The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel by Stefanie Sloane Page B
Authors: Stefanie Sloane
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instincts and attack the man again.
Bugger
.
She stood abruptly, needing to do anything but sit for one more moment.
“Brava, Sarah!” Bennington yelled from across the field, running toward her with cricket bat in hand.
He thrust the bat at her. “I’d thought to call a footman to bat for Weston, but you’ll do splendidly.”
Sarah eyed Bennington then turned to look at Claire and Lord Weston.
She’d bungled her way into ridiculous situations before, but this was a new low. Of course the proper thing was to refuse, though if she agreed she’d have no choicebut to concentrate on hitting the life out of an innocent ball.
It took only a second to choose. She’d take her chances with the bat. “Tell the boys to move back, Bennington. I’m known for my distance hitting.”
“Sarah,” Claire began, but her voice was soon drowned out by applause.
Lord Weston said nothing, simply clapped, a smile making his features even more rakish.
Whether that smile was a reflection of admiration or horror, Sarah could not say.
Nor did she want to.
She gripped the bat with one hand and marched onto the field, walking to the pitch and taking her place.
Mr. Dixon stood stock-still with the ball in his hand, as though he thought to deny her.
“Come, Mr. Dixon, or are you afraid?” Sarah teased.
The men on the field responded with hoots, while the women tutted with satisfaction.
Mr. Dixon looked angry enough to strike someone, but he reined in his pride and prepared to bowl.
Sarah did not doubt that she could hit the ball, having played cricket with Nigel and his friends more times than she could remember.
But she wanted to hit it hard. And far. And she didn’t want to think why.
Mr. Dixon rolled the ball in his hands once, then twice, then took his run up and lobbed the ball toward Sarah with force.
He attempted to deceive Sarah by adding spin to the ball, typical of a leg bowler such as Mr. Dixon.
Sarah waited for the precise moment then swung, the crack of the bat against the ball deafening.
She didn’t bother to look to where it may have landed, but simply picked up the skirts of her floral print muslingown and ran. Ran for her life down the length of the pitch while all around her chaos ensued. Men chased after the ball while women screamed with sheer delight. Bennington, her fellow batsman, shouted with glee as he passed on his way to the opposite end of the pitch.
Sarah rounded the wicket and headed back toward Bennington, skidding to an awkward stop upon reaching the end of the pitch.
“Splendid, Sarah!”
Bennington and the rest of her team gathered around, cheering.
Sarah lost herself for a moment in the pure, unadulterated joy. Laughing, she allowed each man to kiss her hand and may have, in her enthusiasm, even accepted a marriage proposal.
And then she looked across the field to where Lord Weston sat, the same small smile affixed to his face, undecipherable as ever.
She was unique, he had to give the lass that. Marcus hadn’t bothered to entertain thoughts of just what Miss Tisdale might do or say after their brief kiss at Bennington House.
Her surprise at his presence amused him—or, more specifically, pleased him. For once, he had surprised her, rather than the other way around.
And he’d been honest enough. His leg did throb from the prolonged ride yesterday, followed by attending the excellent, if tedious dinner with the rest of the party that evening.
Nothing of interest had come up in the stilted conversations he’d endured during the meal, and God knew Marcus had tried nearly every trick in the book. His reputation as the Errant Earl was getting in the way. Not even when the women left the dining room did talk turnto anything that might lead Marcus to believe the noblemen present were tied to the Orlov emeralds.
Save for Dixon. The man had guardedly underscored what Marcus had already guessed: Sir Arthur loved his brandy so dearly that he’d do almost anything for it.
Marcus
Bugger
.
She stood abruptly, needing to do anything but sit for one more moment.
“Brava, Sarah!” Bennington yelled from across the field, running toward her with cricket bat in hand.
He thrust the bat at her. “I’d thought to call a footman to bat for Weston, but you’ll do splendidly.”
Sarah eyed Bennington then turned to look at Claire and Lord Weston.
She’d bungled her way into ridiculous situations before, but this was a new low. Of course the proper thing was to refuse, though if she agreed she’d have no choicebut to concentrate on hitting the life out of an innocent ball.
It took only a second to choose. She’d take her chances with the bat. “Tell the boys to move back, Bennington. I’m known for my distance hitting.”
“Sarah,” Claire began, but her voice was soon drowned out by applause.
Lord Weston said nothing, simply clapped, a smile making his features even more rakish.
Whether that smile was a reflection of admiration or horror, Sarah could not say.
Nor did she want to.
She gripped the bat with one hand and marched onto the field, walking to the pitch and taking her place.
Mr. Dixon stood stock-still with the ball in his hand, as though he thought to deny her.
“Come, Mr. Dixon, or are you afraid?” Sarah teased.
The men on the field responded with hoots, while the women tutted with satisfaction.
Mr. Dixon looked angry enough to strike someone, but he reined in his pride and prepared to bowl.
Sarah did not doubt that she could hit the ball, having played cricket with Nigel and his friends more times than she could remember.
But she wanted to hit it hard. And far. And she didn’t want to think why.
Mr. Dixon rolled the ball in his hands once, then twice, then took his run up and lobbed the ball toward Sarah with force.
He attempted to deceive Sarah by adding spin to the ball, typical of a leg bowler such as Mr. Dixon.
Sarah waited for the precise moment then swung, the crack of the bat against the ball deafening.
She didn’t bother to look to where it may have landed, but simply picked up the skirts of her floral print muslingown and ran. Ran for her life down the length of the pitch while all around her chaos ensued. Men chased after the ball while women screamed with sheer delight. Bennington, her fellow batsman, shouted with glee as he passed on his way to the opposite end of the pitch.
Sarah rounded the wicket and headed back toward Bennington, skidding to an awkward stop upon reaching the end of the pitch.
“Splendid, Sarah!”
Bennington and the rest of her team gathered around, cheering.
Sarah lost herself for a moment in the pure, unadulterated joy. Laughing, she allowed each man to kiss her hand and may have, in her enthusiasm, even accepted a marriage proposal.
And then she looked across the field to where Lord Weston sat, the same small smile affixed to his face, undecipherable as ever.
She was unique, he had to give the lass that. Marcus hadn’t bothered to entertain thoughts of just what Miss Tisdale might do or say after their brief kiss at Bennington House.
Her surprise at his presence amused him—or, more specifically, pleased him. For once, he had surprised her, rather than the other way around.
And he’d been honest enough. His leg did throb from the prolonged ride yesterday, followed by attending the excellent, if tedious dinner with the rest of the party that evening.
Nothing of interest had come up in the stilted conversations he’d endured during the meal, and God knew Marcus had tried nearly every trick in the book. His reputation as the Errant Earl was getting in the way. Not even when the women left the dining room did talk turnto anything that might lead Marcus to believe the noblemen present were tied to the Orlov emeralds.
Save for Dixon. The man had guardedly underscored what Marcus had already guessed: Sir Arthur loved his brandy so dearly that he’d do almost anything for it.
Marcus
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