“Were you hiding again, Miss Tisdale?” Marcus asked suddenly, deftly taking a hairpin from her hand and gesturing for her to turn.
She looked to refuse him and, really, Marcus wouldn’t have been surprised. The request was completely improper. But she obeyed, slowly revolving until she stood with her back to him. “From what, Lord Weston?” she asked hesitantly.
“From me.”
Her breath caught as he gently twisted a curl and effortlessly pinned it into place.
He reached for more pins, his fingers brushing her forearm lightly, stirring the heat low in his belly. “I apologize, Miss Tisdale, if I’ve offended you. Your nature seems to elicit the most unexpected behavior from me.”
“Is that so?” she asked, turning back to face him.
He surveyed his handiwork, adjusting one final curl, which slid seductively near her chin. “Honestly? Yes, quite,” he countered, the feel of her hair making him want to reel her in, inch by inch, and take her in his arms.
“Interesting,” she said simply. “And I was not hiding from you. I was avoiding you. Two different things altogether.”
He could not help himself. Her complete lack of guile was entrancing. He gently tugged until there was no more than a breath between them. “Why?”
“Because of this,” she answered, then closed the distance between them with a kiss.
She was unschooled in the ways of sensuality, that much was obvious. But her innocent boldness captured Marcus instantly, the feel of her lips against his—so eager, so true—urged him on, his arm wrapping around her waist with instinctive possession.
She murmured incoherently and pressed closer, her breasts tight against his chest.
“Weston?” Bennington’s voice echoed from the front of the house, breaking the spell.
Miss Tisdale pulled back, shock and surprise in her eyes. “And I do not hide, Lord Weston. I run, and it just so happens that no one to date has been able to keep up.”
And with that she turned quickly and fled, Titus galloping behind.
It was a lovely day to be out-of-doors, though Sarah suspected the quick clip of her escape from Bennington House would be felt ever so sorely by her muscles in the morning.
It was just that: an escape. But from what—or, perhaps more accurately, from whom?
Sarah forced herself to slow to a walk, Titus bumping her with his head in approval.
She’d kissed him. There was no point in denying the fact. He’d in turn pulled her close until her breasts pressed up against his chest in a most delicious manner. And deepened the kiss in an expert fashion. And nearly coaxed a moan of pleasure from her throat that would have, in all likelihood, set Titus to barking.
But she’d started it all.
Sarah anxiously pulled the pins from her hair that Lord Weston had carefully put back into place. If experience had taught her anything, it was that following through on sudden desires almost always ended badly.
Suggesting that Lord Blackwood find a hat that housed both his head and his enormous ears, if only to keep them from the sun. Advising Lord Bishop as to the miraculous effects of peppermints on noxious breath. Both said with the utmost of care, yet taken, well, in a word, badly.
She touched her lips, still tingling with sensitivity. Sarah could not classify the kiss itself as bad—quite the opposite, actually. And Lord Weston’s willing participation surely was a good sign. Wasn’t it?
She forcefully ran her fingers through her mussed locks, the sensation so stimulating as to be nearly painful. “What do you want, Sarah Tisdale?” she asked herself out loud, kicking viciously at a rock in the path.
And what does Lord Weston want? she thought, kicking the rock a second time and sending it skittering off into the trees.
True, the man had not been deterred by Titus at the lake. Nor by Sarah’s flight from Dixon. Even her fall down the stairs barely elicited a response from the man—well, a negative one anyway. And he’d failed to mention her silly blunder with regard to her mother’s intentions—which Sarah was immensely grateful for.
Any other suitor would have run for his life somewhere between the first and second incident.
Titus retrieved the rock and loped back onto the path, proudly dropping the treasure at Sarah’s feet.
But Lord Weston is no suitor, she reminded herself. There had been no declaration of interest. Only fleeting moments. And though one of those had involved a kiss, it was hardly a proposal for something more.
Something more? Sarah stared down at the rock, Titus’s panting the only sound she could hear.
“Bloodiest of bloody hells.”
She kicked the rock with all of her might and watched as it flew down the path.
What did she know of Lord Weston, really? That he was handsome and wealthy, with—one must assume of such a man—some experience in the ways of love. Sarah had lived a sheltered life. But she’d heard enough gossip to know that men of Lord Weston’s ilk did not, as a general rule, wait for their wedding night to dip their wicks.
What had she gotten herself into?
Feeling dizzy, Sarah bent at the waist and dropped her torso, closing her eyes tightly.
“We’ll lighten you of your jewels now, mademoiselle,” a voice said in a low tone, the feigned French accent more comical than frightening.
Sarah opened her eyes to discover the dusty toes of a familiar pair of boots in front of her. She rose slowly, taking in the faded breeches and untucked linen shirt, then finally the endearing face of her brother.
Sarah smiled and planted a kiss on the boy’s forehead. “Nigel, dear, I’ve no jewels to be taken, as you well know.”
“Ew.”
“Blimey.”
Sarah smiled sweetly at Nigel, whose cheeks were turning red before her eyes, then looked behind him. Jasper Wilmington and Clive Burroughs, Nigel’s fellow highwaymen, stood in aghast wonder at the kiss their poor friend had just endured.
“Boys, do any of you wish to lighten me of my belongings?” Sarah asked, taking a step toward them.
Nigel and Clive leapt back in fear.
“You wouldn’t,” Jasper asserted, holding steady, though he looked to be wavering.
Sarah took another step forward. “Wouldn’t I?”
“Oh, hell, it’s not worth it,” Jasper said before lunging out of Sarah’s way just as she began to pucker her lips.
The other boys broke out in laughter until all three were wrestling good-naturedly on the dirt path.
Sarah watched them for a moment, wondering at the way in which the males of her species seemed to so easily be taken off course.
“Boys?” she asked, the sound of grunts and such drowning out her voice.
“Boys?” she shouted, this time capturing their collective attention.
One by one they stopped, until the dust settled around them. “What is it, Sarah?” Nigel asked, clearly having forgotten that it was he who had sought her attention in the first place.
“Did you come looking for me or was your attack purely serendipity?”
All three of the boys uttered a forgetful “Oh” in unison, Nigel standing first then lending a hand to the rest. “Right. We’ve come for Titus, actually.”
The dog, who until this point had been happily rolling in the remains of a dead animal, stopped what he was doing at the sound of his name and came running to Sarah.
Sarah pinched her nose with two fingers and began to breathe out of her mouth. “You won’t be getting up to no good, will you?”
All of the boys in Lulworth—and most of the grown men as well—had dealings with the smugglers who ran goods from France across the Channel. It was more of a game to them than anything else and, as far as Sarah could tell, it was a harmless one at that.
Her own father bought vast quantities of fine French brandy from the men, many of whom made their homes up and down the Weymouth coast.
No one had been taken into custody for smuggling in as long as anyone could remember. And Sarah hardly
wished for Nigel to be the first.
“Titus will see to that, Sarah,” Nigel assured, making to pat the brute on the head, then, as the wind shifted, thinking twice and pinching his nose instead.
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Remember, he’s a colossal coward. He’ll be the first to run at any sign of danger,” she warned, looking down at the slobbering dog.
“I know, Sarah. It’s his size that matters,” Nigel replied, adding “Though I think the stench will serve him well today.”
“Come on then, we’ll be late,” Jasper pressed, turning to head south. Clive followed him, but Nigel hesitated.
“You’re going straight home, aren’t you?” he asked, looking toward the setting sun.
Sarah shooed him off teasingly. “Of course. And if anyone dares bother me I’ll simply threaten to kiss him.”
Nigel made a disgusted face then loped off after his friends, calling for Titus to join him.
The big dog licked Sarah’s hand then took off down the path toward adventure.
Leaving Sarah to wonder at the irony to be found in a kiss.
Marcus had never enjoyed the hunt. Be it stag or fox, the Highlands of Scotland or the coast of England, the excitement that most men found in the act left Marcus cold.
Trips with his uncle Calum, where he’d learned the nuances of tracking and cleanly killing the beast—well, that had been altogether different. Of course, it had just been the two of them, and he’d not been on assignment.
As he surveyed his fellow hunters from his saddle, Marcus wondered what would be revealed today. People tended to let down their guards in a hunt, all sorts of unsavory aspects of their personalities tumbling out amid the noise and action of the event.
“Sizing up the competition, Lord Weston?”
Marcus peered over his right shoulder to where Lady Bennington approached. “Should I be?” he asked, nodding in greeting.
“No, not really,” she answered with a mischievous smile. She lovingly petted Pokey’s neck, cooing to the Thoroughbred as if he were a puppy.
“And how will the ladies be spending their day?” Marcus asked, looking to where the female houseguests milled about on the expansive lawn just beyond.
Claire gave Pokey one last pat then turned her attention to Marcus. “Far from the hunt, my lord. It’s a fine day for a bit of watercolor painting, I believe.”
“And do all the ladies of Lulworth share your opinion?”
“Oh, no, my lord,” Claire answered, adding, “only the truly enlightened among us.”
Marcus laughed. “And Miss Tisdale, is she counted among your ranks?”
Claire looked surprised at the mention of her friend, though whether she was pleased Marcus could not say.
“You could not find a more enlightened individual, Lord Weston. I’m sure she is at this very moment conversing with the fox concerning strategy.”
He made to refute such a notion, but thought better of it.
After all, it would not be out of character for Miss Tisdale to be doing just such a thing. Which he found both odd and utterly adorable.
“She’ll not be joining you today, then?”
“Unfortunately not,” Claire replied. “She’ll attend three events. No more, no less. It is the agreement we struck.”
“Agreement?” Marcus pressed, wondering at the woman’s statement. “Every female of my acquaintance would no more not attend a house party’s entirety than they would refuse the Prince Regent a dance.”
“Have you not discovered the truth yet, my lord?” she asked, adjusting her bonnet to better shade her face from the morning sun.
“What’s that, Lady Bennington?”
“Miss Tisdale is unlike any other woman you’ve ever met.”
She pinned him with her gaze, and even beneath the broad brim of her bonnet, Marcus could see the depth of her words as they played upon her face.
“I do believe you’re quite right, Lady Bennington,” Marcus quietly replied, wondering at the nature of their conversation.
Did she mean to drive him away or pull him in on Miss Tisdale’s behalf?
“Besides, have you danced with the Prince? Hardly worth the effort,” she said, breaking the peculiar spell that had been cast over their exchange.
The horn sounded just then, Pokey’s ears pricking forward with eagerness. “I believe it is time,” Marcus offered in farewell.
“Happy hunting, Lord Weston,” Claire finished, slapping Pokey on the rump as they trotted off.
* * *
Pokey was slow for a regally bred Thoroughbred, hence his telling soubriquet. But as compared to most of the fine yet lesser-known stock ridden by Marcus’s fellow hunters, he was a whirlwind who could quite literally run circles around them.
Which he very much wanted to do, despite Marcus’s urgings otherwise. Finally, Marcus gave up and allowed the horse free rein, taking off at a clip that no one save Bennington’s horse could hope to match.
They’d been riding some time with nary a growl from the pack of dogs. Marcus thought it as good a time as any to engage Bennington in conversation. Though he continued to doubt the merit of Carmichael’s concern, he was still obligated to do his duty.
And James Marlowe’s information concerning the London business still niggled at the back of his mind. He pulled gently at the reins, and Pokey abandoned his canter for a trot.
“I apologize, Weston,” Bennington offered as he pulled his bay alongside Pokey. “I don’t know what has become of the fox today.”
Marcus smiled, thinking back on Claire’s comment. “Perhaps Miss Tisdale did warn him of the hunt, after all.”
“Ha!” Bennington laughed out loud, slapping his thigh. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”
They slowed to a walk and continued on in companionable silence, the other men still some distance behind. Marcus could not help but like the man, Bennington’s utter lack of concern for Marcus’s heritage seemingly as real as his love for his bonny wife.
Bennington would have invited him to hunt whether he liked Marcus or not, that much could be assumed. But he wouldn’t have asked for his help in planning the day’s events, nor listened to Marcus’s advice in the end.
There were Young Corinthians whom Marcus trusted with his life, even a few whom he counted as friends. But he’d always assumed they were the exception.
“I had the good fortune to call upon Sir Arthur—and his exquisite brandy—the other day,” Marcus remarked conversationally, hopeful that Bennington would pick up the thread.
“Ah, yes, his brandy. The finest in the county—some say in the entire country.”
Marcus curbed his eagerness to continue and waited the appropriate amount of time before pressing further.
“Do all of Lulworth’s residents so heartily support smuggling, then?”
Bennington nodded. “In a word? Yes. Even his son plays at smuggling, acting as a courier now and again. Nothing dangerous, mind you …”
He stopped, the troubled look on his face confirming that he realized what he’d shared. “The Tisdales, for all their eccentricities, are a fine family, Weston. I would not want my words to lead you to believe otherwise.”
Weston gave the man a reassuring nod. “Of course. You’ve in no way dissuaded me from believing the Tisdales to be anything but what you claim.”
Marcus knew he was good at lying, and Bennington’s look of relief only underscored his talent.
Still, in all likelihood he’d use the man’s words against him, and not without pain.
The sudden cry of the pack as they shot off toward a copse of trees to the north caught both men by surprise, the unexpected appearance of Dixon as he raced past irritating to both.
“We cannot leave Dixon to win,” Bennington announced, spurring his bay into a gallop.
Marcus allowed Pokey his reins, the giant chestnut catching up to Bennington’s in no time. “On that we are united.”
“Cricket?” Sarah’s voice rose in disbelief as she and Claire to
ok seats near the edge of the grassy lawn.
“Come now, I’ve seen you play. Those men could not hold a candle to your skill with a bat.”
Sarah pinned Claire with a testy glare. “Not that I’ll be allowed to play.”
Claire smiled at the bevy of ladies as they took their seats before turning her attention back to Sarah. “The game today has something to do with a school rivalry. Which”—she lowered her voice to a confidential murmur—”if you ask me is complete poppycock. But after yesterday’s failed hunt I could hardly tell my husband no.”
“Why,” Sarah began through gritted teeth, “must their pride be tied to such ridiculous pursuits?”
“Because they are men, my dear. Now, smile and pretend to enjoy yourself. This is one of but three activities that you agreed to, remember?”
“I agreed to archery, not cricket,” Sarah reminded Claire, watching with lukewarm interest as the men took the field.
Sarah searched the crowd of men for Lord Weston, but could not find him.
“Lady Bennington, Miss Tisdale.” The deep male voice was polite, a thread of amusement faintly discernible.
Disoriented, Sarah wondered for a moment where the voice, so rich in tone and seductive in manner, could have come from. Her gaze quickly cataloged the men on the field for a second time, but failed to find him.
“Lord Weston,” Claire answered politely, looking across and slightly behind Sarah.
Sarah turned slowly, finding a pair of well-muscled thighs clothed in fawn-colored breeches directly in her line of sight. Her gaze continued upward, noting a coat of dark blue superfine and a white linen shirt covering what she could now state with conviction to be a granite-hard chest. And finally, her gaze reached his tanned face and those deep green eyes that turned nearly black when he was aroused.
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “Why are you not on the field, my lord?”
Claire coughed and jabbed her in the ribs with an elbow.
The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel Page 8
