Page 7 of The Marquess of Temptation
"Oh, Henry," Hestia gave a sigh, and scooped the small offender up into her arms. "You must not lick the Marquess's boots, it's naughty."
"Does he respond well to verbal reasoning?" there was a note of amusement in Lord Delaney's voice that made the corners of Hestia's lips tug into an involuntary smile.
"He does not," she grinned, "Henry only responds to bribes. Food is his first preference, affection comes in a close second."
"Then he is like every other man in the world."
For a few seconds they both stood in the tall grass, grinning stupidly at each other. Hestia, who had never spent any time alone with a man, wondered if this would be considered flirting.
How wrong I was about him, she thought with surprise, annoyed with herself for having misjudged him so.
"Enough chit chat," the Marquess's tone was suddenly brusque, "As I was saying Green Park is no place for a woman to be alone. Come, I will take you back to Berkeley Square."
"And as I was saying, I have no need to be escorted anywhere, my Lord," Hestia bristled at his tone, her affectionate thoughts evaporating as he once again assumed the air of an entitled Lord. "You would do me more harm than good escorting me home, how would I explain your presence if anyone from the household saw you?"
"I hope someone sees me," Falconbridge drawled, "For I want to have words with Miss Deveraux on her lack of concern for your safety."
Never before had Hestia felt so overwhelmed with frustration; it was like conversing with a brick wall. A stubborn headed, arrogant, pompous brick wall. She knew that no matter what she said, the Marquess would not listen, so, sensing she had no other choice, she turned on her heel and began to stalk away.
"Where are you going?"
Hestia ignored his irritated call and continued on her path across the field. Henry, who was still in her arms, wriggled in a valiant attempt to escape her clutches and return to the Marquess --but she held tight. She did not once look over her shoulder to see if the Marquess was following her, but she knew that he was from the annoyed sighs she heard as he shadowed her steps. When she reached the Queen's Walk, a stone path that ran the length of the park, she saw a huge, dark stallion tethered to the gate post. From its impressive gleaming coat and its sheer magnificence, Hestia assumed that the horse belonged to Lord Delaney. She did not wait for him to untie the beast, instead she continued on with great determination --she would reach Berkeley Square without the Marquess's assistance.
She crossed at Piccadilly, weaving her way through the carriages and carts that thronged the street with Henry still in her arms. Mayfair was a short stroll away, Hestia hurried along the much quieter Clarges Street, where finally she dared to look behind her. He was gone; she breathed a sigh of relief. He must have lost sight of her at Piccadilly -- thank goodness for that. She set Henry down on the footpath and as she did so realised that she had left her book behind her in the park.
Drat, she thought with annoyance. The book, a small leather-bound volume, had detailed Napoleon's exploits in Egypt at the start of the century and his surrender of Cairo to the English. It wasn't her usual reading material, but Jane had told her that it delved into the disappearance of several ancient artifacts during the military transition, artifacts that were thought to have been stolen from the Navy by pirates.
Instantly Hestia's mind had leapt to the newspaper article on her father, and how he was supposed to have carried out daring raids on Navy ships at that time. Truthfully, the book had been rather a bore, filled with analysis of military tactics and it had not mentioned her father once, but it had reignited her zeal for finding out what had happened to him that fateful night.
She glanced back toward Piccadilly, thinking that she might return to the park to collect the novel, but her eyes caught a glimpse of a tall man on horseback at the far end of the road.
Drat him anyway, she sighed, picking Henry back up and hurrying toward home; it would have to wait for another day.
