestick in the other, she tiptoed on stocking feet past Lucasta’s room, past Papa’s and Aunt Edna’s, and down the staircase to the side door. She sat on the bottom step, donned her boots and stood. Ready to go.

  She didn’t feel ready. She felt like crawling cravenly back to her bedchamber. Instead, she shoved up the latch. The thud seemed to echo in the silent house. She blew out her candle, set it on a nearby shelf and opened the door.

  She’d never been outdoors alone at night. Dawn couldn’t be too far away, but the moon had set, and it was very, very dark. She picked her way along the twisting paths of the herb garden, squeezed through the orchard gate and ventured between the ranks of Papa’s prize pear trees. A solitary bird burst into song. Leaves rustled over her head, and something fluttered in the hedgerow. Behind her, a twig crackled. She whirled...

  No one. It must be some nocturnal animal returning to its burrow.

  A whisper of light showed in the eastern sky by the time she reached the ride that circled the wood, and all around her birds greeted the day. She hurried through the brief stretch of woodland that led to the meadow, her heart pounding madly now.

  She stood at the edge of the lovely little circle of open land to catch her breath. No one knew why it was called the Enchanted Meadow, but at daybreak it certainly felt so. The very air seemed to glow. For a long moment, she gulped it in and watched.

  Again, no one was about. In this enlightened age, no one rolled in the dew. She might be a fool, but she was alone and perfectly safe.

  She tossed her shawl over one of the hawthorn bushes that edged the meadow and sat on the wet grass to remove her boots. She laid her stockings on top of the shawl, followed by her gown. Morning was breaking; it was now or never. She pulled her shift over her head, laid it on another bush and waded naked into the meadow.

  Dew, quivery cold and wet, brushed her legs. She bent and ran her hands through the fresh green grasses. She raised the dew to her lips and, in a silent prayer, begged for the boon of love.

  Then she shivered, lay down and rolled.

  * * *

  Sir Alexis Court was already bored with the London Season when his friend Lord Elderwood came up to him at Tattersall’s one brisk April day, saying he wanted to visit Whistleby Priory. A journey to Warwickshire sounded just as tedious as London, and when Alexis demanded to know why, Elderwood grinned and said, “You don’t want to know.”

  Which meant it had to do with Elderwood’s absurd fascination with folk magic. Alexis rolled his eyes but agreed to arrange the visit and accompany him. Alexis’s mother, whose sole aim in life was to see him married, was once again pestering him to wed Lucasta Barnes and be done with it. As often happened, he found himself giving thanks for the day Lucasta had come to him in distress, begging him to pretend to become engaged to her. Lucasta wished to remain single, but her uncle wanted her married and off his hands. With her mother only a few months in the grave, he had already begun looking about him for a suitable match.

  Alexis knew all too well what that felt like, and how little power a girl in Lucasta’s position possessed. A false engagement seemed the perfect solution for both of them, satisfying both her uncle and his mother. They’d managed to prolong the engagement for three years now. A visit to the Priory might help stave off Alexis’s mother a while longer.

  Now, riding toward the Whistleby estate in the chill of dawn, he wondered for the thousandth time why he put up with his friend’s lunatic starts.

  “It’s got to be someplace close by,” Lord Elderwood said. They weren’t expected at the Priory yet, but legend said the estate included an enchanted meadow, which would be particularly brimful of magic at dawn on May Day. They’d ridden up a day early, stayed briefly at an inn several miles away and left at an ungodly hour to ride over here and see the meadow.

  Dawn had arrived; birds broke into tentative song, and far in the distance, a cock crowed. Alexis longed for a warm bed.

  “According to the directions, the Priory’s on the other side of this wood.” Elderwood waved a vague hand at a formidable stand of trees. “How about you take this way round and I’ll take the other? Try anything that looks like a path. If you spy the meadow, give me a shout, and I’ll do the same.”

  “That wood looks as dense and forbidding as anything I’ve ever seen—not the place to find a meadow,” Alexis said.

  “It’s an enchanted meadow, my dear fellow. Trees surround it but don’t grow there.”

  That was Elderwood’s bizarre sense of humor. “What about Mr. Whistleby’s keepers? I’ve no ambition to be taken for a poacher and shot at.”

  “On May Day morning?” Elderwood laughed. “Never! It’s a sacred day.”

  Sacred to lunatics, thought Alexis, but there was no point arguing. The vista to the left looked particularly forbidding, so he chose it in the hope of finding no way into the wood. He would far rather ride its perimeter than venture into the gloom. Let Elderwood seek his blasted meadow; Alexis would think about what to order for breakfast.

  He set his horse at an amble around the wood. He’d gone perhaps a hundred yards when a path appeared on his right—where he could have sworn, a few seconds ago, there was nothing but thick underbrush and ancient oaks and elms. Intrigued in spite of himself, he followed it. Birdsong greeted him; the path wound deeper, opening before him at every turn as the day dawned...and there it was, a small
meadow surrounded by hawthorn in the first stages of bloom.

  He was about to shout for Elderwood when he saw her. He reined in his horse and stared.

  She was young and fair—and removing her clothing! What the devil? He glanced about him; her lover must be nearby, and the last thing he wanted was to intrude on a tryst...

  No lover crept out from around the flowering may. No sound disturbed the dawning day but the ever more ecstatic birds.

  He should turn away. He shouldn’t stay and watch her disrobe—and yet he couldn’t help himself. He dismounted and crept forward. Protected by the last rank of trees, he drank in her dewy freshness. His groin tightened, reacting fiercely to her beauty. She pulled her shift over her head and tossed it across a hawthorn bush with her other clothing.

  Such sweet, small breasts! His fingers itched to fondle them; his mouth longed to kiss and suckle them. She bent to brush her hands through the grass, showing him the palest, loveliest behind, and...oh, God, he ached with wanting her. She splashed dew on her face, patting it on her cheeks and her smooth white neck. He’d heard of maids gathering dew for their complexions, but...

  Her lips moved soundlessly; her attitude was one of supplication. She stepped further into the meadow, lay down on the grass and rolled in the dew.

  Over and over her slender curves tantalized him—sleek back and gently curving bum, breasts and belly and long, shapely legs. And back again, over and over, while he gazed, bewildered and transfixed. He hadn’t had a woman for a while, but he realized, somewhere in the part of his rational mind that was still functioning, that his fascination with this girl was far more powerful than anything he’d felt before.

  She stopped to catch her breath, and her breasts, now dotted with bits of grass, quivered invitingly. He longed to pick the grass off piece by piece and bury his face in those sweet mounds. She closed her eyes, put her hands together as if in prayer, then raised them over her head and rolled again.