That Scandalous Summer by Meredith Duran Page B

snorted. “And you would?”
    Michael, grinning, was about to retort when a cry rang out: “Ho there! Mr. Grey!”
    The upper-class drawl caught him off guard. He stopped in his tracks and spun on his heel, thinking for a moment—well, that he’d been found. Such ironic moments did tend to proliferate in his life.
    Instead, approaching them was none other than his uninvited visitor from last week. Uneasiness bolted through him. Mrs. Chudderley was a tremendous flirt, as much a temptation as a pie left in the windowsill during a famine. Looking over her scratched, dirty arms a week ago, he’d battled an overwhelming temptation to lick her clean.
    Not sanitary, of course. He’d settled on antiseptic instead.
    “A heavenly sight,” sighed Pershall. “Aphrodite arisen from the waves.”
    Michael cut the man a wry glance. “The wrong heaven for your church,” he said. “And should a man of God notice such things?”
    Pershall laughed. “Not dead yet, Mr. Grey.”
    Mrs. Chudderley came floating toward them. She was dressed ludicrously for a walk in dusty village lanes, in a delicate, billowing gown the color of a ripe peach. Behind her hurried a tall, red-haired maid, out of breath and visibly cross, who carried a hamper on one arm and used the other to hold a parasol over her mistress’s head. The ludicrous confection, too thin to properly shield out the sun, was trimmed with fluttering ribbons that precisely matched Mrs. Chudderley’s gown.
    Michael nodded to the overburdened maid before making his bow to the widow. It was a small jab, but one that the widow caught: he saw it in the way her eyes narrowed briefly before her smile determinedly widened.
    As simply as that, his heart skipped a beat. Damn it . Would that veils were in fashion! He had imagined, a week ago, that the widow’s eyes would be as brown as her hair, and so it had come as a shock when she had opened them to reveal irises of a pale, uncanny green, the shade of Chinese jade when held to the light.
    It came as an equal shock now to look into them again and realize his imagination had not embroidered upon their loveliness.
    He took hold of his breath, which wanted to escalate, and his intentions, which wanted to sharpen. She would never know how terribly she’d humbled him in his drawing room last week. Her every movement had sent a suggestion of perfumed warmth toward him that hadmade his body tighten like a crank. By the time Mrs. Brown had handed him that damned tea, his hands had been shaking.
    It happened sometimes, this instant attraction. But never with a patient. God above! Country life did not agree with him.
    “Mrs. Chudderley,” he said. “Good day to you.”
    Graciously, she returned his greeting—then surprised him by turning briskly toward the vicar. “All the animals are accounted for?”
    A gentle breeze moved past them, fluttering the ruffled neckline of her gown, offering teasing glimpses of smooth, pale décolletage. Michael dug his index finger into the pad of his thumb with savage force, making a small but adequate distraction.
    “Oh, indeed,” Pershall was saying. “And I’ve already had a dozen inquiries about the pies. The kitchens at Havilland Hall have been busy preparing delicacies for our little bazaar at the school tomorrow.”
    With a start, Michael realized this comment was directed at him. “Oh?”
    “Yes, their strawberry pies are wildly famous. Rightfully so!”
    “Mr. Grey would know this,” said Mrs. Chudderley lightly, “if only he were to accept my invitation to dinner. Perhaps you can persuade him, sir.”
    At Pershall’s questioning look, a flush crawled down Michael’s nape. “Mrs. Chudderley does offer the finest table in Cornwall,” said Pershall. “Why, just last week, I dined on the most tender, succulent quail I’ve ever tasted.”
    Ah, very good. Now a man of God was persuading him to accept an invitation that would end only oneway: with Michael devouring his hostess. He had given