In Bed with the Duke

Prudence promptly forgot why she’d been irritated with him as she watched him half close his eyes in bliss. When he set about doing something he did it with total concentration. To the exclusion of everything else.

As if to prove her right, the moment he’d wiped the jar completely clean he set it aside on the top bar of the stile they’d just reached and turned to her with a smile.

‘I’ll carry that now,’ he said, holding out his hand for the valise.

She handed it over without a word of protest. What would be the point? And, judging by the twinkle in his eye, he knew exactly what arguments had been going through her head while he’d been breaking his fast.

He tossed the valise over the stile, then stepped up onto the first rung and swung one leg over the top. When he was safely on the other side he leaned back and reached for her hand to help her over. Since she’d just mounted the lower step his movement brought their faces to within inches of each other. And she couldn’t help noticing he had a smear of jam on his lower lip.

‘You have...um...’ she began, reaching out one finger to wipe the jam from his mouth.

He moved really swiftly, catching her hand and stilling it. And looked at her in a considering sort of way, as though wondering what to make of her. Why didn’t he want her touching his face? Well, then, she wouldn’t do so. But when she went to pull her hand back his hold on it tightened. And the look in his eyes went sort of slumberous. And then he pulled her hand right up to his mouth, dipped his head, and sucked her forefinger inside.

He swirled his tongue round her finger and her knees went weak. She pitched forward, bracing herself against the top of the stile with her free hand.

He released her finger from his mouth and looked at her. In a steady sort of way that seemed to dare her to do what she wanted. So she did. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. He tasted of jam. And fresh bread. And outdoors. And man.

She reached for him and clung as hard as she could with the stile between them. And they kissed and kissed and kissed.

When they finished her legs were shaking so much that the stile might as well have been a sheer brick wall. There was no way she was going to be able to get over it.

As though he knew how she felt, Gregory got onto the lower step, leaned over and grasped her round the waist, then lifted her right over as though she weighed next to nothing.

She landed on his side of the stile, breathless and shaky, flush with the solid mass of his body. And yearning for another kiss.

He steadied her, and gently but firmly pushed her away. ‘We need to keep going.’ Then he turned to pick up his valise. ‘Come on,’ he said, holding out his hand to her.

Which filled her with relief. He might have pushed her away, but at least he was prepared to hold her hand. It was like last night. The way he’d turned over, yet kept hold of her hand to let her know he wasn’t rejecting her. So she put her hand in his. And noticed, for the first time, that Mr Grumpy Farmer lived on the prettiest farm she’d ever seen. There were primroses on the banks. Little white clouds scudding across the blue sky. Madge’s stockings were of thick, serviceable cotton which cushioned her feet from her shoes so that they no longer caused her agony with every step. And the scent of green growing things was almost managing to overpower the rather unpleasant odour emanating from Gregory’s general vicinity.

All in all, she didn’t think she’d ever felt quite so happy.

Until, that was, she darted a look up at Gregory’s face. For he didn’t look as though he was wallowing in the memory of strawberry kisses over the stile, or indeed enjoying walking through the countryside in any way at all. He certainly didn’t look as though he was thanking his lucky stars he’d fallen in with a wealthy girl who’d proposed marriage to him the night before.

On the contrary. Gregory looked the way a man might look if he was on his way to the scaffold.

A cold hand squeezed at her stomach.

She’d thought that last night in the barn, when he’d told her about his marriage, it had meant that they were becoming close. Which was why she’d blurted out the suggestion that they should marry. But he hadn’t agreed, had he? Just because he’d kissed her, that didn’t mean he wanted to go as far as marrying her, did it? She’d gone and jumped in with both feet again, as Aunt Charity would say, the way she always did. The way her mother always had.

A man like him couldn’t possibly want a girl like her for a wife, could he? How could she have forgotten that she’d made an exhibition of herself by singing in the market place? Or that she’d very nearly killed him by throwing that bit of rock? Men didn’t generally marry women whose behaviour they couldn’t predict. Let alone women who might accidentally kill them if there were any loose rocks to hand.