Chapter Six
Magnus was wondering how best to return to the duke’s house, considering he’d ripped open the back of his coat. He cursed as he rolled his shoulders; the seams on his shirt looked liable to tear as well.
Yet more proof that Magnus wasn’t as prepared for rule and matrimony as he’d once thought.
He couldn’t even be angry at Miss Mortimer.
She’d only been pointing out the obvious, and he supposed he had been too single-minded in his search for a bride, behaving rudely to some of the ladies present, and failing in the simplest of ways to present himself well.
Listing all the desirable attributes he wanted in a wife was all well and good, but would such a woman want him?
Was that why he was so determined to choose quickly?
To dazzle a would-be bride with the offer of becoming a princess because he knew he had little else to offer her?
Miss Mortimer had seen the truth of it—with her bold, quick-witted and unrepentant manner. She had seen his failings from the start and pulled on all the loose threads until they unravelled in her hands…much like his clothing.
The only person to blame for his humiliation last night was himself.
He’d refused fittings and checks on his clothing repeatedly before leaving for England.
That, coupled with his general impatience and arrogance, had opened him up to ridicule.
As someone who regularly reminded Hans of the consequences of his own actions, it was ironic that he should be the first to fall, and in such an awful variety of ways.
Last night had been a disaster. He planned to leave the house party as soon as was politely possible and try his luck in London. There were three other potential ladies he had yet to meet, and he prayed one of them would be suitable.
Which begged the question Why was he here?
At Mr Chadwick’s sordid meeting spot. Why had he ridden directly here after a restless night?
Why was he relieved when he’d searched the folly and seen no signs of a dawn liaison?
Why should he care for Miss Mortimer’s reputation when she seemed determined to ruin or compromise herself at every opportunity?
He’d barely spoken more than a few words to the woman! Why was he seeking her out?
At first, he had presumed it was because he was merely a gentleman concerned for a young woman’s reputation.
But he’d found himself fantasising about her—in a far from gentlemanly manner—and had imagined meeting her here himself.
The golden light of dawn illuminating her skin as he pulled down her bodice and pressed his mouth against the fullness of her breasts…
Strange and obsessive thoughts that had only angered and confused him further.
So he’d set out on a furious ride around the grounds to clear his mind.
But somehow, he’d been led back here. It couldn’t just be because of Miss Mortimer—he’d had a lot on his mind lately—perhaps something else had caught his eye?
Could it be the irises? They always reminded him of Helga as they were her favourite flower. He wondered how her pregnancy was coming along, whether she still hated him…
‘Your Serene Highness!’ declared a husky, slightly breathless voice from behind him, and he jerked around in surprise. Had he conjured Miss Mortimer up by simply thinking of her?
‘Miss Mortimer,’ he said looking around him and being only half-relieved that she was alone.
Her blue shawl was dangling from one shoulder, the other corner snagged on some of the flowers behind her, which was unsurprising considering the amount of grass and sticks that seemed to have accumulated in the wool.
Thoughtless woman! She had no care, no decorum… His fingers clenched as he stopped himself from walking forward and readjusting the garment.
She took a step forward, the shawl slipping entirely from her shoulder now, but she didn’t seem to notice.
Her face was flushed, a glorious rosy glow on her cheeks, her full mouth and bright eyes deliciously tempting.
She looked like a woman who had been made love to briskly and passionately, and it made his stomach flip to look at her.
Mr Chadwick was not capable of such a thing…but Magnus was. He could easily bring her to climax if he wished it. Seduce her.
He scowled, hating every lustful thought that seemed to race through his brain and body. Sucking in a sharp breath to compose himself, he straightened his spine and admonished himself silently Get a hold of yourself!
Miss Mortimer hesitated, looking up at him as if he were a bull pawing at the ground, ready to charge. She wasn’t far wrong.
‘Are you alone?’ he asked, painfully aware that she had no chaperone with her; although, he supposed she wasn’t used to the restrictions of Society like the other ladies.
She frowned. ‘I had no intention of meeting Mr Chadwick here, if that’s what you mean.’ She bit her bottom lip with a pained expression as if she realised she’d just admitted something terrible.
He tried to ignore the burst of pleasure at her confession but tempered it with logic. ‘And yet…here you are.’
Selina shrugged, glancing around the temple with distaste. ‘Well, I am far too late for a dawn rendezvous. But should I stop allowing myself the enjoyment of a morning walk because of one man’s offensive suggestion?’
‘A chaperone might be wise, considering.’
She gave him a waspish look. ‘I am the chaperone, Your Serene Highness.’
‘I suppose a woman of your age and status has no need for the same confinements as a lady,’ he answered pragmatically, unsure of what else to say. Why did she steal all common sense from his mind?
He’d not meant it as an insult. But she’d clearly viewed it as such, as she replied sharply, ‘I rely on no one but myself. I always have.’
The stern conviction in her eyes startled him.
He had thought her a people-pleasing wit.
Bold but foolish. Now he wondered if there were a strategy or plan to her behaviour; she certainly seemed to have forgotten Mr Chadwick easily enough, had dismissed him from her heart and mind as if he were nothing more than a pawn…
and yet, there was courage and pain within her eyes, a bravery he couldn’t help but admire in spite of himself.
A heavy silence descended between them as they both wondered what to say next. Should he leave? That might be the wisest course of action.
‘Your Serene Highness,’ she said, taking a couple of steps forward. Her damned bodice heaved in an enticing way as always. ‘I must apologise to you for what I said last night.’
He glanced up at the ceiling of the temple embarrassed by his own wayward thoughts. ‘There is no need.’ When he looked back down, she seemed even more distressed.
Did she think he was angry with her? She had merely pointed out his own ridiculousness.
Miss Mortimer took another step forward.
‘There is every need! I have behaved abominably, and worse… I have hurt my dear friends in doing so. You must know that Lady Anne and Lady Charlotte were only laughing along at my foolishness out of politeness! They respect and admire you, Your Serene Highness.’
‘I doubt that,’ he said sourly. He’d heard the delight in their laughter, and they’d not been wrong to laugh at him.
‘Please! I beg you, do not blame Lady Anne and Lady Charlotte for my own stupid mistakes! Shall I get on my knees to beg for your forgiveness?’ To his horror she began to lower herself to the ground.
‘No!’ he yelled, and she paused a little hunched over, the crests of her breasts taunting him, which only irritated him further, combined with this humiliating conversation.
‘There is no need for an apology. Nothing you said was untrue. I was rude to Mrs Kent. I did not realise it at the time, but I will rectify my behaviour from now on. And the cut of my coat is tight. In fact, I have already split my riding jacket. Which is proof enough that I do indeed need to add some strong panels—all of which is my own fault because I refused the advice of my valet. So you see, there is nothing to forgive, and please let us speak no more on the subject.’
Miss Mortimer didn’t look appeased by his words, and he decided it would be better for everyone if he just left the conversation entirely. Except Miss Mortimer was blocking his only exit. Unless he wished to vault over the irises which, considering his recent clothing mishap, didn’t seem wise.
‘And Lady Anne? Will you still consider her? She would be the perfect match for you. Please do not blame her for my clumsy words. Speak with her at dinner, show her an ounce of kindness, and I will be forever in your debt!’
Had he really been so obvious in his hunt for a bride?
He winced as he realised how desperate he must seem to the English ton—and how shameful he would be considered back home.
‘I do not wish for you to be in my debt. Excuse me, Miss Mortimer.’ He started to move, grabbing his torn jacket from the floor as he strode forward.
But it seemed, the young woman had lost all sense and reason, because she rushed towards him. The messy shawl tangling around her skirts so that she tripped, lunging forward with a garbled shriek.
Instinctively, he dropped his jacket and caught her before she fell to the ground. Unfortunately, Miss Mortimer was equally quick to save herself, and she grabbed a handful of his shirt as she fell. There was a ripping sound as yet another seam gave up its duty, and half his shoulder was revealed.
Miss Mortimer’s eyes widened, and she stumbled back a couple of feet, precariously close to the stone steps of the temple where she began to flail wildly with her arms. Scooping an arm around her waist, he pulled her back from the brink, his body jerking forward to catch her, and his other hand fumbling with her shoulder to steady her.
Unfortunately, he managed to pull down the muslin bodice of her gown by accident.
Revealing globes of golden flesh straining against the fabric of her stays.
His wicked fantasy was crashing into the morning light of reality.
Miss Mortimer reclined in his arms as if she’d swooned from a passionate kiss.
His heart began to thunder in his chest, and his arms tightened, unwilling to let her go.
Especially as when he looked down into her shocked expression, and there was so much deliciously golden skin revealed, he was more than a little tempted to complete the fantasy and kiss her.
She wasn’t screaming or pushing him away. Her eyes were bright, her mouth slightly open as her gaze flickered from his bare shoulder and up to his lips. He leaned closer, knowing it was madness but being unable to resist.
‘Forgive us, Your Serene Highness!’ declared a loud voice to the side of them, and the realisation they were not alone was like a leaden weight in his stomach.
He glanced up and saw that a small tour of England’s aristocracy was now staring at him and Miss Mortimer as they embraced in the doorway of a ridiculous stone temple, like two players on the stage.
Miss Mortimer lived up to her name and was indeed mortified. Her head turned slowly to the side, her face turning scarlet right up to her ears, her dark eyes wide, as she stared in horror at their audience.
‘It was an accident!’ she gasped, as he lifted her back up to standing, and belatedly she righted her clothing.
But one look at the disapproving faces of the dukes, earls, lords, and ladies was enough to confirm that nobody believed her. Even Mr Chadwick gave a disgusted snort, as if he hadn’t suggested such a liaison last night.
‘Harlot!’ hissed a voice at the back, and Magnus wasn’t entirely sure, but he suspected it might have come from Lady Anne who was fanning herself liberally. Even Magnus flinched a little at the vehement condemnation in her eyes.
Hans was also there, at the back of the horrified crowd, and damn him, the devil was grinning!