Page 11 of Chasing the Earl
Henry didn’t like Miss Stitch, or at least, he didn’t think he did, though he did admire her ability to hurl an insult with precision. It was a strange situation, to want to strangle her while also wanting to fuck her senseless. Neither he nor Miss Stitch belonged at a polite house party with a group of people neither of them liked. Her final words, that he would never know affection, pained him because they were true.
She deserved the pea he’d lobbed at the back of her head. He should have added a piece of potato.
Henry looked up into the trees, admiring the stretch of green above his head. This early in the morning, there was still dew on the grass and the surrounding air was filled with the songs of robins and nuthatches. Trees were peaceful beings who didn’t care that Henry wasn’t Douglas. As were the small sprays of primroses dotting the path. He was well acquainted with these woods, having been lost in them many times when he’d been little more than a child. Longwood was familiar to him. A beloved place. Much more so than Bentwood Park, his father’s estate.
Henry could still see his brother standing inside a circle of maple trees, attempting to convince him and South to build a fort. Douglas, aware of his place in the world, had always wanted to take charge of everything as he’d been raised to do. Henry’s natural inclination had been to wander off, get himself dirty, and stick frogs in his pockets, knowing it would get him punished. And South? He would wander about with a small leather-bound notebook and pencil, obsessed with mapping out the woods.
A noise came from the thick brush to Henry’s right. A deer, most likely. Or a rabbit. Maybe a fox. The woods were full of animals. He paused for a moment, turning slowly in a semicircle, but seeing nothing, he continued on his way. The other guests wouldn’t be up and about yet, having lingered in the parlor until well after Henry had retired. Henry would have this narrow path and South’s woods to himself until at least midday.
Last night, after Miss Stitch had stomped off and dinner had ended, Henry had joined South, Montieth, and the other gentlemen present for a glass of brandy. He’d behaved himself, mostly. Lord Carver always had something clever to say. Lord Rush, South’s closest neighbor, had monopolized most of the conversation by speaking about himself, his enormous white mustache twitching with every tedious word he spoke. Henry had barely listened.
Mr. Harrington and Lord Melrose were expedition cronies of South, which one would think would make them interesting, but they’d been far too immersed in discussing the attributes of an opera singer that one of them, Henry couldn’t tell which, wanted to make his mistress.
The other remaining gentlemen were all from London and not memorable, at least not to Henry. Which was just as well, since he had nothing to contribute to any of their conversations. In general, most of those in attendance tended to give him a wide berth, as if he was a wild animal they expected would attack without the slightest provocation. Their opinion had probably been formed after the incident with Lord Stapleton. Stapleton had made the poor choice to remind Henry he wasn’t half the man Douglas had been.
“Yes,” Henry had said. “But I can throw a punch much better.”
He took in a lungful of air before slowly releasing it. Should have stopped at Stapleton’s nose, which he’d broken. Montieth had had to pull him off the much smaller man. Unfortunately, Lady Trent may have witnessed the incident.
Miss Stitch had goaded Henry last night. Only, he hadn’t wanted to punch her in the nose after she’d dismissed him, not in the least. His plans for her were much more carnal in nature.
The tightening in his groin started again at just thinking of Miss Stitch and her delicious, very un-spinster-like mouth.
He walked a few more feet, mulling over Miss Stitch, and heard a sneeze. Followed by another. Then a string of curses that would have made his drinking companions at the pub blush. A flash of mud-colored skirts, barely noticeable among the deep green of the underbrush, thrashed and spun, drawing his attention.
Henry slowed his steps, eyeing the violently trembling bushes.
“Bloody hell. Let go of me, you damned whoremonger.”
Where in God’s name had she learned to curse like that? Miss Stitch continued to surprise him.
“Bastard.” Another forceful pull bent the top of the bush all the way back. Henry could just make out the top of her head, the sun bringing out the deep-copper highlights in her otherwise dark hair.
Henry cleared his throat, which produced nothing but another furious tugging of her skirts, which he assumed were trapped. He coughed. Loudly. “Miss Stitch.”
She whirled around, or as best she could while being entangled by a rather large bush. Trying to straighten and present a more composed front, she failed miserably. The thorns seemed determined to rip the ugly gown right off her slender body.
Henry’s cock liked Miss Stitch far more than Henry did. It hardened in his trousers merely at the thought of the spinster stripped of her clothing. Waspish tongue intertwined with his. Or flicking at his ear. Or—
Good God.Whatwaswrong with him?
Her eyes widened in horror at the sight of him. She fell to the ground in a pile of brown skirts, thorns tearing at her hem. The first thing Henry noticed, besides the impolite bush, was her hair. Instead of the tortured style he’d become familiar with, Miss Stitch’s hair hung in a braid, nearly as thick as Henry’s wrist, over one shoulder. The color, a rich chestnut-brown, caught the dappled sunlight streaming through the trees. Greenery, twigs, leaves, and the sort poked out from her hair in odd angles.
Arousal for her struck him, nearly stealing his breath.
“Oh, it’s you.” Miss Stitch wasn’t pleased to see him. Her delectable mouth drew into a scowl, though he sensed a small bit of relief as well that someone had found her even if it was Henry. “How long have you been lurking about?”
“Long enough to know you’ve a very broad vocabulary for a lady, Miss Stitch. I confess, even my cheeks pinked a bit.”
“I can do and say as I please, my lord. I’m far past the age where I would interest anyone, as you have reminded me.” She pushed away a stray wisp of hair sticking to her cheek, glaring at him in defiance.
Incorrect. Miss Stitch interested Henry quite a bit, as his cock had not so gently reminded him. “Is that why you’ve never married? And here I assumed it was only your charming personality.”
The mulish tilt of her chin didn’t falter. “I assume you’re an expert in colorful language. I doubt I offended you.”
“I’ve spent enough time in questionable places to know a few good curse words myself. Haven’t used ‘whoremonger’ in a while though.”
Miss Stitch tugged at her skirts to no avail. Defiance lurked in her dark eyes. She didn’t want to ask him for help. “Are you enjoying this?”
