Read Online Bared to the Viscount (The Rites of May Book 1) by Lara Archer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lara Archer
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stables.
Unnatural. Even cruel.
It was far easier to imagine her fighting a bout of fisticuffs in Gentleman Jackson’s saloon, or arguing a bill in the House of Lords. She’d be quite impressive at those ventures, wouldn’t she? Fierce and agile and utterly inexorable both in landing punches and in her line of reasoning. But, alas, neither a boxing match nor a seat in Parliament were within his power to offer her.
He heaved a sigh.
Still...they had done what they had done, and the demands of honor on that score were perfectly clear. Of course, honor also demanded he marry one of the Lawtons.
If only honor permitted bigamy. He could marry both women, and the Lawton girl could serve as viscountess during the day, and Mary could share his bed at night.
Good Lord —that was not an appropriate thought. Appealing, maybe, but not appropriate.
Well, it was Tuesday now, and tomorrow would make a full week since they’d got themselves tangled in those damnable blackberries. They had to resolve this, and they had to resolve it soon.
Which would, of course, be far easier to do if he could get Mary to have a conversation with him.
So now he was skulking about the village green, restless as a schoolboy on the lookout for mischief. Mary had to show her face here sooner or later. Tomorrow was May Day, and she was, not surprisingly, head of the committee tasked with preparing the village festivities.
Men had been working all morning, pounding in the tall post for the May Pole—a huge thing hewn from the trunk of a pine tree more than a hundred years ago and stored in the Merchant’s Hall most of each year.
Ropes were strung between the living trees all around the Green. The last few nights had been unseasonably warm, and everyone hoped the evening dancing might be held outdoors by lantern light rather than up in the stuffy assembly rooms above the Hall.
He turned on his heel for what felt like the nine-hundred-fiftieth time to walk yet again up the path between the school and the church, when at long last, he saw Mary coming, leading a little group of ladies with long, brightly-colored ribbons draped across their outstretched arms. He was a mere ten feet from the May Pole for which those ribbons were intended, so Mary couldn’t possibly evade him now.
He stepped forward, trying to project a polite smile that would communicate to onlookers something like, “I’ve come to speak with Miss Wilkins about a matter of impersonal village business,” rather than, “Please Mary, let me make amends for debauching you the other day.”
Mary caught sight of him and blanched. She stopped dead, causing another lady behind her to plow straight into her back.
But a third lady, Annabel Lawton, did not stop; she weaved her way neatly past the others and swooped right in upon him with a smile of her own—one that said, “Here is the gentleman I intend to snap up in holy matrimony, and I know I will succeed, for no man can resist my personal charms.”
His throat constricted.
Miss Lawton stopped mere inches away from him, batting her soot-black lashes. Her armful of ribbon was held out imploringly, a clear sign that he should relieve her poor, weak, ladylike arms of the awful burden of those thin strips of cloth.
It would be a grave insult to refuse her. “Allow me to assist you with those, please, Miss Lawton,” he said dutifully, and took the ribbons into his own arms.
As he did so, Miss Lawton contrived to brush both his hands with hers, and then blushed prettily and glanced away with a little gasp, as though the contrivance had been entirely his.
Lord .
He had to give her credit for her skill.
With that distraction past, he looked around for Mary—who had already managed to climb a tall step-ladder and was balancing on her tiptoes, using a long stick with a hook on its end to thread the first of her ribbons through the round ring at the top of the May Pole.
The sight of her stretched out up there struck him with erotic
Unnatural. Even cruel.
It was far easier to imagine her fighting a bout of fisticuffs in Gentleman Jackson’s saloon, or arguing a bill in the House of Lords. She’d be quite impressive at those ventures, wouldn’t she? Fierce and agile and utterly inexorable both in landing punches and in her line of reasoning. But, alas, neither a boxing match nor a seat in Parliament were within his power to offer her.
He heaved a sigh.
Still...they had done what they had done, and the demands of honor on that score were perfectly clear. Of course, honor also demanded he marry one of the Lawtons.
If only honor permitted bigamy. He could marry both women, and the Lawton girl could serve as viscountess during the day, and Mary could share his bed at night.
Good Lord —that was not an appropriate thought. Appealing, maybe, but not appropriate.
Well, it was Tuesday now, and tomorrow would make a full week since they’d got themselves tangled in those damnable blackberries. They had to resolve this, and they had to resolve it soon.
Which would, of course, be far easier to do if he could get Mary to have a conversation with him.
So now he was skulking about the village green, restless as a schoolboy on the lookout for mischief. Mary had to show her face here sooner or later. Tomorrow was May Day, and she was, not surprisingly, head of the committee tasked with preparing the village festivities.
Men had been working all morning, pounding in the tall post for the May Pole—a huge thing hewn from the trunk of a pine tree more than a hundred years ago and stored in the Merchant’s Hall most of each year.
Ropes were strung between the living trees all around the Green. The last few nights had been unseasonably warm, and everyone hoped the evening dancing might be held outdoors by lantern light rather than up in the stuffy assembly rooms above the Hall.
He turned on his heel for what felt like the nine-hundred-fiftieth time to walk yet again up the path between the school and the church, when at long last, he saw Mary coming, leading a little group of ladies with long, brightly-colored ribbons draped across their outstretched arms. He was a mere ten feet from the May Pole for which those ribbons were intended, so Mary couldn’t possibly evade him now.
He stepped forward, trying to project a polite smile that would communicate to onlookers something like, “I’ve come to speak with Miss Wilkins about a matter of impersonal village business,” rather than, “Please Mary, let me make amends for debauching you the other day.”
Mary caught sight of him and blanched. She stopped dead, causing another lady behind her to plow straight into her back.
But a third lady, Annabel Lawton, did not stop; she weaved her way neatly past the others and swooped right in upon him with a smile of her own—one that said, “Here is the gentleman I intend to snap up in holy matrimony, and I know I will succeed, for no man can resist my personal charms.”
His throat constricted.
Miss Lawton stopped mere inches away from him, batting her soot-black lashes. Her armful of ribbon was held out imploringly, a clear sign that he should relieve her poor, weak, ladylike arms of the awful burden of those thin strips of cloth.
It would be a grave insult to refuse her. “Allow me to assist you with those, please, Miss Lawton,” he said dutifully, and took the ribbons into his own arms.
As he did so, Miss Lawton contrived to brush both his hands with hers, and then blushed prettily and glanced away with a little gasp, as though the contrivance had been entirely his.
Lord .
He had to give her credit for her skill.
With that distraction past, he looked around for Mary—who had already managed to climb a tall step-ladder and was balancing on her tiptoes, using a long stick with a hook on its end to thread the first of her ribbons through the round ring at the top of the May Pole.
The sight of her stretched out up there struck him with erotic
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