ear, and then finding its mark upon the center of the target.
“Bloody hell,” Richard muttered. And as shocked gasps went up amongst the duke’s guests, Richard launched himself at Gemma and took her down, once more. He brought their bodies in line with a towering oak.
She gasped. “What are you—?”
He glowered her into silence. “Unless you care to be discovered alone in my company,” with nothing but ruin facing them, “by every last lord and lady gathered who are now trying to determine the whereabouts of the person who launched that goddamn arrow, then I suggest you remain quiet, madam,” he said tightly against her ear.
The color leeched from her cream white cheeks. He clenched his jaw. He should hardly be offended that the lady was so loath to the possibility of being discovered with him. They were, after all, almost strangers, with her having marital aspirations trained on Westfield. So why did annoyance tighten his belly?
Thrusting aside the befuddled musings, he leaned his head around slightly. Ladies and gentlemen surveyed the area for the shooter of that mystery arrow.
“Was I seen?” she whispered and her warm breath fanned his cheek.
Once again, his body responded to her slender form flush against his. His mouth went dry…and he made the mistake of looking at her.
Healthy color now restored to her face, Gemma stared boldly at his mouth. Surely she was thinking of Westfield and the potential risk to her name. Should they be discovered, there would be no recourse for either of them, except marriage. The thought should bloody well terrify him. He’d long ago lost his heart to another; a young woman he’d called friend, whom he’d eventually come to crave more from.
But in all his imaginings of Eloise, his body had never felt— this .
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Gemma’s whisper danced in the air between them.
Richard swallowed reflexively. “And how am I looking at you?” As though I want to touch my lips to your flushed, heated skin and explore your body in every way, unlocking the secrets within.
“As though I’m a plate of those kippers you so enjoy.”
Or like that.
There should be humor at the likening. There should be amusement and, at the very least, a reminder of their innocent exchange in the breakfast room when they’d sparred and battled as almost enemies. “Ah, those kippers you so despise.”
Gemma ran her gaze over his face “Do you know, Richard? I do believe you are correct.” She wetted her lips and he followed that innocent, and yet wholly erotic, movement with his gaze. “I unfairly judged those kippers. I do not believe they are quite so horrible, after all.”
He froze, as her meaning shifted into focus.
She reached between them and brushed a strand of hair behind his ear. “And I think those kippers will make someone a fine meal .” Just not me…
Of course, it wouldn’t be Richard. Wordlessly, he looked off to the paragon in the distance. Eloise had chosen Lucien. Just as Gemma had chosen Westfield. As the second son of a viscount, Richard had never been, nor would he ever be, the man women chose to give their hearts to.
He stilled, suspended by the suffocating fear of his ponderings. He did not want Gemma Reed’s love. She was nothing more than a woman he’d had but five exchanges with. Granted there had been two kisses there, as well. But still, five exchanges all the same.
Richard rolled onto his back, putting much needed space between them. Fishing around the front of his jacket he pulled out his flask and took a long swallow. A gentle breeze stirred the branches overhead and he stared at the dancing green leaves. “So why, Westfield?”
For a long moment, she said nothing, and he angled his head slightly, thinking she’d either failed to hear that inquiry, or ignored him.
Gemma lay on her back beside him, staring at the same canopy overhead. She chewed at her lower lip contemplatively.
“Beyond the terrier-like
“Bloody hell,” Richard muttered. And as shocked gasps went up amongst the duke’s guests, Richard launched himself at Gemma and took her down, once more. He brought their bodies in line with a towering oak.
She gasped. “What are you—?”
He glowered her into silence. “Unless you care to be discovered alone in my company,” with nothing but ruin facing them, “by every last lord and lady gathered who are now trying to determine the whereabouts of the person who launched that goddamn arrow, then I suggest you remain quiet, madam,” he said tightly against her ear.
The color leeched from her cream white cheeks. He clenched his jaw. He should hardly be offended that the lady was so loath to the possibility of being discovered with him. They were, after all, almost strangers, with her having marital aspirations trained on Westfield. So why did annoyance tighten his belly?
Thrusting aside the befuddled musings, he leaned his head around slightly. Ladies and gentlemen surveyed the area for the shooter of that mystery arrow.
“Was I seen?” she whispered and her warm breath fanned his cheek.
Once again, his body responded to her slender form flush against his. His mouth went dry…and he made the mistake of looking at her.
Healthy color now restored to her face, Gemma stared boldly at his mouth. Surely she was thinking of Westfield and the potential risk to her name. Should they be discovered, there would be no recourse for either of them, except marriage. The thought should bloody well terrify him. He’d long ago lost his heart to another; a young woman he’d called friend, whom he’d eventually come to crave more from.
But in all his imaginings of Eloise, his body had never felt— this .
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Gemma’s whisper danced in the air between them.
Richard swallowed reflexively. “And how am I looking at you?” As though I want to touch my lips to your flushed, heated skin and explore your body in every way, unlocking the secrets within.
“As though I’m a plate of those kippers you so enjoy.”
Or like that.
There should be humor at the likening. There should be amusement and, at the very least, a reminder of their innocent exchange in the breakfast room when they’d sparred and battled as almost enemies. “Ah, those kippers you so despise.”
Gemma ran her gaze over his face “Do you know, Richard? I do believe you are correct.” She wetted her lips and he followed that innocent, and yet wholly erotic, movement with his gaze. “I unfairly judged those kippers. I do not believe they are quite so horrible, after all.”
He froze, as her meaning shifted into focus.
She reached between them and brushed a strand of hair behind his ear. “And I think those kippers will make someone a fine meal .” Just not me…
Of course, it wouldn’t be Richard. Wordlessly, he looked off to the paragon in the distance. Eloise had chosen Lucien. Just as Gemma had chosen Westfield. As the second son of a viscount, Richard had never been, nor would he ever be, the man women chose to give their hearts to.
He stilled, suspended by the suffocating fear of his ponderings. He did not want Gemma Reed’s love. She was nothing more than a woman he’d had but five exchanges with. Granted there had been two kisses there, as well. But still, five exchanges all the same.
Richard rolled onto his back, putting much needed space between them. Fishing around the front of his jacket he pulled out his flask and took a long swallow. A gentle breeze stirred the branches overhead and he stared at the dancing green leaves. “So why, Westfield?”
For a long moment, she said nothing, and he angled his head slightly, thinking she’d either failed to hear that inquiry, or ignored him.
Gemma lay on her back beside him, staring at the same canopy overhead. She chewed at her lower lip contemplatively.
“Beyond the terrier-like
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