jig.
Wallingford sat down next to him with a rainy plop.
“You’re wet,” said Burke, without looking up.
“I daresay.”
The bottle sat next to Burke’s left elbow. Wallingford eyed it, picked it up, sloshed it about. Not much left. He tipped it up and drained the last drop. The wine tingled against his kiss-swollen lips.
“I daresay the women are setting up quite comfortably upstairs,” Wallingford said.
“No doubt.”
“No straw pallets for their ladyships’ precious backsides.”
“No, indeed.”
Wallingford set his wet hat down on the table before him and gazed at the woolen houndstooth. “Well, it’s just one night, I suppose,” he said. “We’ll be on our way tomorrow, and won’t have anything more to do with them, praise God.”
“Except for the wager.” Burke drank the rest of his wine and set down the glass with a precise and deliberate stroke of his wrist. “The wager you proposed with Lady Morley, over dessert.”
There was something accusing about Burke’s tone, something foreboding. Wallingford staggered backward in his mind to dessert, only a couple of hours ago, at this very table. Miss Harewood and Lady Somerton had retired with the boy, leaving him oddly out of sorts. Lady Morley had been as baiting as ever and he—as ever—had risen to the bait. It seemed like another age, another Wallingford. “Now, look here,” he said, feeling defensive. “You had something to do with that wager, remember? You proposed the stakes.”
“So I did.” Burke stood abruptly, swinging his long legs over the bench, and picked up his hat.
“Where are you going?” Wallingford demanded.
Burke settled the hat firmly on his forehead. His face was grim, his green eyes dark with determination. In fact, exactly the way he looked when Wallingford was foolish enough to interrupt him in his mechanical experiments.
“Out,” Burke said, in a voice as grim as his face. “For a walk.”
Wallingford drew a long sigh. “In that case, I’d suggest an umbrella.”
THREE
P eople, Abigail knew, were rather like horses. Some were mudders, and some were not.
Her sister Alexandra was decidedly not a mudder.
Abigail—who prided herself on a cheerful willingness to plow through whatever weather was thrown in her direction—endeavored simply to ignore both the rain and Alexandra’s complaints, and took refuge in warming thoughts. Specifically, the warming thought of the Duke of Wallingford kissing her in the stables last night.
She hoped he hadn’t noticed how flustered she was. Flustered? She’d been in a transport, shocked and shimmering, her entire body overturned by the mere action of his mouth on hers, by the way his long and immense body had flattened her against the stable wall, by the scent of bergamot from his skin and the taste of wine on his lips. She tried, now, to remember exactly what had happened—which parts of her had tingled, where she had ached and melted—but the sensations defied description.
She had simply been alive.
Alive .
And now?
Well, a little numbness, a little anticlimax, was only to be expected.
Abigail trudged on into the dank Tuscan morning. Her boots sucked valiantly against the mud. The rain was letting up, a mere drizzle now, but the mud remained: heavy and viscous, snatching greedily at her feet with every stride. Before her, the baggage cart slowed. The horses, poor beasts, were straining into their harness. Somewhere ahead of them, the Castel sant’Agata rose up from the remote and rocky hills, refuge and sanctuary, their home for the next year. Untroubled, so the plan went, by visitors of any sort, and by lovers most particularly.
What now, then? She had slipped away in the nick of time last night, flushing and trembling, throwing her scarf up around her head so he wouldn’t see how thoroughly his kiss had affected her. The Duke of Wallingford had probably kissed dozens of women, if not more. He would laugh if he knew what effect he’d had on
Wallingford sat down next to him with a rainy plop.
“You’re wet,” said Burke, without looking up.
“I daresay.”
The bottle sat next to Burke’s left elbow. Wallingford eyed it, picked it up, sloshed it about. Not much left. He tipped it up and drained the last drop. The wine tingled against his kiss-swollen lips.
“I daresay the women are setting up quite comfortably upstairs,” Wallingford said.
“No doubt.”
“No straw pallets for their ladyships’ precious backsides.”
“No, indeed.”
Wallingford set his wet hat down on the table before him and gazed at the woolen houndstooth. “Well, it’s just one night, I suppose,” he said. “We’ll be on our way tomorrow, and won’t have anything more to do with them, praise God.”
“Except for the wager.” Burke drank the rest of his wine and set down the glass with a precise and deliberate stroke of his wrist. “The wager you proposed with Lady Morley, over dessert.”
There was something accusing about Burke’s tone, something foreboding. Wallingford staggered backward in his mind to dessert, only a couple of hours ago, at this very table. Miss Harewood and Lady Somerton had retired with the boy, leaving him oddly out of sorts. Lady Morley had been as baiting as ever and he—as ever—had risen to the bait. It seemed like another age, another Wallingford. “Now, look here,” he said, feeling defensive. “You had something to do with that wager, remember? You proposed the stakes.”
“So I did.” Burke stood abruptly, swinging his long legs over the bench, and picked up his hat.
“Where are you going?” Wallingford demanded.
Burke settled the hat firmly on his forehead. His face was grim, his green eyes dark with determination. In fact, exactly the way he looked when Wallingford was foolish enough to interrupt him in his mechanical experiments.
“Out,” Burke said, in a voice as grim as his face. “For a walk.”
Wallingford drew a long sigh. “In that case, I’d suggest an umbrella.”
THREE
P eople, Abigail knew, were rather like horses. Some were mudders, and some were not.
Her sister Alexandra was decidedly not a mudder.
Abigail—who prided herself on a cheerful willingness to plow through whatever weather was thrown in her direction—endeavored simply to ignore both the rain and Alexandra’s complaints, and took refuge in warming thoughts. Specifically, the warming thought of the Duke of Wallingford kissing her in the stables last night.
She hoped he hadn’t noticed how flustered she was. Flustered? She’d been in a transport, shocked and shimmering, her entire body overturned by the mere action of his mouth on hers, by the way his long and immense body had flattened her against the stable wall, by the scent of bergamot from his skin and the taste of wine on his lips. She tried, now, to remember exactly what had happened—which parts of her had tingled, where she had ached and melted—but the sensations defied description.
She had simply been alive.
Alive .
And now?
Well, a little numbness, a little anticlimax, was only to be expected.
Abigail trudged on into the dank Tuscan morning. Her boots sucked valiantly against the mud. The rain was letting up, a mere drizzle now, but the mud remained: heavy and viscous, snatching greedily at her feet with every stride. Before her, the baggage cart slowed. The horses, poor beasts, were straining into their harness. Somewhere ahead of them, the Castel sant’Agata rose up from the remote and rocky hills, refuge and sanctuary, their home for the next year. Untroubled, so the plan went, by visitors of any sort, and by lovers most particularly.
What now, then? She had slipped away in the nick of time last night, flushing and trembling, throwing her scarf up around her head so he wouldn’t see how thoroughly his kiss had affected her. The Duke of Wallingford had probably kissed dozens of women, if not more. He would laugh if he knew what effect he’d had on
Similar Books
