betrayed by a
roguish gleam or a conspiratorial flash of a smile when one of his more subtle
sallies blew far over the head of the worthy Mrs. Fraiser.
He wished Rhiannon
didn’t smile like that and that her eyes didn’t gleam like that because,
against all likelihood, Ash Merrick was charmed. And that surprised and alarmed
him.
She was
interesting. Lovely. And natural. And he’d had a surfeit of artifice.
More, she accepted
him.
As decent. As a gentleman. And no one here was wise enough or discerning enough
to warn her differently.
Why should they?
They were of the same opinion: the ambitious and self-satisfied Edward St.
John; homely and sincere John Fortnum; all the eager lads who clamored for a
story that they might taste secondhand London’s dangerous habits. Even that
great gold monolith Phillip Watt.
Restlessly, Ash
rolled his tense neck, the movement releasing the grass’s fresh perfume, a
scent at variance with the darkening of his thoughts. Watt was heavy-handed and
complacent and his status as fiancé had fired his ardor. Several times Ash saw
the boy attempt to sweep the unwitting Rhiannon to some secluded enclave for a
spot of slap and tickle. Or perhaps not so unwitting, Ash thought with a small
smile.
That was part of
her charm, after all, the flash of amused knowledge that leapt to her greening
eyes when she blithely upset one of Phillip’s amorous plans. She might be
innocent but she was not gullible.
Neither was Edith
Fraiser, the canny old cat. She’d certainly manipulated him adroitly enough.
She’d spent the
week watching Ash. Every time he looked at Rhiannon, the old dame was looking
at him. A few days ago, after sending Rhiannon on some errand, Edith had
cornered him. Smiling and bobbing her head she explained that she was old and
stiff and not nearly the duenna she need be. Therefore, she declared with impeccable
reason, in Carr’s stead Ash must be Rhiannon’s chaperon.
The notion was so
bizarre that he’d been blindsided into acquiescing. Since then he’d spent hours
padding after the courting couple to see that Rhiannon’s chastity remained
intact.
In fact, that was
what he was ostensibly doing now—chaperoning the happy couple. His orders were
clear: Under no circumstances were Rhiannon and her swain to enter the yew
maze, where “untoward” things might occur. He’d accepted with outward
amiability but had taken himself off as soon as Phillip had steered Rhiannon
through the maze’s entrance.
For while he might
enjoy letting down his guard and having these people assume him noble and
gentlemanly, he wasn’t quite ready to rap Watt’s knuckles if they chanced too
close to Rhiannon’s breast. Because if he witnessed that, he would imagine his
own hands brushing her velvety skin.
He imagined far too
much regarding Rhiannon Russell.
He imagined her as
he’d first seen her, flushed and pretty and awash with pleasure. Only in his
mind her pleasure was sexual and the heat rising from her throat brought there
by his touch.
His
hands had loosened her hair and
his
mouth
had brought the full color to her lips. And
his
palm had molded to the
sweet swells and lush line...
God, what was he
thinking? He frowned, casting about for an explanation for this... fancy. He
would not give it any weightier title.
The answer was
simple: He hadn’t had a woman in years. Upon his return to England he hadn’t dared offend his newfound London “friends” by lifting their sisters’ or wives’
skirts. He wouldn’t spend any of his hard-earned money on an expensive whore,
or his health on a cheap one.
Of course he wanted
the girl. He wasn’t so used up, he thought angrily, that he wouldn’t appreciate
swiving a fresh, vivacious chit. He stirred uneasily.
Damn her for
thinking him a tame and friendly sort. It irritated and fascinated him. How
dare she think him better than he was? The only thing he’d ever been loyal to
was his brother, and even that loyalty was blemished, for he
roguish gleam or a conspiratorial flash of a smile when one of his more subtle
sallies blew far over the head of the worthy Mrs. Fraiser.
He wished Rhiannon
didn’t smile like that and that her eyes didn’t gleam like that because,
against all likelihood, Ash Merrick was charmed. And that surprised and alarmed
him.
She was
interesting. Lovely. And natural. And he’d had a surfeit of artifice.
More, she accepted
him.
As decent. As a gentleman. And no one here was wise enough or discerning enough
to warn her differently.
Why should they?
They were of the same opinion: the ambitious and self-satisfied Edward St.
John; homely and sincere John Fortnum; all the eager lads who clamored for a
story that they might taste secondhand London’s dangerous habits. Even that
great gold monolith Phillip Watt.
Restlessly, Ash
rolled his tense neck, the movement releasing the grass’s fresh perfume, a
scent at variance with the darkening of his thoughts. Watt was heavy-handed and
complacent and his status as fiancé had fired his ardor. Several times Ash saw
the boy attempt to sweep the unwitting Rhiannon to some secluded enclave for a
spot of slap and tickle. Or perhaps not so unwitting, Ash thought with a small
smile.
That was part of
her charm, after all, the flash of amused knowledge that leapt to her greening
eyes when she blithely upset one of Phillip’s amorous plans. She might be
innocent but she was not gullible.
Neither was Edith
Fraiser, the canny old cat. She’d certainly manipulated him adroitly enough.
She’d spent the
week watching Ash. Every time he looked at Rhiannon, the old dame was looking
at him. A few days ago, after sending Rhiannon on some errand, Edith had
cornered him. Smiling and bobbing her head she explained that she was old and
stiff and not nearly the duenna she need be. Therefore, she declared with impeccable
reason, in Carr’s stead Ash must be Rhiannon’s chaperon.
The notion was so
bizarre that he’d been blindsided into acquiescing. Since then he’d spent hours
padding after the courting couple to see that Rhiannon’s chastity remained
intact.
In fact, that was
what he was ostensibly doing now—chaperoning the happy couple. His orders were
clear: Under no circumstances were Rhiannon and her swain to enter the yew
maze, where “untoward” things might occur. He’d accepted with outward
amiability but had taken himself off as soon as Phillip had steered Rhiannon
through the maze’s entrance.
For while he might
enjoy letting down his guard and having these people assume him noble and
gentlemanly, he wasn’t quite ready to rap Watt’s knuckles if they chanced too
close to Rhiannon’s breast. Because if he witnessed that, he would imagine his
own hands brushing her velvety skin.
He imagined far too
much regarding Rhiannon Russell.
He imagined her as
he’d first seen her, flushed and pretty and awash with pleasure. Only in his
mind her pleasure was sexual and the heat rising from her throat brought there
by his touch.
His
hands had loosened her hair and
his
mouth
had brought the full color to her lips. And
his
palm had molded to the
sweet swells and lush line...
God, what was he
thinking? He frowned, casting about for an explanation for this... fancy. He
would not give it any weightier title.
The answer was
simple: He hadn’t had a woman in years. Upon his return to England he hadn’t dared offend his newfound London “friends” by lifting their sisters’ or wives’
skirts. He wouldn’t spend any of his hard-earned money on an expensive whore,
or his health on a cheap one.
Of course he wanted
the girl. He wasn’t so used up, he thought angrily, that he wouldn’t appreciate
swiving a fresh, vivacious chit. He stirred uneasily.
Damn her for
thinking him a tame and friendly sort. It irritated and fascinated him. How
dare she think him better than he was? The only thing he’d ever been loyal to
was his brother, and even that loyalty was blemished, for he
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