fingers entwined. Black curls peeked out in the open vee of his white shirt.
“To what would you hold on tight…?” she mused.
“In orgasmic flight? Depending on the position, your lovely plump tits, your sweet derriere, your slim ankles…ah, I could go on.”
“You are not helping.” But her quim grew wet at his words, and her heart lurched at the way he teased her. They were strangers, yet making love had somehow made them friends—
“Serpent’s river,” he muttered. “That could be the Serpentine. Which fits with ‘thundering horse.’ I’ve raced horses in Hyde Park. But what about ascend? To go up. To fly. To—”
“Balloon ascension!” Maryanne cried. In London, they had all gone to see one in a park. “Goodness, people are going to make love in a balloon?”
4
T orches burned in a ring, flickering in the summer’s breeze, licking at the dark sky. At this time of night, Hyde Park was quiet, and, of course, at this time of year, many of the haute volée were not in town.
The flames crackled softly, sending a smoky, warm scent into the gently roiling air.
Maryanne gazed upward at the taut ropes illuminated by the soft light. The bottom of the enormous balloon could be seen, gaudily patterned, but the top disappeared into the star-flecked darkness. The woven basket beneath looked precarious and impossibly small.
She faltered. She couldn’t go up in the air in that!
Lord Swansborough’s fingers cupped her elbow. Sandalwood surrounded, tempted. “We appear to be the only couple here.” A soft rumble by her ear, his voice buoyed her courage. Yet they were not really a couple. Not really partners.
“You needn’t have come with me. I could have taken a hackney myself.”
His hand released, then slid around, and he held her the way a man held a dockside tart, with hand locked around her waist, and her body snuggled tight against him.
“You, at least, I can protect, love.” His voice was low yet intense. A deep, dangerous sound.
Did she want his protection? Did she want a partner? Georgiana, her partner in publishing, caused her nothing but trouble—had brought her into this dangerous game. And her mother had once believed Rodesson would stand at her side as the most intimate partner—husband. Her mother had been left to rely on herself.
The torchlight lit up the faces of the men attending the balloon. Red-gold light caught a beaked nose, a hollowed cheek, even the scarring of a man who’d lost an eye. They looked like demons in Hades, drinking and smoking, laughing raunchily in the quiet park.
Was Georgiana here in the park? Had these men seen her?
And below, serpent’s river and thundering horse will hear the roar, the riddle read.
Maryanne stopped, and Swansborough halted with her. His aristocratic face gazed down in concern. Painted by golden firelight, he was utterly breathtaking—his face a sculpture of sharp cheekbones and firm, sensuous lips. Darkly shadowed, his eyes reflected both silver moonlight and bright torchlight.
“Gentlemen usually ride in the early morning, don’t they?” she asked. “Doesn’t that mean we will have to wait? Aren’t there supposed to be thundering horses?”
“We will see. Your madam might already be there.”
“Georgiana is not my madam. She is my…” She could not say partner , not without piquing his interest, prompting questions she didn’t want to answer. “My friend.”
“Friend,” he repeated. His lips lifted in a smile. “And you hesitated a very long time.”
“Why are you not like other drunk gentlemen?” What foxed man would listen so intently to her conversation? What sober man, for that matter? “Any other man would have fallen asleep by now.”
“Well acquainted with drunk men, Verity?” He sounded amused, but with his face in shadow, she couldn’t be certain.
“As most women are.” Which was true. Any woman who spent time around men, even in a country setting, in the most
“To what would you hold on tight…?” she mused.
“In orgasmic flight? Depending on the position, your lovely plump tits, your sweet derriere, your slim ankles…ah, I could go on.”
“You are not helping.” But her quim grew wet at his words, and her heart lurched at the way he teased her. They were strangers, yet making love had somehow made them friends—
“Serpent’s river,” he muttered. “That could be the Serpentine. Which fits with ‘thundering horse.’ I’ve raced horses in Hyde Park. But what about ascend? To go up. To fly. To—”
“Balloon ascension!” Maryanne cried. In London, they had all gone to see one in a park. “Goodness, people are going to make love in a balloon?”
4
T orches burned in a ring, flickering in the summer’s breeze, licking at the dark sky. At this time of night, Hyde Park was quiet, and, of course, at this time of year, many of the haute volée were not in town.
The flames crackled softly, sending a smoky, warm scent into the gently roiling air.
Maryanne gazed upward at the taut ropes illuminated by the soft light. The bottom of the enormous balloon could be seen, gaudily patterned, but the top disappeared into the star-flecked darkness. The woven basket beneath looked precarious and impossibly small.
She faltered. She couldn’t go up in the air in that!
Lord Swansborough’s fingers cupped her elbow. Sandalwood surrounded, tempted. “We appear to be the only couple here.” A soft rumble by her ear, his voice buoyed her courage. Yet they were not really a couple. Not really partners.
“You needn’t have come with me. I could have taken a hackney myself.”
His hand released, then slid around, and he held her the way a man held a dockside tart, with hand locked around her waist, and her body snuggled tight against him.
“You, at least, I can protect, love.” His voice was low yet intense. A deep, dangerous sound.
Did she want his protection? Did she want a partner? Georgiana, her partner in publishing, caused her nothing but trouble—had brought her into this dangerous game. And her mother had once believed Rodesson would stand at her side as the most intimate partner—husband. Her mother had been left to rely on herself.
The torchlight lit up the faces of the men attending the balloon. Red-gold light caught a beaked nose, a hollowed cheek, even the scarring of a man who’d lost an eye. They looked like demons in Hades, drinking and smoking, laughing raunchily in the quiet park.
Was Georgiana here in the park? Had these men seen her?
And below, serpent’s river and thundering horse will hear the roar, the riddle read.
Maryanne stopped, and Swansborough halted with her. His aristocratic face gazed down in concern. Painted by golden firelight, he was utterly breathtaking—his face a sculpture of sharp cheekbones and firm, sensuous lips. Darkly shadowed, his eyes reflected both silver moonlight and bright torchlight.
“Gentlemen usually ride in the early morning, don’t they?” she asked. “Doesn’t that mean we will have to wait? Aren’t there supposed to be thundering horses?”
“We will see. Your madam might already be there.”
“Georgiana is not my madam. She is my…” She could not say partner , not without piquing his interest, prompting questions she didn’t want to answer. “My friend.”
“Friend,” he repeated. His lips lifted in a smile. “And you hesitated a very long time.”
“Why are you not like other drunk gentlemen?” What foxed man would listen so intently to her conversation? What sober man, for that matter? “Any other man would have fallen asleep by now.”
“Well acquainted with drunk men, Verity?” He sounded amused, but with his face in shadow, she couldn’t be certain.
“As most women are.” Which was true. Any woman who spent time around men, even in a country setting, in the most
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