The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler

Twelve

N

o. No. No, my lady.” With a hearty laugh, the new earl Maudsley lined up behind Ginny, so closely it startled her into releasing the arrow from her set bow, sending it skittering in a warbling flight six to eight meters off course. “Let me show you.” His breath touched her ear, and she stepped back quickly in her half boots. It would have been too obvious to stomp his toes with the entire entourage of guests milling about the archery field.

“Forgive my clumsiness, my lord.” She allowed him the one liberty of demonstrating how to hold her bow. The arrow sailed over the target into the trees above. She dropped her arm, offering him a brilliant smile. “I believe I shall stick with dancing, sir.” The catch in her left wrist ached.

He grinned back. “I believe that’s just as well. I understand Griston is hosting such an event this very night. Perhaps you’ll favor me with a waltz?”

“Perhaps,” she murmured, handing off her bow and sack of arrows to a nearby attendant. Maudsley held out his arm. She almost recoiled, then caught herself, and with no other option, she placed her hand tentatively atop it. They strolled across the plush lawn, aiming for the terrace. The cloyingly sweet scent he wore triggered a sneeze.

“I hope you are not coming down with something,” he said, handing over a handkerchief.

She put it to her nose, and its fragrance almost choked her. She detected a combination of blackberry and bay. “The grass, sir.” She longed to cover her nose with her gloved hand, but there was no way to gracefully manage the feat. She sneezed again. “Tell me,” she said in a stuffed tone, “what are your plans now that you are able to take your rightful place as Maudsley’s heir?”

“Certainly you and your daughters are free to remain at the London town home as I mentioned before. Until I meet someone suitable to, er, marry...” From the corner of her eye, she caught the flush that reached to the roots of his hair. “Until such time as I’m required to… er… uh, set up my nursery.”

Ginny couldn’t help herself, she laughed outright. “Duly noted, my lord.” She sneezed again, her eyes watering. They reached the terrace doors, and she handed him his handkerchief then stopped. Brock stood there with his arms crossing his broad chest, a deep scowl on his face. His eyes flicked over her then to her companion.

“Lady Maudsley,” he growled. His glare never wavered from the earl.

Maudsley dropped her arm and stepped away.

Fury rumbled low and fast through Ginny. “That’s enough, Lord Brockway.” Her voice seemed to penetrate, and his eyes shot to hers, rebellion sparking the air between them. She turned to the earl, inclining her head. “I look forward to tonight, sir.” She still couldn’t bring herself to call him by his title.

With a short bow, he darted a knowing, narrowed gaze at Brock, then another at her, before making himself scarce.

Brock heard the latch connect behind him as Maudsley disappeared in the house. He willed his thudding heart to slow, watching Ginny with a wariness he found all too familiar. Letting her see how she disconcerted him would give her the upper hand and was not slated in the royal tennis match in which he and Ginny were engaged. He angled his head in the direction Maudsley vanished, not taking his eyes from her. “What the devil was that about?”

She lifted that defiant chin of hers and sniffed. “If you must know, I promised him a dance.”

Brock grunted. “I suppose a quadrille or country turn about the floor won’t hurt,” he muttered.

“How generous of you,” she said in that lofty tone that never boded well. “It’s a waltz. Not that you have any say in what or with whom I spend my time.” She flounced away in a feminine huff that set his primal instincts in a frenzied whirl of emotion.

Brock reached Ginny before she escaped inside, clamping her hand with his. He tugged her down the terrace steps, nodding at passersby with what he could only hope was a smile that terrify the onlooker. Based on the wide berth he and Ginny were allotted, he’d botched the effort. He took refuge behind a copse of sculpted box trees.

Ginny snatched her hand away, but that only freed Brock’s arms to pull her against him. Before she could tear a strip off his hide, he slanted his mouth over hers. Molded his body to hers. Elicited the sweetest nectar from her kiss. He’d blocked any escape she might attempt. Her arms stole about his neck and clung to him like a lifeline. He pulled his mouth from hers, unable to distinguish whose heartbeat was beating against his chest—hers or his. “You’re not dancing with Maudsley. At least not tonight. We’re leaving with the Kimptons.”

“Tonight?” Her breathlessness fired his blood anew. Her gaze narrowed on him. “What happened?” She gasped. “You found Harlowe, didn’t you?”

He grimaced. “No. He’s disappeared. The dead woman was his nurse.”

She slid to the ground in a pool of soft floral pink poplin. “His nurse. Do you think he’s-he’s—” She didn’t seem able to complete the thought with words. “What will you tell Lorelei?” she whispered.

He knelt on the ground and lifted her chin. “Thankfully, that task is left to Kimpton.” He brushed his lips against hers. “In the meantime, we’re leaving within the hour. Kimpton and I will ride with the outriders.” He rose, tugging her to her feet. He spun her about, touching his lips to the crook of her neck.

“But—”

He gave her a gentle push. “Go. We’re going to do our best to keep our departure quiet.”

After a short hesitation, she nodded then melted inside without a backward look.

Ginny stole into the house through the terrace doors, bringing her face-to-face with Lord Griston himself. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of a single quip to offset the awkwardness surging through her.

“Lady Maudsley,” he said with a slight bow. “Is all well? You appear breathless.”

No doubt her lips were swollen and bright red too. She should count herself lucky her day gown and corset hadn’t been dismantled. “Of course.” She answered with a quick, over-bright smile, but she could feel the heat flooding her face. She smoothed her trembling hands over her skirts and maneuvered about to see if Brock happened to have followed her in. He hadn’t, which shouldn’t have surprised her. Pulse fluttering erratically, she shifted her focus back to Griston’s unreadable censure.

“I trust you are finding the country air agreeable,” he said. “Are you looking forward to tonight’s grand ball?”

The question seemed innocent enough. Still, panic and an overwhelming sense of dread flooded her. Her gaze shot to the terrace doors again. She swallowed hard and resisted swiping her dampened palms down her dress a second time. How the devil was she supposed to answer? No, my lord. It’s just we’re terrified of being strangled in our beds. She had to say something. “Um…”

His implacable features eased into a sheepish smile, disarming her unease a smidge. “Well, as grand as one could attempt for a small country house gathering, I suppose.”

Ginny cleared her throat. “I’m sure it will be a grand ball, my lord.” Her hand fluttered to her neck, where she could feel her heart slamming repetitiously against her palm. She watched as his gaze settled on her hand. Flustered, she pasted on another wide smile and stepped around him. “I find having been out of society for a year takes a toll on me. I was just about to rest a bit before the evening festivities.”

His gaze raked over her with a half smile that didn’t reach his glittering eyes. A quaver of apprehension shot up her spine. If she’d been uncertain of his intentions before, she wasn’t now. She made a mental note to include a lace fiche in her bodice going forward. Whatever the event. “Of course, my lady.” He stepped aside, allowing her just enough room to squeeze past.

The urge to rush out was overwhelming, but Ginny quelled it, managing to sashay, even daring a coy glance over her shoulder. She stepped over the threshold and squelched a shudder at his implacable expression.