Page 22 of Forgetting the Earl
“You find me arrogant, madam?”
“Terribly,” she laughed. “Much like your friend Tarrington.”
Southwell’s arm stiffened beneath her fingertips. “Tarrington and I went to school together, but we are no longer friends, if we ever were. Nor do I think him a friend of yours, Mrs. Culpepper.” A question hovered in his words.
Honora shrugged. Southwell wanted to know if she’d allowed Tarrington liberties with her person, and she had no desire to inform him one way or the other. Let him think what he would. She hadn’t known he and Tarrington were no longer friends though. That was curious. Had their friendship ended because of her?
Ridiculous. Southwell hadn’t shown Miss Drevenport the least concern that night even while his friends had been mocking her. He was a thoughtless, careless rake, albeit a very charming one. With a bad leg.
Yes, all rakes seduce with a travel memoir penned by two former naval officers.
Honora’s skirts brushed against his legs as they moved to a bench set far beneath a weeping willow. The branches of the tree cascaded down, creating a curtain separating her and Southwell from the rest of the garden. “Would you like to sit?”
“Not especially, Mrs. Culpepper.” Southwell ducked his head as he wandered beneath the canopy, looking up into the branches.
Honora cautiously followed. They were well hidden from anyone in the house, even if Loretta came out in search of them.
“You prefer to stand? What of your leg—”
The rest of her sentence was cut off by the press of his lips against hers. Warm. Lazy. Like floating down a river on a summer day. Culpepper had been sloppy. Wet. Uncaring whether she participated or not.
Oh, but this kiss.
Nothing Culpepper had ever forced on her felt like this gentle, seductive exploration of her mouth by Southwell. Curving a hand around her neck, he pulled her lips more firmly to his.
A small whimper left Honora. A sound of pleasure she’d never heard herself make. A heady sensation suffused her, spreading across her limbs. The taste of him—tea, mint, and sin (a great deal of it)—settled against her tongue as he coaxed her lips to part. Her heart skipped in an uneven rhythm as his tongue twined around hers and intoxication settled over her shoulders.
Southwell dropped his cane, wrapping his free hand around her waist, and pulled her flush against his chest. A low purr came from him, like a satisfied cat’s. Or a jaguar’s.
His lips teased against the soft skin of her cheek. “I will assume”—his breath ruffled a loose tendril of her hair—“that is a yes to my offer of a carriage ride, Mrs. Culpepper.”
Chapter Six
“Who are thoseflowers from, Honora? One of your lovers?”
Honora looked up from a riveting account of Lowe traversing a riverbed, snapping shut the book Southwell had given her.
Loretta scowled at her, eyes glittering with hatred as she flicked at the petal of one of the dozen or more roses filling the vase.
“It isn’t any of your affair who they are from,” Honora answered. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’d like to return to my book.” Southwell had sent the flowers, a gorgeous display of crimson roses, just this morning.
“Improper,” the older woman hissed.
Culpepper’s mother had hated Honora from the moment Loretta had disembarked in London after her lengthy trip abroad, horrified her son had wed without her presence. Never once had she shown Honora a shred of kindness or even an ounce of respect. Though Culpepper had left his mother a sizable fortune from which she could draw a comfortable yearly income, more than enough to purchase a home far grander than this, Loretta refused to leave. Out of spite, Honora surmised.
The skirts of Loretta’s black mourning dress rustled as she pulled out one of the roses from the arrangement Southwell had sent Honora, sniffing at the bud. She held the bloom tight in her fist as she wandered to the settee. After fluffing a pillow, Loretta placed it at her back before settling like a giant vulture.
“I demand to know which one of your gentlemen sent these.”
“I don’t answer to you, Loretta.”
The flowers had arrived early this morning with a note, scrawled in Southwell’s unmistakable masculine hand, promising he would call for her later in the day. A flutter of excitement filled her chest at the thought of being alone with him for an entire afternoon.
“You’re behaving like a harlot.” Loretta hissed the word. “Under my roof.”
“Don’t you meanmyroof?” Honora sighed in frustration. “You don’t own this house, Loretta. I’ve been kind enough to allow you to stay—”
“Kind?” Loretta carefully pulled each petal off the rose she held.
