Chapter Twelve #3
Heavens! She tasted sweeter than he could ever have imagined—rich honey with a deeper, warmer taste of cinnamon and spice. And yet, unlike the camp followers who had given him and his fellow soldiers a little comfort in the field for a coin or two, she carried a taste of innocence.
It was the taste of a woman who had yet to be awakened to the pleasures of her body.
His own body surged with the anticipation of claiming her, to be the first to awaken her to the unimaginable pleasure of the intimacy of…
Bedsport, his fellow soldiers called it, as they’d cheered each other on, celebrating their prowess. But what might such an act be when there was love involved, a meeting of minds and souls as well as bodies?
No—she was an innocent, and a lady, not some cheap doxy wanting to earn a crust for gratifying a camp full of soldiers. She did not deserve to be treated as such.
But before he could withdraw, she parted her lips further and pressed her body against his, and he almost spent in his breeches at the feel of two stiff little peaks pushing against his chest.
He slipped his tongue between her lips. She gave a low mewl of satisfaction, curling her tongue around his in a slow dance of seduction.
She reached up and buried her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer as he deepened the kiss.
A low growl swelled in his throat as she shifted her thighs against his manhood, and he fought to maintain his resolve against the urge to bury himself inside her.
But she was not some wench to be rutted in the bushes, no matter how pleasurable it would be to take her swiftly. No, the first time he took her, he wanted to relish every moment, every heartbeat, as he awakened her to the pleasures of her body and slide inside her…
What the devil am I doing?
He jerked back, shame warring with his desire. For a moment she stood before him, eyes closed, lips parted, bruised and swollen from his kiss, her hair in disarray. The flush on her cheeks spoke of raw pleasure, but when she opened her eyes, the pleasure faded.
“Forgive me, Lady Portia. I-I shouldn’t have done that.”
Disappointment flickered across her face. “Colonel, you did nothing that I did not desire.”
“Then—”
He was interrupted by a shout.
“Well, old chap, you’ve been caught with your breeches down, haven’t you?”
The voice was Foxton’s.
Lady Portia’s eyes widened in fear, and she smoothed back her hair, glancing about her. Stephen drew her close to preserve her from her brother’s fury.
Then he saw him.
Foxton was standing with his mistress—but he was not looking toward them. His attention was on another couple.
Sir Heath Moss and Lady Francis stood beside the building, not completely concealed in the shadows. By the state of the lady’s dishabille, and the expression of triumph on the gentleman’s face—if Sir Heath could be called a gentleman—there was no doubt what they had been doing.
And beside them stood Lord Francis.
“Heavens!” Lady Portia said. “Have Sir Heath and Lady Francis been—”
“Hush!” Stephen whispered as Foxton glanced in their direction. He pulled her deeper into the shadows. “Or do you want him to catch us?”
“I thought you disliked deception.”
“I dislike the notion of your brother running me through even more.”
She stifled a giggle.
Several onlookers approached, whispering to each other, some holding ices.
“I see the crowd is in search of some entertainment while they enjoy their dessert,” Lady Portia whispered.
At that moment, the crowd let out a cry in unison as Lord Francis stepped toward Sir Heath, pulled off his glove, and hit him smartly across the cheek.
“You blackguard!” he cried. “I’ll see you at dawn tomorrow.”
Lady Portia stiffened and took a step toward them.
“Make it dusk,” Sir Heath replied. “I must make the proper arrangements.”
“If you need to find a second, I’m sure Dunton will oblige,” Lord Francis said. “I saw him wandering about tonight with that sour-faced wife of his. You’ve been standing him drinks at White’s all month, so it’s the least he can do.”
“A duel,” Stephen scoffed. “Why must they engage in such a thing, as if it’s a trivial matter to take a life?”
“I doubt that’ll be the outcome,” Lady Portia said. “Sir Heath’s a coward, and Lord Francis a poor shot.”
“How the devil do you know that?”
She stiffened, and he caught a flash of fear in her eyes. Then she shook her head. “Everyone knows Sir Heath’s a coward—after all, isn’t that the one trait shared by all bullies? As for Lord Francis, I competed against him in archery at a house party once. Isn’t archery the same as marksmanship?”
“No, it’s a different sport entirely. But Sir Heath—”
“Do you enjoy archery, colonel?”
“I confess that I do.”
“I’m very much looking forward to the archery at Eleanor’s house party. The competition reminds me of what it must have been like hundreds of years ago, hunting for rabbit—though, of course, the targets will be fixed, which makes it a little less challenging.”
“Fixed?”
“Yes, they’re placed all over the grounds, and the competitors have to find them.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“The gamekeepers will ensure we keep to the path, and they keep score to make sure nobody cheats. Though that’s unlikely, given that Eleanor has better taste in friends than most. Sir Heath, for example, will not be at the party.”
Stephen glanced over to the man in question, who was bowing to Lord Francis, a sneer on his lips.
“Much as I despise that man, I have no wish to see him, or Lord Francis, come to harm,” he said. “I hear Sir Heath employs that Farthing fellow to fight for him.”
“Oh?” she replied, her voice tight.
Stephen shook his head. “If Sir Heath is despicable, that’s nothing compared to the black soul of that particular creature. To make a profit from such an act… I hope one day he hangs.”
She shrank back, the fear in her eyes intensifying. Then he took her hand.
“Forgive me. We’re not here to speak of men who are too rotten to deserve our attention. We’re here to fetch ices, are we not? We mustn’t keep the duchess waiting. She is perhaps one of the few women in Society for whom I have any admiration—save yourself, of course.”
She nodded, but her smile did not resume, and he steered her toward the queue for ices.
What had given rise to such fear in her eyes? And why did it pierce his soul to see her so afraid?
Perhaps if he discovered the cause of her fear, he could shatter it. For he wanted nothing more than to see her safe and happy.
Sweet Lord—he was falling in love.