by Lara Temple
As he remained silent, her smile dimmed.
‘You would probably like her, too.’
‘I’m not sure; my taste runs along different lines.’
She half-snorted.
‘I know. Lady Felton and opera singers.’
His mouth quirked and he stepped forward, moving his hand lightly up her arm.
‘Longer lines. Much longer. There are distinct advantages to a woman who fits against you...perfectly.’
He took another step, moving his hands to her waist.
‘See?’ he asked, trying to keep his body in pace with his mind. ‘And I happen to appreciate Saxon princesses with North Sea eyes. They tend to bring out the medieval warrior in me.’
Her lips parted and their colour warmed to the lovely pink peach that kept tantalising him.
‘Do you know many Saxon princesses?’
He liked the way her voice, already deep, sank and thickened, increasing the feeling of being lost and isolated in a fog-bound moor.
‘Just one,’ he answered, letting sensible considerations slip away. She was clearly ready to carry her experimentation a little further—she wouldn’t stop him. No, she wanted this, and he...needed this. For a moment the truth of that alarmed him but he shoved it down hard, touching the tips of his fingers to her jawline, to her cheek, raising her chin with his thumb, very slowly. ‘But she’s not a princess—she’s a queen. Princesses are soft and middling; queens are strong and weak in equal measure. And fascinating. And worth fighting for...’
He was using his voice like his hands and body, but the words rang true even in his own ears. Her mouth bowed a little and her eyes fell away.
‘That’s beautiful,’ she breathed. ‘Thank you.’
It took him a moment to realise she thought this was part of their charade of flirtation and another moment to remind himself that it was. But it didn’t stop him. His hand tightened on her waist, closing the distance between them. Her hair, sliding between his fingers, was hot and silky, soft as liquid, and he twisted his hand in it, raising her face the last inch towards him.
‘Nell,’ he murmured, feeling the flush of his breath against her cheek and then against her mouth. Finally. His mind was still struggling to describe just what it felt like when with a small sigh that sucked the breath out of him she opened her mouth under his, just canting her head a hair’s breadth so that the fit was...perfect. He stopped thinking, at least with his mind, and let every instinct take over, talking with her and listening to her by all other means.
And she was a symphony of contradictory and conflicting answers. Her hands moved first in feather-light, tentative brushes against his coat that reflected the light teasing slides of his mouth over hers as he waited for a sign she was ready for more.
He shouldn’t have been surprised that the surrender, when it came, would be so thorough. The moment his tongue lightly caressed the silk of her inner lip, where the skin was warm and full and smooth as mother-of-pearl, her arms rose to wrap around his neck with a sigh and her body sagged against him with the abandon of a collapsing marionette.
For a moment he froze, holding her to him, his hand deep in her hair as she clung to him like to a mast in a storm, waiting. Then forces of nature won out over the strange surge of fear and his hand moved down to the rounded rise of her backside, pulling her against him as he indulged the urge to lick and tug at the soft and lush lower lip that had done so much damage to his control.
This time her sigh was more a moan and her muscles gathered with purpose as she dug her fingers into the hair at his nape, pulling herself against him, opening her mouth for him, her lips catching against his, and it was his turn to groan. It was obvious she wasn’t used to being kissed and it was even more obvious that she liked it. She didn’t even pull away when he deepened the caress, his tongue finding hers, stroking it slow and long. She just moved against him, tasting and seeking and rewarding him with little whimpers of pleasure that were as devastating to his control as the urgent movements of her body.
He had been so right about how perfectly she fit against him. It would take so little to push her against the wall, pull up those skirts, warm and heat and dampen her until she was ready for him and then...
‘Hunter...’ It came out a whisper and a plea and his whole body contracted as if he was about to climax just at the sound of her and the slide of her breath into him. He leaned one hand against the wall of the folly, holding her tightly to him with the other, aware at some level that he was in the act of committing a folly of his own. That, madness aside, there was no possible way he could follow through on what body and mind were begging for. That he had to stop. Now.
He pulled back, registering with some surprise that his arm was shaking as it leaned against the stone surface.
‘Nell, I don’t want to stop, but we have to... Anyone might come by here.’
Her eyes opened slowly and he forced his gaze from the plump, reddened dampness of her lips to her eyes. Unfortunately, they met his with a dreamy, dilated shimmer that was almost as bad for his control. What did he care if someone saw them? The worst that could happen was that they would have to carry through on this engagement. But as he was about to lean back into her, her hands fell from about his neck and the dreamy look was replaced by one of mingled surprise and awareness.
‘Is this how you kiss all women?’ she asked huskily.
The introduction of other women into the moment was so out of place he struggled to even understand what she was asking. His brain, already in a losing position, told him to keep his mouth shut while his gut was demanding he answer a resounding ‘no’. His other instincts, scrambling to recover lost positions, told him to tread very carefully.
‘Of course not!’
Her mouth drooped.
‘Did I do it wrong?’
A laugh escaped him at the absurdity of it all.
‘If doing it wrong means taking me within an inch of losing all control, then yes.’
He was sober enough now for the admission to cost him, but he was rewarded by one of her sudden joyous smiles.
‘I would have thought that meant I did it correctly. Must we stop?’
He leaned forward, pressing his lips against the soft hairs at her temple, breathing her in. Oh, he loved her scent. He had no idea what it was, just that it was the most beautiful...
‘Yes, we must. For now.’ He spoke against the tickle of her hair. He was so damn tempted to take her into the gloomy entrance of the folly, braving cobwebs and mice and headless spectres if need be just so he wouldn’t have to take his hands off her. He let them curve one last time over her hips and behind, trying not to pin her to him again so she could feel precisely why they had to stop now.
‘It doesn’t feel done yet,’ she whispered, turning so that he felt the last words flutter against his neck.
‘Why not?’ he asked. He was falling again. It was as though in a dream, watching himself do something he knew he shouldn’t, but being incapable of moving to stop it.
‘I don’t know. I feel...awake and asleep. Buzzing. It doesn’t feel right to stop now.’
‘Oh, Nell. Please stop talking. I can’t think.’
‘I don’t want to think...’
‘If we don’t stop now, we’ll be exchanging vows by the end of the week,’ he said desperately, as much to himself as to her, but apparently it was enough for Nell. He hadn’t realised how pliant her body was against him until she froze; then her elbows shoved between them, pushing him away.
Without another word they turned and continued, their feet scrunching on the gravel path. It wasn’t far from the folly to the paddock and the filly had obviously sensed them coming and retreated to the far end, her ears flat and her eyes wide. Nell stopped and leaned on the paddock fence, watching the filly, and Hunter did the same a yard away, his
hands pressing against the sun-warmed wood as he tried to understand just how on earth he had lost all judgement.
For a while neither spoke as they watched the filly. The buzz and chirp of insects and birds and the gleam of the sun on the late summer wildflowers created an idyllic setting, but he just stared at it grimly.
She bent and tugged at a dandelion that was tapping against the fence.
‘Well, at least I can see why you men do this all the time.’
He closed his eyes briefly, wishing her a thousand miles away until he was himself again and his body stopped dancing to the tune of her voice and her artless remarks.
‘We don’t precisely do this all the time.’
‘No, it would be quite tiring, I suppose. Still...’
The sound of hooves made both of them turn. Hunter realised that his half-prayer that something save him from his baser instincts had taken a distinctly unwanted form—the last person he wanted to see right now was Charles Welbeck.
Charles nodded to Hunter, but addressed Nell as he dismounted.
‘Well, what do you think of her?’
Nell’s smile shifted into the serious look she reserved for equine matters and Hunter was at least glad to see that in her master-of-the-horse mode she showed no inclination to blush in the presence of her prince. What amazed him even more was that she showed no sign of what had just taken place between them. She might not have much experience, but she was taking to this new sphere like a duck to water.
‘She is beautiful, her head and shoulders are perfect, but it’s not a good sign that she has kept her ears back ever since she sensed us, even though we are nowhere near her. Did something happen to her?’
‘She had a hard birth and her dam rejected her early on. I told Father to sell her, but he said someone might pay a good price for her if we could calm her. I think it’s a waste of time. She just doesn’t have the makings of a good breeder.’
‘I don’t agree, but we shall see. Has she been named?’
‘We just call her Buckminster’s Filly after her sire. You name her, then, Nell.’
Nell’s gaze followed the filly, her mouth softening.
‘Daisy.’
Hunter watched with mute frustration as Charles’s eyes skimmed from Nell’s profile to her other attributes and his mouth bowed into a sweet smile as Nell turned back to them.
‘Daisy, then,’ Charles assented.
Chapter Nine
Nell slunk past the door of the drawing room as the women bent over the latest fashion plates. The weather was still lovely and the last thing she wanted to be doing was exchanging gossip with the matrons. She would take this opportunity to go see Daisy on her own. Perhaps without two very tall, very male individuals by her side, the filly might be more amenable.
She also could make use of some time alone after her inexplicable behaviour with Hunter. She was clearly taking this whole flirtation idea too far. It wasn’t surprising that Hunter was very, very good at it or even that she enjoyed it so much. After all, she had always wished she could flirt like Anna, and to do so with someone so handsome and adept was an opportunity not to be missed.
Already it was making her much less affected by Charles’s presence. She had actually felt quite his equal during that exchange down by the paddock and during the walk back to the house. It was very kind of Hunter to be so obliging, though kind was probably not the right word. He probably hadn’t abandoned his plans for Bascombe, but she sensed that he was someone who would take his failures with good grace and probably be quite content with just the water rights in the end.
A sudden roaring cheer from the direction of the stables made Nell pause and then change course. On a grass clearing a large group of men, gentry, servants, grooms and stable boys stood shoulder to shoulder, clearly enjoying some spectacle at their centre. Standing back from the crowd, but with an excellent vantage point on stacked bales of hay, was Hunter’s man, Biggs.
She stopped next to him. ‘What on earth is happening, Biggs?’
Biggs, caught in mid cheer, gaped down at her.
‘Miss Tilney! You oughtn’t to be here.’
‘Why not? Is there a fight? Help me up.’
Seeing he was too shocked to comply, she clambered up herself. Sometimes there were advantages to being tall. From the hay she could see over the crowd to the two men who were... Her hand flew to her mouth as Hidgins’s fist drove itself into Hunter’s middle.
‘Oh, no! Why are they fighting? I thought they were friends.’
It was a strange thing to say of a master and a servant, but the words were out before she could consider their wisdom.
Biggs looked startled, but recovered himself.
‘They are, miss. This has become a yearly tradition at the stables, so to speak. His lordship and Hidgins being proficient in the Fancy, they draw a fine crowd and excite not a little bit of wagering.’
‘The Fancy?’
Biggs tore his eyes away from the fight and smiled reassuringly.
‘It’s just sparring, miss. Fisticuffs for pleasure.’
For pleasure! Hidgins stumbled back under a blow and the crowd shifted to give him room to rally, re-forming again as he propelled himself headlong into Hunter.
‘You needn’t worry, miss. They’ve been sparring since they were boys, Hidgins being the eldest of the old groom at Hunter Hall.’
‘You knew Lord Hunter when he was a boy?’
‘You might say we grew up together at the Hall, miss.’
‘But you and Hidgins are older, I think, no?’
‘We are, miss, but his lordship was always old for his age.’
Biggs glanced at her momentarily and then continued, his eyes fixed firmly on the fight.
‘If you’ll pardon the impertinence, miss, but don’t let his lordship’s manner fool you into thinking there’s no substance there. I don’t know how it was, but there wasn’t one that didn’t know who ran the Hall and saw to Lady Hunter and Master Tim long before the old lord passed. He never asked for help, always stood firm on his own two feet. There’s no better man or master I know.’
Nell smiled at Biggs’s obvious pride, but couldn’t help a prick of annoyance at the way he regarded Hunter’s self-sufficiency as evidence he didn’t need anyone. Hunter’s aunts had said something very similar. It was impressive that Hunter had taken such responsibilities on to his overly young shoulders, but someone should have interceded on his behalf. She had seen enough during her years at the school to know children should always have someone to lean on if they are to feel safe in the world; their strength shouldn’t come from being strong for someone else, but from believing themselves valued and protected. Her mother had been her protector and, when she had died, Nell had luckily settled on Mrs Petheridge as another source of strength. Perhaps she had been luckier than Hunter after all. She tried to shrug off her sense of unease. She was clearly exaggerating. Hunter was a grown man and had obviously come through these imagined emotional privations with minimal scars, except those incurred by being bludgeoned by fists. He wasn’t a pupil of hers to be worried over.
‘His lordship wouldn’t like you to be here,’ Biggs said with great resolution, distracting her from her thoughts, but his eyes remained firmly on the fight.
‘But I’m not here, Biggs,’ she murmured, her own attention returning to the rhythm and force of the exchange. She could see now that Hunter’s catlike grace and reflexes had distinct advantages when it came to beating opponents into a pulp. Hidgins’s lunges and jabs were quick and brutal, but though Nell cringed each time they shot out, not many managed to make contact. But Hidgins was as broad and thick as a brick wall and just as hard to fell, and when his fists did finally make contact with Hunter her own body contracted with sympathetic pain.
‘Do they beat each other until one
of them breaks the other’s nose?’
His thin lips quirked and settled back.
‘No, miss. After the first year it was decided to establish some rules to ensure presentability after the encounter.’
Nell was used to schoolmistressy euphemisms.
‘No blows to the head, then?’
Again the prim quirking of lips.
‘Precisely, miss, and none below the...if you will excuse the word...waist, miss.’
She almost said that it was silly to be prudish about the mention of a perfectly everyday part of human anatomy, but her eyes dropped to Hunter’s waist just before it was blocked from her view as Hidgins came forward with an impressive jab and blow. She winced at the rush of concern that coursed through her and a parallel rush of heat at that very brief and utterly inconsequential consideration of Hunter’s waist. She had seen his waist and other men’s waists before and it certainly had never been an issue. Perhaps the difference was that she had actually felt that waist against her, hard and urgent and making her disastrously aware of her own waist, her legs, the way her skin felt, the way her hands had wanted to touch...
She tightened her cloak about her and tried to focus on feeling disapproving at this very childish exhibit. Fisticuffs and betting in a stable yard! It was so typical of Hunter—he probably went to drink ale in the village inn afterwards and then to share his waist and everything else with whatever maid he could charm. Charles would probably never engage in such activities. She couldn’t imagine him with his hair all tousled by rough handling and his shirt being mangled by Hidgins as the groom tried and failed to deflect a blow to his stomach. As the crowd sang out their approval and agony she turned resolutely to Biggs.
‘Have you placed a bet yourself, Biggs?’
He shook his head mournfully.
‘No, miss. It wouldn’t be quite proper.’
