The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel by Stefanie Sloane Page A

Claire took seats near the edge of the grassy lawn.
    “Come now, I’ve seen you play. Those men could not hold a candle to your skill with a bat.”
    Sarah pinned Claire with a testy glare. “Not that I’ll be allowed to play.”
    Claire smiled at the bevy of ladies as they took their seats before turning her attention back to Sarah. “The game today has something to do with a school rivalry. Which”—she lowered her voice to a confidential murmur—”if you ask me is complete poppycock. But after yesterday’s failed hunt I could hardly tell my husband no.”
    “Why,” Sarah began through gritted teeth, “must their pride be tied to such ridiculous pursuits?”
    “Because they are men, my dear. Now, smile and pretend to enjoy yourself. This is one of but three activities that you agreed to, remember?”
    “I agreed to archery, not cricket,” Sarah reminded Claire, watching with lukewarm interest as the men took the field.
    Sarah searched the crowd of men for Lord Weston, but could not find him.
    “Lady Bennington, Miss Tisdale.” The deep male voice was polite, a thread of amusement faintly discernible.
    Disoriented, Sarah wondered for a moment where the voice, so rich in tone and seductive in manner, couldhave come from. Her gaze quickly cataloged the men on the field for a second time, but failed to find him.
    “Lord Weston,” Claire answered politely, looking across and slightly behind Sarah.
    Sarah turned slowly, finding a pair of well-muscled thighs clothed in fawn-colored breeches directly in her line of sight. Her gaze continued upward, noting a coat of dark blue superfine and a white linen shirt covering what she could now state with conviction to be a granite-hard chest. And finally, her gaze reached his tanned face and those deep green eyes that turned nearly black when he was aroused.
    She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “Why are you not on the field, my lord?”
    Claire coughed and jabbed her in the ribs with an elbow.
    Lord Weston settled into the chair next to Sarah, sprawling negligently and allowing a footman to place a stool beneath his feet. “I’m afraid yesterday’s hunt proved too strenuous for my leg.”
    Try as she might, Sarah could think of nothing but when the expertly formed limb pressed deliciously against her own. “Were you shot? A duel perhaps?” she blurted out.
    Claire’s elbow landed a second blow. Sarah couldn’t suppress a wince but found if she continued to speak, she didn’t have time to worry about what Lord Weston might be thinking.
    “I’m sorry,” Sarah offered halfheartedly for Claire’s benefit. “I should not inquire after your—”
    Lord Weston laid his hand on the arm of her chair, perilously close to Sarah’s bare arm. “I applaud your curiosity, though I fear the truth would only bore you. So yes, let us say it was a duel of great consequence.”
    Sarah turned to give Claire a smug smile, then examined Weston’s words more closely. Curiosity? What sortof curiosity might he be referring to? Intellectual? Physical?
    Bugger
.
    The entire situation was distressing indeed. Sarah didn’t know whether to be thrilled at his presence, as her body seemed inclined to be, or terrified.
    “Who is winning?” she rattled off, her vision blurring as she attempted to watch the field.
    Claire beamed. “Gregory’s team.”
    Lord Weston shifted in his chair. “Miss Tisdale, I thought to call upon you and your family tomorrow afternoon. Will you be at home?”
    Sarah looked at Claire pleadingly. She wanted to ask just what his intentions were, but knew that, well, she’d make a fool of herself if she did.
    It was much more complicated than she’d ever imagined—had she
ever
before considered the problem. One simply could not go about kissing men and expect that all would be just as it had been before.
    Or maybe one could. Perhaps if she simply took Lord Weston aside and asked his intentions, all would be made clear.
    Or she could rely on her baser