Page 23 of Chasing the Earl
Another servant appeared at Huntly’s shoulder. “Wine, my lord?”
Huntly looked over at Emmagene. “Just leave the bottle. I’ll serve the lady.”
The servant, a young lad who looked frightened by Huntly, handed him the bottle without another word and disappeared into the maze of other blankets. Torches had been placed at intervals around the area where the other guests were seated, but the light didn’t quite reach Emmagene and Huntly.
Emmagene lifted her glass as Huntly poured out the wine, glad to have something to do with her hands. She looked down into the glass, barely able to make out the contents.
“I have a confession to make.” He swirled his own wine before taking a swallow, eyes never leaving hers. “Too fruity.”
Her skin prickled at his regard. “Is that your confession? The taste of the wine?”
“I meant to kiss you. Wanted to. I won’t apologize for it.”
Well, that was quite blunt. “You won’t?” Fireworks began to light the sky behind her.
“You enjoyed it. Don’t be afraid to admit it, Emmie.”
Emmagene sucked in a lungful of air at the intimate use of her nickname. Suddenly this entire flirtation with Huntly struck her as ill advised. She stood abruptly, the wine glass tipping in her hand. A crazy sort of panic filled her. She was aroused, frightened, the whiskey casting its bloody glow over her body. And Huntly. “I—”
“Leaving?” he drawled flatly. “I thought you possessed so muchmorebackbone, Miss Stitch.”
She possessed anenormousamount of backbone. Her mother often claimed Emmagene’s spine to be forged of steel. Part of her registered the tone of Huntly’s voice. Angry, she thought, at her perceived rejection. Emmagene didn’t care for it in the least. Because—
A boom sounded, so loud the earth vibrated beneath her feet as a spray of green and gold lit the sky. Startled, she dropped the wine glass and reached to catch it only to trip over the bloody tray of food. A piece of cheese, which honestly hadn’t been a very good cheddar, had become wedged under the heel of her slipper. She slipped, falling backward toward the dark, wooded slope of the hill.
“Damn it.” Huntly didn’t even sit up, only leaned over and reached for her ankle.
Agentlemanwould have stood and come to her aid. She fell over his stretched legs and started to tumble down the incline, Huntly rolling with her and refusing to let go of her ankle.
Emmagene kicked out at his hand. “Let go of me.” Her skirt was riding up her thighs in a most embarrassing manner.
Huntly grunted but didn’t release her, tumbling down the embankment with her. Bits of dirt, sticks, and leaves caught at her hair and skirts as she and Huntly fell. She heard the rip as one of her petticoats caught on something. His grip tightened as they came to the bottom, Huntly lifting her so that when they finally rolled to a stop, it was he who fell against a boulder, its shadowy outline barely visible, bordering the stream, and not Emmagene.
He let out a grunt as he hit the stone, pulling her to him so Emmagene would be cushioned by his body and not sprawl on the ground. Huntly’s breath was heavy, mingling with her own. The fireworks went on bursting brilliantly above their heads. It could take hours before anyone realized they’d gone missing.
Emmagene curled her fingers around the lapels of his coat and pressed her forehead to the warmth of his chest, feeling his arms tighten around her. Her heart beat wildly as much from the sudden fall down the hill as Huntly, who was holding her as if he was afraid she might break.
“Are you hurt, Emmie?”
In answer, she lifted her chin and found his mouth in the dark.
Chapter Eight
Sweet Jesus.
Of all the things Henry had thought might happen after sipping whiskey with Miss Stitch, tumbling down a hillside filled with bramble while fireworks were going off hadn’t been one of them. When she’d fallen, slipping on a piece of tasteless cheddar, Henry had acted instinctively and grabbed her ankle.
True to form, Miss Stitch had kicked him.
He’d briefly considered letting her travel down the incline without him, before following her down the hill.
Henry pulled her into the circle of his arms as they rolled, knowing of the rocky outcroppings at the edge of the ravine and wanting to protect her. Her forehead had been pressed against his chest, her spare curves molded to his much larger body. Her hair had come loose, the silken strands spraying over his chin and shoulders. When he’d hit the rocks, his nose had fallen against the top of her head, filling his nostrils with honeysuckle.
Now the lush line of her mouth was brushing his, carefully as if he would refuse her. She pulled gently on the edges of his coat, holding him to her.
Henry groaned, pressing her mouth more fully to his own, tasting the whiskey they’d shared on her lips. She was half sprawled on top of him, and now her hips writhed seductively against his, an age-old call for Henry to do more than kiss her.
He pushed her more closely against the rapidly hardening length of his cock, undeterred by the fall down the hill or the boulder digging into his back. He moved his mouth to the corner of her lips, savoring the sound she made as he found the sensitive skin of her neck. Hand roaming up her spine, he wrapped his fingers around the base of her neck, holding her in place while he nipped along the line of her chin and jaw.
