LITMIR.BIZ

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from him?

      ‘How goes your campaign?’ he managed.

      She made a moue of distaste, curving back the ripe fullness of her mouth. He wanted to trace the twin dimples that flanked it with his tongue.

      ‘Not well, I’m afraid. As one might expect, all the men—the ones your aunt invited, in any event,’ she added, tossing him a mischievous glance, ‘are unmistakably gentlemen. I’ve considered each of them, but some are actively pursuing other ladies. Of the two pursuing me, neither is likely to refuse to marry, should I find some way to get myself compromised. Then there’s the inhibiting presence of Lady Melross, whom I suspect Lady Claringdon inveigled to be present just to ensure that if any gentleman coaxed a maiden to stroll with him where she shouldn’t, he’d be fairly caught—unless he was too dishonourable to do the proper thing and abandoned the girl to her ruin.’ She sighed. ‘Would that I might be!’

      ‘Lady Melross is a dreadful woman, who delights in spreading bad news,’ Max said feelingly. She’d been the first to trumpet the rumours of his disgrace, even before he reached London after leaving Vienna, then to whisper that his father had banished him. Though he knew she was zealous about reporting the failings of anyone of prominence whose missteps happened to reach her ears, it seemed to him she took a particularly malevolent interest in his affairs.

      If he ever managed to secure a prominent position in government, hers would be the first name he would see struck from the invitation list at any function he attended.

      Miss Denby drummed her fingers absently on the bench. ‘I wish I could marry my horse. He’s the most interesting male here, present company excepted, of course. Even if he has, ah, been deprived of the tools of his manhood.’

      Surprised into a bark of laughter, Max shook his head. ‘You really do say the most outlandish things for a lady.’

      She shrugged. ‘Because I’m not one, really. I wish I could convince all the pursing gentlemen of the fact that I’d make them a sadly deficient wife.’

      With her seated there, tantalising his nose with her subtle lavender scent and his body by her nearness, Max thought that, for certain of a wife’s duties, she would do admirably.

      Before his thoughts could stampede down that lane, he reined himself back to more proper conversational paths. ‘Still training your gelding every morning?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘In breeches and boots?’ A lovely image, that!

      ‘No more breeches and boots, alas; you and your cousin taught me to be more cautious. Though I still ride early, it’s getting more difficult to avoid company. Lord Stantson has been pressing me to let him ride with me of a morning, but thus far has honoured my wishes when I firmly decline. He’s a fine enough gentleman, but I’ve heard he came here specifically looking for a second wife. Since I’m not angling for the position, I’m trying to give him no encouragement.’

      Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she continued, ‘Mr Henshaw, however, not only requires no encouragement, he positively refuses to be discouraged! He’s turned up each of the last two mornings, despite my continued insistence that I prefer to ride alone. How am I to train Sultan properly, with him interrupting us?’

      For a moment, her eyes focused unseeing on the glasshouse wall and she shivered. ‘Though I was garbed in a stiflingly proper habit, he seems to be always staring at me. I don’t care for his expression when he does so, either—as if I were a favourite pudding he meant to devour.’

      Max frowned. She might have worn a proper habit every day since that first one, but she hadn’t been the morning he’d seen Henshaw watching her. How close a look at her had the man got? Close enough to get an eyeful of the shapely form he and Alastair had so appreciated?

      If so, Max could hardly fault any man for staring at her like a ‘pudding one meant to devour’. Which didn’t reduce one whit the strong desire rising in him to blacken both Henshaw’s eyes for making her feel uncomfortable.

      ‘He insisted on riding with me, despite the fact that I was quite obviously trying to work with Sultan,’ Miss Denby continued. ‘Honestly, he possesses terrible hands and the worst seat I’ve ever been forced to observe. I’ve taken to riding even earlier to avoid him.’

      ‘I’ve never seen him astride, only observed his … remarkably inventive dress. He must make his tailors very rich.’

      She chuckled. ‘A man milliner indeed. One would think, with his exacting tastes in garments, sheer disgust over my atrocious gowns would be enough to dissuade him from pursuing me.’

      She looked up at him, smiling faintly, those great dark eyes inviting him to share her amusement. Her lavender scent wrapped itself around him like a silken scarf, pulling him closer. He wanted to trace the scent to its origin, lick it from her neck and ears and the hollows of the collarbones he’d seen that day she’d ridden in an open-collared shirt and breeches.

      As he gazed raptly, her dark eyes widened and her smile faded. She seemed as mesmerised as he, her lips parting slightly, giving him the tiniest glimpse of pink tongue within the warmth of her mouth.

      Desire shot through him, pulsing in his veins, curling his fingers with the itch to cup her chin and taste her.

      ‘Well,’ she said, her voice a bit breathless, ‘I suppose I should leave you now, lest someone come by and see us. Unless …’ she smiled tremulously, brushing a curl back from her forehead as her cheeks pinked ‘… you’d like to … reconsider my proposition?’

      Her cloak fell open at that movement. Beneath the fabric of another overtrimmed, pea-green gown, he saw the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as her breathing accelerated.

      His certainly had. All over his body, things were accelerating and rising and pulsing. The need to kiss her, learn the taste of her mouth, the contour of her ears and shoulders and the hollow of her throat, thrummed in his blood. His gaze wandered back to the mesmerizing shimmer of gold in her eyes and halted.

      In his head, that persistent fly of temptation buzzed louder, almost drowning out good sense.

      Almost.

      It took him a full minute to shoo it away and find his voice.

      ‘A tempting offer. But I fear I must still decline.’

      Despite the words, he couldn’t make himself stand, bow, put an end to this interlude, as prudence demanded.

      She, too, remained motionless, her eyes studying his, the current of attraction pulsing between them almost palpable. As he watched intently, the embarrassment she’d displayed upon repeating her offer changed to uncertainty and then, yes, he was certain, to desire. Confirming that assessment, slowly she leaned towards him and tilted her face up, bringing her lips tantalisingly close.

      Max forced himself to remain motionless, while every nerve and sense screamed at him to lower his head and take her mouth. In some distant corner of his brain, honour and common sense was nattering that he should move away, end this before it began.

      But he couldn’t. He would not cross that slight boundary and touch her first, but, shutting out the little voice insisting this was madness, he waited, aflame with anticipation, confident she would close the distance between them and kiss him.

      Her eyelashes feathered shut. His eyes closed, too, as her warm breath washed over him, the first tentative wave from an incoming tide of pleasure.

      Just as his eager body whispered ‘now, now’, she straightened abruptly and scooted backwards on the bench.

      ‘I—I should go,’ she said unsteadily.

      Max shook his head, trying to drown out the buzzy little voice that urged him to lure her into remaining.

      And he could do it; he knew he could.

      Over the protest of every outraged sense, he wrestled his desire back under control. ‘That would be wisest … if not nearly so pleasant.’

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