Page 2 of Harpy of the Ton
She approached the window, her pulse thickening.
Not completely naked—merely shirtless. His broad male torso, bronzed by the sun, was in sharp contrast to her own pale skin, protected by layers of lace, her parasol, and Aunt Kathleen’s instructions that tanned skin was a sign of savagery.
And he exuded savagery—with a body toned through a lifetime of toil and rough, broad hands. The muscles of his torso rippled as he drove the shovel into the ground in a smooth, repetitive motion. Then he stopped and picked up a shrub with one hand, as if it weighed no more than her parasol, and placed it in position. Then he began piling earth around the base of the shrub, securing it in place.
He stepped back to admire his handiwork, then turned toward the window. His face was strong featured—a nose bearing a slight kink, full, sensual lips, and clear, slate-gray eyes. His chest could have been sculpted by Michelangelo himself. Thick muscles nestled in pairs, covered with a dusting of dirty blond hair that grew denser lower down, leading toward his waist, where his breeches fit his form like a second skin, clinging to his thigh muscles. And below his belt…
Oh my…
The material of his breeches stretched over a thick bulge below his waist.
Slickness formed on her palms, and she tightened her grip on her parasol, drawing in a sharp breath to dissipate the fog in her mind. But she couldn’t temper the lick of desire in her belly—the sensation she couldn’t fathom, other than to recognize its wickedness.
It was a sensation she’d experienced only once, when she’d come across a stallion rutting a mare in a stable yard. The beast had needed little effort to subdue the female before mounting her, thrusting forward with deep, primal grunts, the sheen of its pelt rippling with each movement while it drove into the mare, impelled by the purest of needs.
The need to mate.
She’d hidden then, as she hid now, unable to avert her gaze, her senses overpowered by the scent of beast and straw—and the thick, sharp scent of mating that had intensified when the animal reached completion.
She placed her hand at her throat, where her skin burned.
How hot it was! And not just inside. Sweat glistened on the man’s skin as he moved and beaded at the ends of his hair, the occasional droplet splashing onto this chest.
The man plucked a cloth from his breeches pocket, wiped it on his brow, then tied it around his neck. He stooped to pick something up—a bottle, which he held to his lips, his throat pulsing as he drank greedily and savagely. Then he tipped his head back and poured the rest of the contents over his head. Liquid ran over his face and down his chest, forming rivulets, trailing a path across each pair of muscles until it disappeared beneath his waistband.
He shook his head from side to side, and droplets flew from his hair, forming an arc in the air, glinting in the sunlight before dispersing. Her lips grew dry, and she flicked her tongue out to moisten them.
He reached for his belt and gave it a tug. Arabella let out a small cry as the material of his breeches shifted over the bulge at the center.
Then he glanced toward the window, and she shrank back.
Surely he’d not heard her?
Footsteps approached, and her gut twisted with apprehension. Heavens—hehadheard!
But the footsteps came from inside, their rhythm ungainly and overly familiar.
The passion that had been coursing through her veins moments earlier shriveled and died as she turned to face—him.
Her betrothed.
“Thereyou are, my dear. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Even his voice was thick and fleshy, its nasal whine reminiscent of a nasty schoolboy who tortured his subordinates for nothing more than puerile satisfaction.
But he was a duke.The Duke of Dunton—and, by virtue of his title, one of Society’s most desirable catches. Arabella had reigned triumphant over her rivals in securing her place as his future duchess.
Something he never failed to remind her of.
She suppressed a shudder as he drew near and thrust his fleshy face close to hers. His pale brown eyes gleamed with fervor—a sheen she’d come to associate with the stench of harlots. But if smothering himself in doxies kept him from foisting his attentions on her, so much the better. Her gain was their loss.
He moved to kiss her, lips parting in expectation. She held her breath to avoid the assault of his breath on her senses, and stepped back.
“I see the work on the garden has begun,” she said, gesturing toward the window. “It’s most generous of you to indulge me.”
He glanced at the window, his brow furrowing in confusion. Then he nodded.
“The garden, yes. Exactly so—nothing’s too much for my future duchess.” He gestured around the hallway, sweeping hisarm in a large, imperious arc. “Now I have the means, I’ll soon restore the honor attached to my name.”
