Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

She nodded, once, a jerky movement. Lifting her arms, she took the heavy tumble of hair from her shoulders and piled it atop her head. Taking the few hairpins she had remaining, she stabbed them into a careless pompadour.

He loved the way her upraised arms pushed her breasts against the low-cut neckline of her gown. He imagined their shape, soft, round, and heavy for their size, their color a cream contrast to the tan of her complexion. The nipples would be rosy—he examined the color of her lips—no, peach, and plush and sensitive to his touch. He indulged himself by imagining that, rather than putting her hair up, she was taking it down… for him.

Apparently she caught him, for she dipped her knees and leaned down until she caught his gaze. “I’m up here.”

He staggered backward a step. He couldn’t believe she had said such a thing. Never in all his life had a lady of quality noticed—or seemed to notice—his undying devotion to the glory of a woman’s breasts. Now this girl chided him… nay, laughed at him from her glorious amber eyes. Hoarse with need, he said, “I will endeavor to remember the position of your face in reference to your body.”

“Yes, do that.” She finished her impromptu coiffure, and lowered her arms.

“You’ve only met one suitor. Perhaps the others will capture your attention.” Damn them.

“No. I’ve met them all. One’s old. One’s not so old. Both are obnoxious in their own way.”

He didn’t want to be interested, but he couldn’t help himself. “Will there be another one today?”

“Tomorrow.” Gloomily she said, “Mr. Clyde Murray, arriving by post in the afternoon, if I know him.”

“Do you know him?”

“For years. He’s a hunting crony of my father’s. He has five children from two wives, both of whom died from the pure drudgery of living with him. He just…rides over the top of every comment. He never listens to objections. He never permits a conversation. He tells everyone what to think, and he has such an air of…” She faltered.

“An air of what?”

“I rather think he’s cruel. I suspect he strikes out when thwarted.”

Her comments disturbed Harry in more ways than one. “Do you mean …he would beat you?”

Her smile wobbled alarmingly. “That sounds very dramatic, doesn’t it? Maybe not. Probably not. But I don’t relish our meeting tomorrow.”

Before pity and lust drove him to do something absolutely contemptible, he had to send her away. “You should go now.”

She gazed at him as if seeing the weakness in him, and targeted it with uncanny precision. “I have but one suitor a day, and I have most of the day in which to dread the next one. Won’t you distract me?”

Distract her? God, yes, he would love to distract her. In bed, with her hair spread out on a pillow and her body tossing below his.

“We could walk through the garden. You could tell me about your life. We could take tea together…”

“Oh.” Ridiculous to feel disappointed. Ridiculous to say yes. He was dange

rous. It was dangerous to be around him.

True, he had been here for three days and there had been no sign of trouble, but that was no reason to take this female up on her not-so-innocent offer and possibly put her in harm’s way.

On the other hand, how could he resist? “That sounds delightful.” He offered his arm. “Let’s walk.”

Four

The next morning, Harry woke to a brilliant spill of sunshine across his bed and the illogical conviction that today would be both glorious and entertaining—and he hadn’t undergone such a sensation for almost ten years. All his experience had taught him that life was grim, brutish, and short, filled with dishonorable people doing beastly things, usually for profit, sometimes for revenge, sometimes for ideology. Now, in one short day, a funny, rebellious, passionate girl had changed his mind.

For today, at least, he looked forward to every hour.

“Hurry, man,” he urged Dehaan.

“Ya, ya.” Dehaan laid out a costume of black trousers, a light green striped waistcoat, a crisp white shirt, and black boots.

Dehaan, an incurable romantic, had recognized the signs in his master and spent the evening before ironing and polishing. Now he insisted that Harry take the time to don each piece with the care of a dandy. And Harry, whose normal criterion for clothing was that it not bind, did just as Dehaan instructed.

Hurrying down the steps, he made his way up the sloped gravel path to the inn. To his surprise, Jessica wasn’t dining on the porch with the other guests. For a moment, his breath caught in anguish. She hadn’t left, had she? She hadn’t fled in fear of the passion that coiled between them? Then, glancing into the dining room, he saw the back of a blond head, gracefully bent to her plate—and seated with her, a stocky gentleman of fifty years, using his knife and fork with an efficiency that fared ill for the food piled on his plate.