Page 14 of Chasing the Earl
“No. Surely not.” But Henry saw the truth in the darkening of her cheeks. Hadn’t he sensed the restraint in Miss Stitch? The thought of her secretly being wanton made the entire lower half of his body tighten with arousal.
“Is it so hard to believe?” she snapped back at him, offended.
“Frankly, yes. Just look at you.” Everything about Miss Stitch was designed to repel the opposite sex, from her expensive but unattractive clothing to her sharp tongue and harsh opinions of others.
“You are the most obnoxious human being I have ever met.” Her voice raised an octave. “Insulting and condescending at the same time. How dare you disparage my appearance when your own leaves much to be desired. You remind me of a poorly trained dog, slobbering all over his master’s guests and stealing food off the table.”
“At least I don’t resemble a stick with eyes,” he growled, angry at desiring a woman with whom he couldn’t even have a decent conversation without stooping to insults. “And you’ve got a leaf in your hair. You look ridiculous.”
The light shifted through the thick canopy overhead as they came to the edge of a clearing, softening the sharp angles of her face. Wisps of dark hair played against the line of her neck, drawing attention to the creamy luster of her skin. His desire for her sharpened as swiftly as his annoyance.
She reached up and pulled the offending leaf from her hair. “It is no wonder to me, my lord, why Lady Trent and indeed the rest of the house party avoids you, because—”
Her words were abruptly cut off by Henry’s mouth slanting over hers.
The absolute relief at finally touching Miss Stitch sent a hard pulse of blood to his cock. A groan escaped him. Her lips were unbelievably soft. Plush. Perfect. He took the thick braid of her hair and wrapped it around his wrist, pulling her savagely against his chest.
A small sound came from her, not of distress but arousal. Her head tilted back, lips parting beneath his, the touch of her tongue nearly bringing Henry to his knees. He skimmed his hand down the line of her back to settle against her narrow waist, inhaling honeysuckle as he fixed his mouth more fully to hers.
Miss Stitch was no stranger to kissing. In fact, she was quite good at it.
They broke apart, as if both realizing at the same time what was transpiring between them. Staring at each other in shocked silence, neither spoke, the only sound the birds singing in the branches above them.
“Why did you do that?” Miss Stitch blinked in confusion. One trembling finger touched her lips. “What possessed you to do such a thing?” There wasn’t anger in her words, something he’d expected. Instead, her fingers trembled with another emotion. Fear. Not of him, exactly. But the kiss. It was written all over her face.
“You wouldn’t stop talking,” he snapped, irritated with them both.
It was the wrong thing to say. Miss Stitch whirled around, entire body rigid, and walked away from him, skirts swirling about her in distress. She did look like an enraged twig.
“You’re going in the wrong direction, by the way!” he yelled after her, unsurprised that she didn’t so much as pause in her urgency to flee his presence. “Don’t become entangled in another bush.” He didn’t blame her for fleeing, and it was probably best she did. He’d be tempted to kiss her again or do something far worse. She’d find her way back.
He turned and headed down the path, resolving to keep away from Miss Stitch. The very last thing he needed was to involve himself with such a sour woman. Maybe he should just go back to London.
Then Henry heard her scream.
Chapter Five
Emmagene pressed herfingers to her lips as she trudged away, wanting nothing more than to get away from Huntly.
He’d kissed her.Oh. God.She’d kissed him back.
Huntly.Horrible, terrible, awful Huntly.
Last night after the disastrous dinner in which she’d had peas launched in her direction and been reminded again of her lack of appeal, Emmagene had gone directly to her room, thankful for a moment alone to collect her thoughts. She’d fallen asleep in a chair before the fire after coaxing one of the maids to bring her a snifter of brandy. Maybe it was the wedding or seeing Honora and Southwell so happy, but for the first time in a very long time, Emmagene had dreamed of Geoffrey.
She didn’t often allow herself to think of Lord Anderly’s son, the gentleman with whom Emmagene had thought she would spend her life. Geoffrey had been charming. Handsome.
A liar.
In the dream, they’d been making love in the stables, in the same empty stall where they’d often met during her first season. The very spot where she’d lost her virtue.
In a horse’s stall. She hadn’t even merited a bed. Let alone marriage.
Emmagene hadn’t been able to see Geoffrey’s face clearly through the haze of the dream, though since she’d been in the stables, in that particular stall, it couldn’t have been anyone else. But his hair had been more tarnished brass than gold. The shoulders much too broad. Still, she’d clung to him as they’d made love. When Emmagene had climaxed in the dream, she’d awoken surprised to find herself alone and in a chair before the fire in an inadequate guest room.
And she didn’t think it was Geoffrey she’d imagined.
Sleep had become impossible after that, and she’d spent the better part of the night tossing and turning. Finally, she’d thrust aside the covers, deciding a walk in the early-morning light would clear her mind of such nonsense. Geoffrey wasn’t worth a moment of her time. The ease with which he’d convinced her to give him her virtue still surprised Emmagene. She’d believed all his declarations of love and never once wondered why he was meeting her in the stables. She hadn’t even questioned why he didn’t offer for her properly, because Emmagene had beenintoxicatedwith the physical aspects of their relationship. She’dwantedto be taken against the rough wall of the stable or bent over a saddle, her face pressed against the leather while Geoffrey thrust inside her. She’d enjoyed it. Craved it. Begged for it.
