Page 25 of Forgetting the Earl
Heat warmed her cheeks. She’d been imagining herself more as a sofa cushion than anything else. But didn’t she want to sound improper? Seduce Southwell so she could discard him?
Yes, well that was the plan, Honora.
Once they were beneath the branches of the oak, Honora shook out the blanket while Southwell watched, and settled herself atop the checkered wool. The blanket was rather worn, with a corner that looked chewed on. Maybe by some sort of animal. Obviously old. She wondered how many other women he’d picnicked with on this same blanket.
The thought made her fingers twitch.
He carefully lowered himself to the blanket, the frustration at his injury clear, before he stretched out his leg.
Honora wondered, Had he broken it while investigating an ancient ruin? Had the injury been caused by a poison dart from one of the indigenous people he’d encountered? He’d been chased more than once, according to some of the stories he’d told her on their carriage ride. It wasn’t inconceivable that he could have tripped and broken the limb and it had healed badly.
Honora’s curiosity was going to get the best of her. “I meant to ask you something, my lord. Before it escapes me.”
“Gideon. I’m not much of a lord. I don’t do any lordly things.”
She fluffed out her skirts. “You are an earl and thus a lordcapableof lordly things. Whether you wish to avail yourself of such pursuits or not.”
“I have always found the life of a titled nobleman somewhat useless.” He made a self-deprecating sound of amusement. “I was an only child born of distant parents, and thus the earldom was destined to fall on my shoulders. Yes, I manage the estate, which I’m good at. I don’t mind at all visiting tenants or learning the best way to harvest wheat. What I do mind is being idle. Having my only concern be which horse wins a race or what house party I’m to attend. I have no right to complain, of course. I have just always longed for something more.”
Honora could understand that. She’d often felt the same way. It was something else she had in common with the Earl of Southwell. “Is that why you started traveling?” She untied the ribbon beneath her chin before carefully setting aside her bonnet. “I did wonder how you became acquainted with the Geographical Society.”
His gaze ran slowly over her head to the neat chignon at the base of her neck. “I have always been curious about the world, and I wanted to have a purpose. Being a lord is not a purpose.” Southwell’s eyes were still on her hair.
Self-consciously, Honora patted the sleek bun, confident none of her wild curls had escaped. But he continued to stare at her so intently Honora reached up again. “Have I something in my hair, my lord?”
“No. I was only thinking how beautiful you are with the sunlight on your face.”
Honora exhaled slowly, willing the pleasure she felt at his compliment to fade into the branches of the oak tree. She wasn’t used to being complimented, at least not honestly or by someone who mattered.
He shouldn’t matter.
The outraged voice inside her head sounded remarkably like Emmie.
“I’ve made you uncomfortable and didn’t mean to. Forgive me?” He sat up and reached into the basket, bringing out a bottle of wine. “Still cool to the touch.” Placing it aside, he pulled out two glasses. “Will you bring out the cheese and bread while I pour?”
Honora did as he asked, taking out a small wheel of yellow cheese, a loaf of fresh-baked bread, and two ripe pears. There was also a tart, lightly dusted with sugar, sitting at the bottom of the basket. Honora didn’t eat tarts very often these days, mostly because Loretta had banned the cook from making them during the early days of Honora’s marriage as sort of punishment for her despised daughter-in-law.
“Would you like to start with the tart? It’s blackberry, as it happens.” He handed her a glass of wine.
Honora loved blackberry. But it would be better if she didn’t. She’d no desire to become round and plump again, a constant worry of hers. Had Loretta known banishing tarts from the menu would benefit her daughter-in-law, she might well have never done so.
“No, thank you,” she said, sniffing at the wine. Honora didn’t usually partake of alcohol. Champagne sometimes. A brandy after her husband’s funeral. Taking a sip, she was instantly taken with the light, crisp taste.
“Tell me about your husband, Honora.”
She choked a little on the wine before lifting her eyes to his. “There isn’t much to tell, my lord.”
“Gideon. I’m curious, though if it pains you to speak of him—”
“It wasn’t a love match, if that’s what you’re asking. He was my mother’s choice for me. I had refused him several times in fact, but—” She hesitated, the girl she’d once been wanting to screech at the careless rake she deemed partially to blame for Culpepper. “Suffice it to say ours was a blessedly short marriage.” A vision of Culpepper, sneering at Honora before pouncing on her with little warning, flashed before her. The way he’d finished bedding her nearly before he’d started, with little care for Honora’s feelings. She knew relations between a man and woman could be pleasurable, but she found it hard to imagine. Her gaze lingered over Southwell, taking in the shape of his mouth.
Maybe not so difficult after all.
“Where did you go, Honora?” Southwell murmured, tipping the wine up to his lips.
Honora drained her glass and didn’t answer. She had come to the conclusion that she wanted to seduce Southwell. Or have him seduce her. The exact reason was up for debate.
Southwell lay on his side, propping up his head with one arm, wine glass dangling from his free hand. He was so breathtaking. So…Southwell. What would it feel like to havehiminside her and not Culpepper?
