Hot Silk by Sharon Page Page B

fool.” He backed her against a tree—branches ripe with early buds surrounded her. One brushed against her cheek, drawing a fine scratch. Lord Wesley leaned his arm above her head, effectively trapping her.
    A predatory smile curved his lips. “I want you to become my mistress. I’ll keep you in London. I’ll rent you a house, buy you pretty clothes to show off those lovely tits, drape your neck in jewels. And I will visit you now and again, my love, and tutor you in erotic arts.”
    Flabbergasted, Grace could find no rejoinder. And Wesley bent forward, waiting with his lips mere inches from hers, obviously certain she would cry, “Yes, yes, yes!”
    She would like to plant her hands on his chest and shove him back but refused to even touch him for that. She clenched her fists, certain her fingernails were cutting through her cotton gloves. “Why would you make me such an offer? Was I not just one on your list of conquests for a wager?”
    “I want you. For your beauty. For your spicy lovemaking.”
    “I’d starve before I ever accepted an offer from you.”
    “Now is a very foolish time for pride, Grace.”
    “Perhaps, but I could not swallow it now without choking on it. Being with you tends to make things want to come up.”
    He jerked back. “Stupid witch.” He spun away and stormed off down the narrow path until he vanished around a bend, and his golden hair, beaver hat, and immaculate greatcoat disappeared.
    A familiar protective growl startled her. “What did he say to you, Grace?”
     
    Devlin strode to Grace, who stood with her back to a gnarled apple tree, her hands behind her, her head tipped back against the bark. This had to be a highwayman’s fantasy—finding a beautiful, gently bred lady alone in the woods, one who possessed a perfect face worth swinging for and a voluptuous body that was carnal temptation personified.
    But for the first time in his life, Devlin felt guilty over focusing on a woman’s sexual attributes. He liked Grace Hamilton. “What did he say?” he repeated. “If Wesley insulted you, I will—”
    She turned, treating him to the pink flush in her cheeks and the sparks of tempestuous anger in her green eyes. “Spank him again? Perhaps he enjoys it,” she muttered.
    Feisty, still. But he could not for the life of him understand why she had followed Wesley out here.
    “Tell me what he said, Grace.”
    She would not look at him. Offended or hurt, he couldn’t tell.
    For a moment, she chewed the thumb of her white cotton glove. Then she groaned, a very unladylike sound, and, like her snorting laughter, this charmed him too.
    “Lord Wesley made a very generous offer. A house in London, enough jewels to choke me, and lessons in lovemaking from the master.”
    “Did you accept?”
    Without looking to him, without a word, she began to stalk away.
    Blast, what had he done now? He’d asked a simple question; she was in trouble, she might have accepted. “Grace, stop.”
    Even his dangerous tone had no effect on Grace. She reached the first set of steps cut into the rock of the ridge and was hurrying down, skirts in her hands. The wind that hurtled over the ridge ripped at those skirts and threatened to steal her hat. Bare branches swooped toward her, and the gray clouds seemed to press closer as though drawn by her fire and heat.
    Damnation.
    She had stood there and listened to the twaddle his bloody titled brother had fed her, but she ran away from him.
    He would not stand for it.
    All he wanted to do was help her.
    Heedless of the wet rock, he took the steps three at a time. She reached the small terraced plateau before he caught her.
    Not there. He was not about to have a confrontation in this place—so he scooped her into his arms. She squealed and pushed against his biceps. “Don’t struggle, love. If I drop you here, you’ll roll down the steps.”
    God, she was a delicious weight in his arms. Her lush bottom rested against his forearm and his hand splayed over