Page 1 of A Convenient Fiction

Surrey, England

August, 1860

Laura Hayes held her breath until her lungs cried out in protest. The water lapped over her head, leaves and debris floating along the surface in the midmorning sun. She felt something catch in her hair and prayed it wasn’t frog spawn. Such indignities were, unfortunately, all too common when submerging oneself in Talbot’s Pond.

She’d far rather have sunk beneath the cold waves of the sea, to have felt the tug of the tide, primal and relentless, as it pulled her from the shore. But fashionable seaside resorts were far outside the Hayes family’s fortunes at present. And even if they weren’t, Margate and Brighton were meant for bathing not swimming.

For now, Talbot’s Pond would have to suffice.

It was warmer in Surrey, at least. The sun had shone every day for the past two weeks, a sweltering heat that had prompted her to spend a greater than usual degree of time in the woods. Even now, as the rays filtered through the water, warming her bare limbs, she found herself planning when she could come back again. The day after tomorrow, perhaps. And then again the morning after that.

But she mustn’t get distracted. She mustn’t lose track of her time.

Only five more seconds to beat yesterday’s record. She counted them down in her head, willing her body not to panic for lack of air.

Five.

Four.

Three.

A shadow blocked the sun. It was her only warning before something—or someone—very large splashed into the water beside her. She gasped in surprise, inhaling a lungful of slimy pond water.

And then her body panicked in earnest.

She flailed her arms in a wild attempt to get to the surface, but the very large someone—yes, definitely a someone—seized her round the waist in a viselike grip. She was hauled roughly out of the pond and thrown, coughing and sputtering, onto the grassy bank.

“What in blazes are you trying to do?” a man’s deep voice thundered out. “Kill yourself?”

Laura could hardly hear him through the pounding in her ears. She pushed herself up on unsteady arms, her chest contracting painfully on another choking cough. “This is”—she wheezed and gasped, her stomach and lungs still recoiling from the unexpected influx of water—“p-private property.”

“You’re telling me that I’m trespassing?” He gave a hoarse bark of laughter. “I suppose you’d rather I let you drown?”

She drew the back of her hand over her eyes before squinting up at her would-be rescuer. A tremor of unease went through her.

He was a big man. Strapping, Aunt Charlotte would have called him. Tall and broad of shoulder, with dark hair that flopped over his forehead, and a close-trimmed beard and mustache that—upon second glance—might well have been nothing more than a week’s worth of heavy stubble.

He was also a stranger. A man she couldn’t recall having ever seen before. If she had, she’d surely have remembered. His face and figure were not the sort easily forgotten. Indeed, if she weren’t so put out at him for bursting into her private sanctuary and disrupting her peace, Laura might even have admitted to his being handsome.

But handsome or no, strangers weren’t welcome in Talbot’s Wood, and certainly not during those hours when she was clad in her knickers and availing herself of the pond. There were too many gentlemen who considered a scantily clad female to be fair game.

And he was some manner of gentleman. She could tell that much by the cut of his clothes and the quality of his horse—a bay hunter standing at the edge of the clearing with a leather portmanteau strapped to the back of its saddle.

She’d learned to be on her guard where gentlemen were concerned. Not that her rescuer looked as if he intended to ravish her. Far from it. He looked, truth be told, rather angry.

He sat on the bank beside her, one leanly muscled arm thrown over his updrawn knees. His shirt, waistcoat, and Bedford cord breeches were soaked through, his hair half-plastered to his head. Even his leather boots were wet.

A flicker of guilt pricked at her conscience. Had he really believed she was drowning? He must have done. Why else would he jump into the pond with his boots on? Boots that were now damaged beyond all hope of repair.

“I was in no danger,” she said.

He glared at her. His heavy-lidded gray eyes were as cold as hoarfrost.

Her stomach fluttered, even as her spine stiffened at his temerity. “And if you’re going to sit there staring at me—”

“I’m not staring at you.”

“You’re scowling at me.”