“Your riding instructors must be most distressed to hear it.”

She turned on her seat to face him. He felt the press of her knee against his thigh, a gentle nudge that sent a flash of fire through him. If it wasn’t for the watchful maid in the rear, he’d take Celia St. Clair to the nearest privacy he could find.

“What is it you want from me, my lord? A rec

itation of my qualities? My education? What I know and what I don’t know? Shall I confess all my secrets, or do you wish to continue trying to coax them out of me one by one?”

“Have you never heard of discretion?” He slanted her an amused glance, his brow lifted. Angry spots of color glowed on her high cheekbones, made her green eyes seem even brighter.

“Yes, I have, my lord. Have you?”

“Are you speaking of now, or of the night of your cousin’s ball? I seem to recall a lack of discretion on your part, as well.”

It was a telling reply. Her flush deepened and she looked away from him, staring at the tall sycamores that lined the drive. He focused on the horses, set their pace a bit slower as the well-oiled wheels of the curricle took a neat curve in the serpentine lane.

“Please be so good as to take me back to my cousin’s house, my lord.”

He’d been expecting the demand. “You’re not weary of my company already?”

“No. I—feel faint.”

“Ah. I see.”

He guided the curricle to a little-traveled lane that led around the lake the prince regent had insisted upon expanding. Swans floated serenely on the surface and ducks nested among reeds. Sunlight reflected on placid water as smooth as a mirror. A stone bench was screened by bushes.

It took just a moment to set the brake and climb down from the seat, another moment to move to the other side of the curricle and reach in for Celia. She made a sound of protest as he put his hands on her waist and lifted her down. He turned to the wide-eyed maid. “Stay here. If you thrash about, the horses might bolt.”

A muffled shriek was quickly swallowed as she gripped the side of the curricle with both hands and held tightly.

“Really, my lord,” Celia said coldly, “this is not at all necessary.”

“If you’re faint, you should lie down.” He ignored her resistance as he escorted her with an arm behind her back to the stone bench. She moved stiffly. The muscles beneath his hand contracted in a shudder as he slid his arm more securely around her waist.

“Here,” he said with a wicked smile. “Let me help you onto the bench since you’re so faint.”

He lifted her effortlessly into his arms, held her a long moment over the stone seat, then slowly lowered her until she was in a reclining position with her feet on the ground.

“Let go of me at once,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “or I’ll scream for help!”

“From that timid bird of a maid? She’d be of little help to anyone. Be still. If anyone should notice us, why give them something to gossip about? A simple conversation by the lake is much different from an amorous struggle that could so easily be misinterpreted, I’d think.”

“You are a rogue, sir!” Her eyes narrowed angrily, and she sat up, looking up at him as he propped a boot on the seat of the bench and leaned an arm on his knee. It brought him closer to her, a posture meant to intimidate.

“That’s better, Miss St. Clair.”

“How long do you intend to continue this farce?”

“As long as it takes.”

“As long as it takes for what to happen?” She snapped open a fan, then closed it again, ivory spindles a soft click of sound. “If you intend to ravish me, either do it or take me home. I wish an end to this afternoon.”

He slid a finger along the curve of her shoulder up to her jawline, a light caress that summoned a shiver from her.

“I think,” he said softly, “that you’re in a hurry to be ravished. Ah-ah—slapping won’t do anything but annoy me. It certainly won’t stop me if I don’t want to be stopped.”

“A pity my fencing master did not warn me to always carry a saber,” she snapped.

“Fencing? How modern of you. Are you expert, or is it on a level with your riding ability?”

Tags: Rosemary Rogers Romance
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