hard and flat but deep and luminous, desire burning like a candle in their misty depths.
“How the
hell
did that happen?” he said softly, touching his own mouth with a wondering finger before running the same finger over Gabrielle’s lips.
“It seemed … seems … as if it
had
to happen,” she said with much the same bemused wonder.
Nathaniel hadn’t kissed a woman for six years. He’d had women, fly-by-night encounters for the most part, satisfying a sharp bodily need and then forgotten, not the kind of encounters to include lingering, passionate kisses.
Sitting back on his heels, he regarded Gabrielle with a puzzled frown. She returned the look with a slight quizzical smile in her eyes, no hint of the mockery he was accustomed to. Then he shook his head in an abrupt irritable gesture of dismissal. The grass beneath his knees was unpleasantly damp and cold, and he’d just indulged in a piece of flagrant idiocy, allowed himself to be manipulated by a spoiled woman who had nothing better to do with her life than play silly games. Or so he told himself.
He stood up, brushing at the damp patches on his knees, just as the huntsman’s horn sounded from the far side of the orchard.
“
Merde
!” exclaimed the countess inelegantly, springing to her feet. “After all that, they’ve reached Hogart’s Wood ahead of us. Help me to mount, please. I can’t manage Simon’s hunters without a mounting block.”
“It’ll serve you right to walk home,” Lord Praed declared unhelpfully. “I’m damned if I’m going to encourage you to play any more tricks.” With whichunfriendly statement, he swung onto his own mount and cantered toward the gate out of the orchard.
“Well, of all the—” Gabrielle swallowed the expletive. It was of no practical use in her present predicament. She’d have her revenge on Lord Praed in her own good time. She looked around the orchard for a substitute mounting block. Dismounting from the black had been a simple operation, and she’d been so fired with her plan that she hadn’t thought about the logistics of the reverse maneuver. But then, it hadn’t occurred to her that Nathaniel Praed would be so bloody-minded.
She picked up her hat, crammed it on her head, led the black back to the wall, found a toehold made by an uneven stone a couple of feet off the ground, and scrambled somehow into the saddle, thankful that there were no witnesses to the undignified process. She took a minute to adjust the plume of her hat on her shoulder, smooth her skirts over the pommel, and retie her cravat. She remembered the rough haste with which he’d pulled it free of her throat, and for a second her fingers touched her skin where Nathaniel had touched her and a shiver crept down her spine, her skin tingling with memory.
Dear God! Fate had really stirred the pot with a busy hand. But maybe it could be turned to good account. If he found the attraction as hard to resist as Gabrielle knew she did, then matters could well proceed apace.
It hadn’t occurred to Nathaniel that Gabrielle would be defeated by his own lack of assistance, and he wasn’t surprised when she trotted into the wood some five minutes after he’d reached the hunt. The hounds were making a cast, trying to pick up the scent of the fox, and the field milled around, waiting for something to happen.
“It’s not like Gabrielle to turn up in the rear of thefield,” Mites observed, unscrewing the silver cap of a hip flask and offering it to Nathaniel.
“Isn’t it?” Nathaniel managed to sound indifferent as he took a swig of the cognac and handed back the flask.
“You really haven’t taken to each other, have you?” Miles observed, drinking in his turn before returning the flask to his pocket. “It’s funny, but I’d have thought her spirit might have appealed to you. She’s unusual, and you’re always bored by the conventional.”
“She’s trouble,” Nathaniel stated without compromise.
Miles’s eyebrows
“How the
hell
did that happen?” he said softly, touching his own mouth with a wondering finger before running the same finger over Gabrielle’s lips.
“It seemed … seems … as if it
had
to happen,” she said with much the same bemused wonder.
Nathaniel hadn’t kissed a woman for six years. He’d had women, fly-by-night encounters for the most part, satisfying a sharp bodily need and then forgotten, not the kind of encounters to include lingering, passionate kisses.
Sitting back on his heels, he regarded Gabrielle with a puzzled frown. She returned the look with a slight quizzical smile in her eyes, no hint of the mockery he was accustomed to. Then he shook his head in an abrupt irritable gesture of dismissal. The grass beneath his knees was unpleasantly damp and cold, and he’d just indulged in a piece of flagrant idiocy, allowed himself to be manipulated by a spoiled woman who had nothing better to do with her life than play silly games. Or so he told himself.
He stood up, brushing at the damp patches on his knees, just as the huntsman’s horn sounded from the far side of the orchard.
“
Merde
!” exclaimed the countess inelegantly, springing to her feet. “After all that, they’ve reached Hogart’s Wood ahead of us. Help me to mount, please. I can’t manage Simon’s hunters without a mounting block.”
“It’ll serve you right to walk home,” Lord Praed declared unhelpfully. “I’m damned if I’m going to encourage you to play any more tricks.” With whichunfriendly statement, he swung onto his own mount and cantered toward the gate out of the orchard.
“Well, of all the—” Gabrielle swallowed the expletive. It was of no practical use in her present predicament. She’d have her revenge on Lord Praed in her own good time. She looked around the orchard for a substitute mounting block. Dismounting from the black had been a simple operation, and she’d been so fired with her plan that she hadn’t thought about the logistics of the reverse maneuver. But then, it hadn’t occurred to her that Nathaniel Praed would be so bloody-minded.
She picked up her hat, crammed it on her head, led the black back to the wall, found a toehold made by an uneven stone a couple of feet off the ground, and scrambled somehow into the saddle, thankful that there were no witnesses to the undignified process. She took a minute to adjust the plume of her hat on her shoulder, smooth her skirts over the pommel, and retie her cravat. She remembered the rough haste with which he’d pulled it free of her throat, and for a second her fingers touched her skin where Nathaniel had touched her and a shiver crept down her spine, her skin tingling with memory.
Dear God! Fate had really stirred the pot with a busy hand. But maybe it could be turned to good account. If he found the attraction as hard to resist as Gabrielle knew she did, then matters could well proceed apace.
It hadn’t occurred to Nathaniel that Gabrielle would be defeated by his own lack of assistance, and he wasn’t surprised when she trotted into the wood some five minutes after he’d reached the hunt. The hounds were making a cast, trying to pick up the scent of the fox, and the field milled around, waiting for something to happen.
“It’s not like Gabrielle to turn up in the rear of thefield,” Mites observed, unscrewing the silver cap of a hip flask and offering it to Nathaniel.
“Isn’t it?” Nathaniel managed to sound indifferent as he took a swig of the cognac and handed back the flask.
“You really haven’t taken to each other, have you?” Miles observed, drinking in his turn before returning the flask to his pocket. “It’s funny, but I’d have thought her spirit might have appealed to you. She’s unusual, and you’re always bored by the conventional.”
“She’s trouble,” Nathaniel stated without compromise.
Miles’s eyebrows
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