A Most Sinful Proposal (The Husband Hunters Club 2)

Why did everything suddenly seem so complicated? Why couldn’t George have been waiting to greet her when she arrived? If he’d been here she wouldn’t have noticed Valentine and she wouldn’t be having these thoughts about him. Intensely physical thoughts.

There was a definite spark between them. Perhaps their expedition tomorrow would give her a chance to practice her feminine wiles on him. In preparation for her hunting of George, she hurriedly reminded herself. A rehearsal. Because, of course, George was the one she planned to marry.

Marissa closed her eyes, smiling, allowing her imagination free reign. She pictured herself touching George, kissing him, rolling naked with him across a vast bed.

She began to giggle.

That was the trouble with George, it was impossible to imagine herself being serious in his company.

She closed her eyes again and suddenly it was Valentine with her on the vast bed. She was no longer giggling, in fact she felt breathless and excited.

Shaking off the fantasy, she blew out the candle and shimmied under the covers.

George was the man for her, she was sure of it, and as soon as he returned to Abbey Thorne Manor she would persuade him of it, too.

Chapter 6

Montfitchet, according to Valentine’s copy of Guidebook to Surrey, was named for the Montfitchet family who had owned it from Norman times. Thus far it was the only village he could find with any connection to the men who went to the Crusades with Richard de Fevre, but even then the information was infuriatingly sparse.

“Perhaps the vicar of Montfitchet will know something of the history of the family,” Valentine said, as they made their way through a leafy tunnel of elm trees, their branches meeting above the road as if they were holding hands.

“What you need is a scholar.” Marissa rode at his side on the well mannered mare he had provided for her. Her grandmother and Jasper were in the carriage some way behind, preferring a more leisurely mode of transport. “Someone who has studied the land-owning families of Surrey in the twelfth century and knows what became of them.”

“You’re right,” Valentine said. His own horse danced restlessly, taking exception to a patch of dappled sunlight. He tightened the reins. “I have a friend in London who may be able to help. I’ll write to him.”

Valentine had spent a restless night. Von Hautt’s appearance was unsettling and he couldn’t help but wonder what the villain was up to. The thought of him anywhere near Marissa made his hands bunch into fists as, he told himself, his protective instincts came to the fore. More likely and less chivalrously, he admitted wryly, he was like a dog, forbidden to touch the succulent morsel but at the same time unwilling to share it with anyone else.

Today she was wearing an emerald green riding outfit, with a jaunty little hat perched on her dark curls. He could barely take his eyes off her. The tightly fitted garment accentuated her narrow waist and the flare of her hips, not to mention the rounded curve of her bosom.

Whenever she mentioned George he had the perverse urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she forgot all about his wretched brother. He wanted her. Yes, that was the trouble. He wanted Marissa Rotherhild all to himself despite knowing it was impossible. A woman like Marissa did not have an affaire; she married. And even if she was willing, Valentine wasn’t. Apart from the question of George, and their incompatibility when it came to botanical pursuits, he had been married once and he wasn’t planning to do it again.

Ten years ago he had believed himself deeply in love but it had turned out badly. Vanessa might be dead, but her poison lived on. No, even if he could, he would not willingly place his head in that yoke again.

Again his gaze slid to Marissa. As if aware of his scrutiny she turned her head and smiled. Just for a moment he read an invitation in her dark eyes, but he knew he must be mistaken. Marissa was an innocent—her talk of love last night had proved that beyond doubt—and she deserved a man without the sort of shadows that blighted Valentine.

Damn it, she deserved someone like George.

Montfitchet village sprawled over the main London road and boasted a coaching inn, a blacksmith, and a shop. It was clear that this was now the hub of the village, and not the church, which was about half a mile away. It stood on a hilltop, a squat building with a blunt steeple that looked as if it had sprouted from the landscape rather than been built. When they reached the lych-gate that led into the churchyard, Jasper and Lady Bethany chose to remain in the carriage.

“Better not overwhelm the poor fellow,” Jasper said, not quite meeting Valentine’s eyes. “You and Miss Rotherhild go and see what you can discover about Sir Wilfred. I’ll stay here and keep Lady B company.”

Irritably, Valentine bit his tongue on the words that sprang to it. Had Jasper forgotten why they were here in Montfitchet or was he really more interested in Lady Bethany? He would have thought the pair of them too old for an affaire. Or was one never too old? He reached to help Marissa down, releasing her the moment her toes touched the ground. Even so, the feel of her trim waist and the scent of her skin remained with him as he ducked beneath the lych-gate and headed up the path between gravestones sprouting like crooked teeth from the green grass.

The church door opened beneath his hand and he stepped into the dim, cool interior. He felt Marissa’s fingers curl about his arm and resisted the urge to shake her off. Predictably her touch caused his pulse to begin to pound. Feverishly.

I really must conquer this ridiculous infatuation, he told himself. Surely a man of my maturity and intelligence can find a way to snuff out the flame? Here he was, annoyed with Jasper for not giving the quest his full attention, while he was behaving in an equally ridiculous fashion.

“Oh look!” Her voice startled him back to the moment. She brushed by him, tugging his arm so that he had no option but to follow her. Set into the floor were two life-sized brass memorials, the images of a knight and his lady. Their features were worn smooth, but Valentine wasn’t the least surprised when they made out the name “Montfitchet” at their feet.

“Do you think it’s Sir Wilfred?” she whispered.

“I don’t know. Possibly.”

“The rose might be close by. Could it be so easy?”

He gave a reluctant smile. “Why are you whispering?”

“I don’t know. Churches always make me feel like whispering.” She smiled back, her head tipped to one side, as though trying to read him. There were smudges under her eyes, as if she had slept as badly as he. The urge to smooth them away, gently, with his fingertip was so strong he began to wonder if he could trust himself.