Page 58 of Thief of the Ton
To the unobservant, she was merely a young lady who’d committed afaux pasin retrieving a dropped item rather than expecting a servant to pick it up for her. But her lack of decorum most likely came from her upbringing in poverty.
His conscience pricked at him. Had his father been instrumental in Lord de Grande’s downfall? Peregrine had written to Father for an explanation, but he’d not replied. Languishing in Italy with an array of harlots to service his whims, Father was all too fond of the life of idle luxury to spare a thought for his son. Or his estate, for that matter. And Peregrine had no intention of spending a single day in that bloody mausoleum.
Would she direct her hatred at him when she discovered whose son he was? He smiled at the irony. He loathed the old bastard as much as she—perhaps more. But there was no reason to tell her whose son he was—not unless they reached a level of intimacy that would require an introduction.
Intimacy…
His cock twitched in his breeches at the notion of intimacies shared with her—that divine, lithe body pressed against his…
He closed his eyes to relish the memory of her body’s response when they’d danced at Lady Houghton’s ball. Her skin had flushed a delicate shade of rose as the first sign of arousal, then her body bloomed as she’d arched her back. And when he lowered his gaze, he’d almost spent in his breeches at the swell of her breasts straining against her neckline, below which two delectable little peaks poked insistently against the fabric, as if to offer their sweetness to him.
Each night since, he’d gone to sleep stroking his length at the memory of her arousal. What could be more alluring than an innocent whose body was ready—eager—for him, though her mind was still unaware? How he longed to awaken her to the pleasures they could share!
No longer his little Guinevere, she was a woman—all woman.
Lavinia…
At that moment, she glanced up. Her lips curved into a smile of satisfaction. Her hair in disarray, cheeks flushed, she looked like a pagan goddess.
How might she look after a bout of lovemaking, her hair spread about the pillow while she lay in his bed—naked, pliant, and willing?
His manhood surged against his breeches, and he drew in a sharp breath, then lowered his hand to ease the ache…
“Sir?”
Bloody hell!
He removed his hand and whirled around. “Damn it, Lawson—must you creep around like a thief in the night?”
The red-faced valet stood in the doorway, holding aloft a dark green riding jacket. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I wondered if you still intended to take a ride before dinner?”
Peregrine opened his mouth to refuse, then closed it again. A good, hard ride, and a dose of fresh air, was the perfect remedy to cool his ardor.
“Yes, thank you, Lawson,” he replied.
“Very good, sir—I’ve set out your boots.”
Lawson was a good enough chap. Ordinarily, his ability to move about unheard was to be lauded—no man wanted a valet who crashed about the place. But the last thing one wanted was his valet to catch him stroking himself while whispering the name of the woman he wanted to fuck.
But Lavinia de Grande was not merely a woman to be fucked. The childhood friend from his memories had blossomed into an alluring, intelligent young woman.
And one with whom he was in danger of falling in love.
*
Peregrine spurred hismount into a canter and veered into the woods at the edge of the estate, concentrating on retaining his seat, rather than letting his mind wander toward the delectable Miss de Grande.
The sunlight, broken by the trees, formed a dappled pattern on the ground, highlighting the occasional frond of bracken. He reined his mount to a halt, then closed his eyes, relishing the voice of the forest—the rush of the wind in the trees, the birdsong, and the occasional scuffle of a creature in the undergrowth. His horse gave a small snort, and he patted the animal’s mane.
“Steady there, Poseidon. I only want to enjoy the peace and quiet for a moment. Can you understand that?”
The horse dipped its head up and down, as if in acknowledgement.
Peregrine tipped his head toward the sunlight and smiled at the gentle warmth caressing his face. If only he could remain here all afternoon! Why the world preferred to amass in drawing rooms to indulge in tea and gossip, or across the countryside, shooting every bird in their path, when such joy could be had in the simple pleasure of feeling the sun on one’s face, he’d never understand. Society was merely a collection of men and women who believed themselves superior to the rest of the world by virtue of their birth, and who sought to attract a partner by selling their lineage to the highest bidder.
When he found a wife, he wouldn’t want some brittle debutante desperate for a title. He wanted a woman to match his soul, someone who cared nothing for Society and its rules—a free spirit who challenged him on her own terms.
He stiffened as a voice drifted across the breeze.
