She slid her fingers up under his coat and over his muscled arse.
He froze.
Fiddle! She must have broken some rule. She dropped her hands immediately, hoping he’d get back to what he’d been doing.
He raised his head—which caused his hips to drop, pressing his, ah, protuberance between her legs in the most delightful spot. She closed her eyes, bit her lip, and rubbed against—
Nothing. With a muttered curse, he’d rolled off her as if she’d suddenly caught fire.
She had, but his withdrawal doused the flames. She sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. Somewhere along the line, she’d parted company with her hairpins.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Wrong?” Lord Haywood leapt to his feet. “Wrong? Good God, woman, you’re sprawled on your back in the bushes; you had your hands on my arse and your tongue in my—” He pressed his lips together. “And you ask if you’ve done something wrong?!”
The lovely excitement she’d felt congealed into a hard, ugly lump of shame. Hot mortification rushed to her face.
“Your behavior would scandalize any proper young woman,” he said priggishly.
Who was he to tell her how to behave? He was the one who’d started the misbehavior. He’d dragged her into the garden, rolled her into the bushes, and then put his tongue where it didn’t belong.
She was so angry, she hissed.
No, that was Poppy. The cat darted out from under a bush and pounced on Lord Haywood’s right boot.
“Hey! What do you mean by that?” Lord Haywood reached down as if to grab Poppy by the scruff of her neck.
Poppy was having none of it. She swiped at his fingers, clawed his leather boots for good measure, and ran off.
Lord Haywood scowled after her. “Blo—blasted cat.”
At least he’s trying to mind his tongue—
She flushed. Best not to think about tongues.
“These are new boots.”
“I’m certain you can afford another pair.” Anne tried to get to her feet, but her skirts were twisted round her legs.
“Let me help you, Miss Davenport.” Lord Haywood reached for her, but she swatted his hand away.
“Don’t t-touch me.” She hoped he’d think her stutter was caused by fury and not a desperate attempt to swallow sudden tears. Dreadful skirts. Had they tied themselves in a knot? They seemed determined to keep her in her ignominious position on the ground.
She tried once more to get up but put a foot on the edge of her dress, sending her flopping gracelessly down again.
“Miss Davenport, please. Allow me to assist you.”
“No. I’d rather lie here in the dirt than have you touch me.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
Apparently Lord Haywood had reached the end of his patience. He grabbed her hands and pulled. He was very strong. She flew off the ground and fell heavily against him. His arms came round her to steady her.
He felt so good....
But he thought her no better than a light-skirt.
She put her hands on his very hard chest and shoved.
He didn’t let her go.
She tilted her head back and addressed his strong jaw. “Lord Haywood, release me immediately.” She tried to snort derisively for added effect, but unfortunately the sound came out more like a sob.
Lord Haywood sighed and held her away from him, his hands on her shoulders. “Miss Davenport, I apologize. I should not have said what I did.”
“You should not have thought it.”
He sighed again and dropped his hands. “I didn’t really think it. I was merely . . .” He looked away. “I was, er, upset by the, ah, circumstances.”
“Circumstances you created.” Well, she should be truthful. “That is, I did trip and fall into you, but everything after that was all your doing.”
Perhaps not all his doing, but he’d certainly led the way.
“I was merely trying to keep us from being discovered by the Misses Boltwood, who I understand are the village gossips.”
Everyone in Loves Bridge gossiped, not that there was normally anything of interest to gossip about, but the Boltwoods did indeed take the art to new heights.
Hmm. There would be something to talk about if the Boltwoods found out Cat had been in the trysting bushes with the duke.
Or—good Lord!—if they discovered what she’d just been doing in the vegetation with the marquess.
“You won’t tell anyone about this, will you?” she asked anxiously.
His brows shot up in apparent shock and then slammed down. “Of course not. What do you take me for? The whole point of that”—he waved at the ground where they’d so recently been sprawled—“was to avoid detection.”
So evading the Boltwood sisters’ notice had been the only motivation for Lord Haywood’s actions.
For some reason, that infuriated her.
“Was it really necessary to k-kiss me then?” She felt herself flush once more. That had been rather more than a simple kiss.
He looked down his tonnish nose at her. “If you’ll remember, you were about to scream. That would have been disastrous. The Boltwoods would have discovered us at once.”
Yes, that would have been bad. However . . .
“If you’ll remember, I was only going to scream because you had your hands on my, er, derriere.” Yet apparently she wasn’t allowed to touch his precious arse. Typical. Men set the rules and women had to live by them.
Well, not this woman.
“I was forced to do so to hold you still, madam. You were about to put your knee on”—he glanced away, clearing his throat—“on a very sensitive part of my person.”
Oh. She flushed. She hadn’t realized—
Wait a moment. His male bit hadn’t been in any danger during their most recent activities. He’d been on top.
“I wasn’t about to scream or do you an injury when you stuck your t-tongue in my mouth.” Her face was going to break out in flames, she was so hot—with embarrassment, of course. “And you can’t blame the Boltwood sisters for that, either. They’d already departed.”
* * *
Nate looked at Miss Davenport. Her expression was an interesting mix of mortified and murderous. He felt—
Lust. That’s all I feel.
That wasn’t completely true, but he shied away from considering the question further.
“I am a man, Miss Davenport—”
“I noticed, Lord Haywood.”
The moment the words left her mouth, her face flushed bright red. She must be thinking, as he was, how exactly his, er, gender had made itself known.
His offending body part stirred again, eager to refresh her memory if she’d forgotten any detail.
Stop it. This reaction is inappropriate. Miss Davenport is a well-bred virgin. She’s not for you.
His cock didn’t agree.
“Men react to women physically, Miss Davenport. It’s a natural male instinct, something we can’t control.” Blasted cock.
Her lip curled. “So you’re saying you’re no better than an animal?”
“No, of course that’s not what I’m saying.” Well, perhaps that was what he’d said, but it wasn’t what he’d meant. “It’s merely that men’s bodies sometimes react in ways they don’t approve of.”
Zeus, he had the sinking feeling he was making this worse.
“Oh? Well I don’t approve of what just happened either, Lord Haywood. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you and your natural male instinct”—she just about spat the words—“and this cursed garden and go home.” She turned, took a few steps—and tripped over the ivy again.
He lunged and caught her before she tumbled to the ground, but the moment she regained her balance, she shook him off.
“Don’t touch me,” she said, glaring at him.
She was furious—but she also sounded as if she was about to cry.
Oh, blast.
“Don’t be concerned, Miss
Davenport. I’ll not so forget myself again.”
She limited herself to an expressive sniff and walked briskly—or as briskly as one could while minding one’s steps—away from him.
And now I’ve insulted her again.
He had the distinct impression that anything else he said would only make matters worse, so he held his tongue as he followed her toward the garden gate.
What the hell was the matter with him? He’d never accosted a gently bred woman in the foliage before. He’d never accosted a woman of any sort anywhere. He wasn’t subject to Isabelle Dorring’s curse.
Oh, God, the curse. Marcus and Miss Hutting in the bushes. He closed his eyes briefly. If Marcus had been doing what he’d just been doing . . .
Well, there was nothing he could do about that. He’d have a word with Marcus later, when he got back to the castle. Now he’d try to convince Miss Davenport not to spread the tale.
He glanced at her straight back and hard jaw.
Right. Good luck with that.
His gaze traveled lower, admiring her lovely arse—decorated with leaves and a few patches of dirt. And were those twigs in her hair? Where was her bonnet? He looked around. They were close to the spot where they’d fallen—
Ah, there! He picked the bonnet out of a bush and then knelt to see if he could find any hairpins. “Miss Davenport.”
“What is it?”
He looked over his shoulder. She was scowling at him, hands on her hips, but at least she’d stopped.
He waved her bonnet. “If you don’t wish to cause comment, you should put this back on.”
She stalked over to him and snatched the headgear from his hands.
“And fix your hair.”
“How am I going to fix my hair without any pins?”
“That’s what I’m looking for.” Ah, he was in luck. He found three. He stood and held them out to her. “Will this be enough?”
“It’s better than nothing.” She gathered her hair, twisted it up, and shoved the pins in. Then she jerked the bonnet on and tied the ribbon into a slap-dash bow. She turned to leave.
“Er, one more thing.”
She glared over her shoulder at him. “What?”
“You might wish to brush off your skirt. It’s acquired some vegetation and a spot or two of dirt.”
She glanced down at her dress. “It looks fine to me.”
“Yes, well, it’s the back of the dress that needs attention.”
She twisted and pulled at her skirt, swatting at it from the right and the left, but she wasn’t able to reach the problem area.
He watched her for a few minutes and then couldn’t restrain himself any longer. It was silly for her to struggle when he could fix the issue in a trice.
“Allow me?”
“Oh, very well.”
He stepped closer and brushed his hand over her skirt, knocking off leaves and twigs and trying valiantly not to think of the firm, nicely rounded bottom beneath the cloth.
Hmm. There was one stubborn spot that resisted his efforts. He leaned closer, plucking off three tenacious twigs, and then rubbed at some dirt. He couldn’t get it off.
He licked his fingers, placed his hand against Miss Davenport’s stomach to steady her, and attacked the last bit of—
“My l-lord.”
“Just a moment, Miss Davenport. I’ve almost got it.”
He pressed a bit harder against her stomach . . . well, it was actually lower than her stomach. More the front of her hips, just above—
He froze. That is, his hands froze—one at the juncture of her thighs, the other spread across her arse. His cock was anything but frozen.
He snatched his hands away and laced his fingers in front of his bulging fall.
“I—” He cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the lust that was clogging it and making his voice huskier than normal. “I believe that will do.”
She didn’t look at him, but nodded and almost ran for the gate.
“Miss Davenport, you really don’t need to be afraid—”
That earned him another glare.
“I’m not afraid . . . of anything.”
He opened the gate, and she walked briskly through and around to the front of the Spinster House—bringing the vicarage shrubbery back into view.
Is Marcus still there?
Surely not. And if he was, there was nothing Nate could do about it. He wasn’t about to barge into any more bushes. But he could have that word with Miss Davenport.
If she would let him. She was already a distance away, moving determinedly down the walk toward Cupid’s Inn. He hurried to catch her.
“You can stop following me, Lord Haywood,” she said over her shoulder, not even glancing at him. “There’s no longer any danger the ivy will trip me.”
He lengthened his stride to step up beside her. “Then let me walk with you, Miss Davenport. Here, take my arm.”
She drew back, nostrils flaring. One would think he’d offered her a piece of rotting, maggot-infested meat.
“No, thank you.”
“I only wished to be polite.”
Perhaps his tone had been a bit testy. He tried to soften it with a small bow.
She bared her teeth at him in what, at a distance, might be taken for a smile. “Well, there you go. You’ve been polite. You are absolved of any sin against the gods of etiquette.” She turned away and continued down the walk.
He continued next to her.
“I don’t need your escort, Lord Haywood,” she hissed at him. “This isn’t London. I can walk alone without causing comment, so you can be about your business.”
“That’s what I’m doing, madam.”
He thought for a moment she would slap him. “I am not your business.”
“Thank God for that. I will tell you—” No, it was beneath him to brangle with the woman. “I intend to return to Loves Castle, madam. To do so, I need to retrieve my horse, which I left at the inn.” Next to Marcus’s, so in a few moments he’d know for certain if his cousin was still frolicking in the foliage.
“Oh.” She flushed. “I see. I, er, left my gig there as well.”
“Then it would appear we have the same destination.” He offered his arm again.
This time, she took it, albeit grudgingly. “It will look odd if the Misses Boltwood see us together.”
“It will look odder still if we continue in the same direction and you continue to act as if I’m a complete bounder.”
Her only response was an eloquent sniff.
Confound it, he wasn’t a bounder. What had happened in the Spinster House garden had simply been a series of bizarre accidents.
He slanted a glance at Miss Davenport. Her poor bonnet was rather bedraggled from its journey through the leafage and her dress might still have a bit of mud and a small grass stain or two, but she held herself erect—rather as if she had a poker up her back, actually.
She hadn’t been so stiff when they’d been rolling around in the vegetation. No, she’d been soft and warm, and her mouth had—
Stop it! Thinking about their interlude made a certain part of him far too stiff and got him nowhere. He had more important things to consider, such as how to persuade Miss Davenport to hold her tongue—
No. No tongues.
That is, how to persuade the woman not to spread tales about Marcus and Miss Hutting.
“I did wish to have a word with you, Miss Davenport, before we got distracted by the cat—”
“Poppy. The cat’s name is Poppy.”
This was not promising. Miss Davenport wouldn’t look at him, and her voice was rather hard. Why the hell did she care what he called the animal?
He took a deep breath. It didn’t matter.
“Yes. When Poppy distracted me, and then the Misses Boltwood approached—”
“And you dragged me into the garden and attacked me.”
“I did not attack you. I may have—due to unusual circumstances—taken some mild liberties—”
/>
That earned him a quick, murderous look.
“Mild?! You had your tongue in my mouth, sirrah!”
Impertinent woman. “And you had yours in mine.”
Oh, hell, he shouldn’t have said that. Miss Davenport’s entire face turned bright red. He looked around.
Damnation.A stout, bespectacled woman was observing them from across the green. He nodded at her. With luck, she was too far away to hear them or to see Miss Davenport’s suddenly heightened color.
“You mustn’t say such things,” Miss Davenport muttered in a strangled voice.
Here was his opportunity. “Yes, it would be quite uncomfortable if word of your actions got out, wouldn’t it?”
She glared at him, but she looked a bit apprehensive as well. “You said you wouldn’t tell anyone about”—she glanced back toward the Spinster House—“about what, er, happened.”
“And I won’t. Just as I hope you won’t say anything about the duke and Miss Hutting disappearing into the vegetation.”
“Oh.” She looked away. “Of course. Why would I say anything about them?”
Strangely, Nate did not feel reassured.
Chapter Three
The horse stopped and gave Anne a reproachful look.
“I’m sorry, Violet.” Anne relaxed her hold on the reins.
Violet tossed her head, making the harness jingle, and got back to pulling the gig.
What had just happened back there in the Spinster House garden?
Oh, she knew what had happened, of course. It was her feelings she didn’t understand. She’d been angry and frightened and . . . and something else, all at the same time.
Well, she should take it as a lesson learned. She’d known in theory that men were stronger than women and that there were good reasons why she needed to be careful around them, but she’d never had the reality of it brought home so forcefully. If Lord Hellwood had been determined to rape or murder her, he could have done so. She would not have been able to stop him.
But he hadn’t wished to hurt her. On the contrary, he’d wanted to save her—and himself—from scandal. Lud! If the Boltwood sisters had come upon them sprawled together in the dirt—
She shuddered. She should applaud his quick thinking—and she would, if that was all that had happened.
How to Manage a Marquess Page 3
