left.
Rupert tipped the bottle and downed another mouthful.
Make that no bottles left.
In all honesty, the wine wasn’t even that good.
‘ Nimble,’ my hairy arse.
Another month or so, and it would have gone to vinegar completely. But left corked, there was no telling how much the rare vintage was actually worth to collectors. There’d be hell to pay if the Duke of Seabrooke ever learned what became of this final bottle. His Grace was not known to forgive debts of that nature.
Which was why Rupert stayed still as a stone while the couple writhed together on the man’s cloak.
It was damned unfortunate that the moon was waning. It was so dark in the grotto, Rupert didn’t get more than a few glimpses of skin. A white nightrail here, a gentleman’s lawn shirt reflecting the meager light there.
No peek at a pair of pips or a sweet bum for poor ol’ Rupert , he thought, the wine making him melancholy . But on the plus side of the ledger, the fact that he couldn’t see them meant they couldn’t see him either.
So long as he didn’t move from that spot.
At least the girl was the vocal sort. Her little noises of distress before the buck finally gave her ease made Rupert wish he could get in line. She fairly sang the lad’s name when she came.
Tristan.
Add that to her reference to him as her viscount, and Rupert had no trouble deducing that the Casanova in the middle of the maze was none other than Lord Edmondstone, the man who’d been publicly courting Lady Florence for the past sennight.
And the girl he was privately pumping was certainly not His Grace’s daughter.
Normally it wouldn’t matter a fig to Rupert who Lord Edmondstone was rutting on the side—and he was obviously doing it quite well if the lady’s sighs, moans and rhythmic breathing was any measure—but this was more than a quick poke for the viscount. If their furtive conversation after the deed was done was any measure, he meant to marry the chit.
Not the duke’s daughter.
Rupert had hovered around the edges of His Grace’s conversations often enough to know that in addition to his passion for rare vintages and ridiculously expensive horses, the duke was adamant about seeing grandchildren sooner rather than later. And those grandchildren were expected to be the most beautiful progeny ever conceived. Hence, the suit of Viscount Edmondstone was encouraged on the strength of his pleasing proportions, full head of hair and granite chin.
Rupert sniffed. Hair was vastly over-rated. A man could always wear a wig. He’d never had much hair to speak of, unless one counted what sprouted on his back, but it hadn’t impeded him one whit.
Then the viscount and his doxie began to disentangle themselves for a second time. Rupert stiffened like a rabbit hiding in plain sight. He had almost as much to lose as they did if he were discovered.
Fortunately, they were much too preoccupied with each other to wonder if they shared the dark grotto with any other soul. They recited their plans to each other again—second storey parlour, quarter to midnight, the friend and the gossip were to turn up at the stroke of twelve to catch them on purpose—and then they wasted an inordinate amount of time kissing and fondling and bidding each other farewell.
As if they weren’t intending to swive each other again in less than twenty-four hours.
Privately, Rupert would have laid any amount of money that they wouldn’t be able to wait till the appointed time.
Then finally, they left.
He stayed immobile till he could no longer hear the rustle of the gravel under their feet. Then he upended the bottle and polished off the last of the ’08. He gave it a toss to the opposite corner and was satisfied by the tinkle of shattering glass. With luck, no one would be able to prove what the myriad shards had ever been.
Then Rupert rose and began making his shambling way back out of the maze. He wasn’t sure how to use the information he’d learned. He couldn’t
Rupert tipped the bottle and downed another mouthful.
Make that no bottles left.
In all honesty, the wine wasn’t even that good.
‘ Nimble,’ my hairy arse.
Another month or so, and it would have gone to vinegar completely. But left corked, there was no telling how much the rare vintage was actually worth to collectors. There’d be hell to pay if the Duke of Seabrooke ever learned what became of this final bottle. His Grace was not known to forgive debts of that nature.
Which was why Rupert stayed still as a stone while the couple writhed together on the man’s cloak.
It was damned unfortunate that the moon was waning. It was so dark in the grotto, Rupert didn’t get more than a few glimpses of skin. A white nightrail here, a gentleman’s lawn shirt reflecting the meager light there.
No peek at a pair of pips or a sweet bum for poor ol’ Rupert , he thought, the wine making him melancholy . But on the plus side of the ledger, the fact that he couldn’t see them meant they couldn’t see him either.
So long as he didn’t move from that spot.
At least the girl was the vocal sort. Her little noises of distress before the buck finally gave her ease made Rupert wish he could get in line. She fairly sang the lad’s name when she came.
Tristan.
Add that to her reference to him as her viscount, and Rupert had no trouble deducing that the Casanova in the middle of the maze was none other than Lord Edmondstone, the man who’d been publicly courting Lady Florence for the past sennight.
And the girl he was privately pumping was certainly not His Grace’s daughter.
Normally it wouldn’t matter a fig to Rupert who Lord Edmondstone was rutting on the side—and he was obviously doing it quite well if the lady’s sighs, moans and rhythmic breathing was any measure—but this was more than a quick poke for the viscount. If their furtive conversation after the deed was done was any measure, he meant to marry the chit.
Not the duke’s daughter.
Rupert had hovered around the edges of His Grace’s conversations often enough to know that in addition to his passion for rare vintages and ridiculously expensive horses, the duke was adamant about seeing grandchildren sooner rather than later. And those grandchildren were expected to be the most beautiful progeny ever conceived. Hence, the suit of Viscount Edmondstone was encouraged on the strength of his pleasing proportions, full head of hair and granite chin.
Rupert sniffed. Hair was vastly over-rated. A man could always wear a wig. He’d never had much hair to speak of, unless one counted what sprouted on his back, but it hadn’t impeded him one whit.
Then the viscount and his doxie began to disentangle themselves for a second time. Rupert stiffened like a rabbit hiding in plain sight. He had almost as much to lose as they did if he were discovered.
Fortunately, they were much too preoccupied with each other to wonder if they shared the dark grotto with any other soul. They recited their plans to each other again—second storey parlour, quarter to midnight, the friend and the gossip were to turn up at the stroke of twelve to catch them on purpose—and then they wasted an inordinate amount of time kissing and fondling and bidding each other farewell.
As if they weren’t intending to swive each other again in less than twenty-four hours.
Privately, Rupert would have laid any amount of money that they wouldn’t be able to wait till the appointed time.
Then finally, they left.
He stayed immobile till he could no longer hear the rustle of the gravel under their feet. Then he upended the bottle and polished off the last of the ’08. He gave it a toss to the opposite corner and was satisfied by the tinkle of shattering glass. With luck, no one would be able to prove what the myriad shards had ever been.
Then Rupert rose and began making his shambling way back out of the maze. He wasn’t sure how to use the information he’d learned. He couldn’t
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