Page 2 of A Convenient Fiction

“Because I could bloody well wring your neck.”

Her mouth fell open. No man had ever spoken to her thus. Certainly not a stranger. “I beg your pardon?”

“How could anyone be so careless—so thoughtless—to even attempt—”

“I wasn’t trying to drown myself, you great lummox.” If he was speaking plainly, then so would she. “Not that it’s any of your business.” She sat up on the bank, resting her weight on one hip as she pushed her wet hair back from her face. It had come loose from its plaits. Flower petals, broken twigs, and goodness knew what else clung to the tangled strands. She’d have to wash it this evening if—

The stranger sucked in a sharp breath.

She shot him a narrow glance only to discover him tearing his own gaze away as if he’d just beheld some ungodly horror. He was now, quite pointedly, looking away from her. He was also turning rather red about the collar.

Her eyes dropped to her chemise and drawers. The faded cotton with its twice-darned seams was wet through, nearly transparent, and clinging to her like a second skin. She inwardly groaned. Could this dreadful encounter possibly get any worse?

“Where the devil are your clothes?” he asked in a choked voice. “Haven’t you a gown or a—”

“One doesn’t wear a day dress to go swimming.”

“You weren’t swimming. You were floating beneath the water like some demented Ophelia.”

“I was strengthening my lungs.” Laura watched as his gaze slid back to her almost against its will. He jerked it away again, his face hardening into a mask of carefully controlled emotion. “And I did not look like a demented Ophelia,” she added under her breath. “What an unflattering characterization.”

“If you think I ventured into this clearing to flatter your vanity—”

“Why did you venture into this clearing? These woods belong to Squire Talbot. He has signs posted everywhere. You couldn’t have failed to notice them. Unless… You can read, can’t you?”

“Of course I can read—” He broke off. “I was trying to find—” He stopped again. “By God, ma’am, I ask again, where are your clothes?”

She folded her arms over her bosom. “There.” She motioned with a jerk of her chin. “Beneath the tree.”

Her rescuer launched himself to his feet and strode the short distance to where she’d laid out her blanket. A basket of food sat upon it, along with her corset, gown, and boots, all carefully folded into a neat little pile. She’d meant to make a day of it. There was a book and a flask of Aunt Charlotte’s freshly made lemonade waiting for her. She’d planned to let her hair and underclothes dry in the sun. But now…

Now she sat shivering on the bank, vulnerable and increasingly embarrassed by her state of undress. Her eyes followed her rescuer as he bent to retrieve her clothes. He walked them back to her, coming only close enough to toss her folded dress and corset onto the grass at her side. He turned away again without meeting her eyes.

Laura swept up her corset. It was old and worn. Quite useless, really. She scarcely had to inhale as she fastened the metal hooks of the busk. When she’d finished, she shook out her skirts and stepped into them. She hadn’t worn any petticoats, and she certainly hadn’t bothered to wear a crinoline, or even stockings. The resulting ensemble was eminently practical. It was also thoroughly indecent by any standard.

“How did you find me here?” she asked as she buttoned up her bodice. “There’s no possible way to see the pond from the road.”

“My horse bolted into the woods,” he said, still refusing to look at her.

If she had an ounce of sense, she would have bolted, too, leaving her blanket and basket far behind her. But her lungs weren’t likely to support such an effort. Not after she’d already taxed them to the limit.

Besides, she didn’t run from anything.

In her experience, it was a far more effective strategy to control one’s fear. To refrain from escalating a fraught situation by continuing to act as normally as possible.

As normally as one could act when one’s hair was festooned with frog spawn.

She fluffed out her skirts to no avail. They clung to her wet drawers and legs. “I’m as decent as I can be. If it makes you blush, you’d better leave.”

He cast her a cautious glance over his shoulder. “I’m not blushing.”

“No?” She walked past him to sink down onto her blanket. Modesty was impossible in such circumstances, but she made a creditable effort. Tilting onto her hip, she drew her knees up alongside her, tucking her bare feet beneath the pooling fabric of her skirts. When she was satisfied that her limbs were well covered, she opened the wicker hamper and, after a moment spent rifling through its contents, withdrew a tortoiseshell comb.

“I’m furious,” he said.

Laura concentrated on working the rest of her hair loose from its plaits. It was free in a trice, spilling down past her shoulders in a very wet—and very tangled—ebony veil. She drew a lock between her fingers and began to comb it as she waited for her rescuer to elaborate. He said not a word. “Well?” she prompted.

“Why were you doing that?” he asked abruptly.