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Authors: Mary Balogh
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then, just when she had been about to scurry away from him, she had conceived the grand idea of winning the wager right there and then, almost before it had been made.
Just
to prove to herself that she could do it. Right from the first moment she had had no intention of dashing back to the house after the hour was over to claim her prize. She did not need the prize or the envy of her fellow-conspirators. It was just that she was at the nasty age of twenty-nine, and all the young ladies, almost without exception, had looked on her with pity and scorn as if she were positively
ancient
.
She still could not quite believe she had done it—and that he had agreed to accompany her.
And
that, even on the hill, when she had been assaulted by conscience and had given him a decent chance to escape, he had chosen to continue on the way with her.
She was enormously glad the hour was over. A more toplofty, chilling man she had never known. He had talked of Lindsey Hall and his other properties, and he had talked of his brothers and sisters and nephews and nieces without a single glimmer of emotion. And then he had spoken scathingly of love when she had asked him about it.
If the full truth were told, she would have to admit that she did find him fascinating in a shivery sort of way. And he did have a splendid profile—and a physique that more than matched it. He ought to be cast in marble or bronze, she thought, and set atop a lofty column at the end of some avenue in the park at his principal seat so that future generations of Bedwyns could gaze at him in admiration and awe.
The Duke of Bewcastle was a handsome man and easy on the eyes.
She stopped suddenly in the middle of her small room and frowned. No, that was not his appeal. Oscar had been a handsome man—quite breathtakingly so, in fact. It was his looks that had bowled her right off her feet and right out of her senses. She had been a typically foolish girl nine years ago. Looks had been everything. One glance at him and she had been head over ears in love. Only his looks had mattered. She had been quite unawakened to any other appeal he might or might not have had.
But she was older now. She was awakened, knowledgeable. She was a mature woman.
The Duke of Bewcastle was definitely handsome in his cold, austere way. But he had something else beyond that.
He was sexually appealing.
The very thought, verbalized in her mind, set her breasts to tightening uncomfortably and her inner passage and thighs to aching.
How very embarrassing.
And alarming.
He was a dangerous man indeed, though not perhaps in any obvious way. He had not exactly tried to have his wicked way with her out there in the woods, after all, had he? The very thought was ludicrous. He had not even tried to charm her—even more ridiculous. He had not even cracked a smile the whole time.
But, even so, every cell in her body had pulsed with sexual awareness while she had walked with him.
She must have windmills in her head, she thought, giving herself a firm mental shake as she sat down before her dressing table mirror, to be feeling a sexual attraction to the Duke of Bewcastle, who could be placed bodily atop that lofty column at the end of that avenue in the park at Lindsey Hall and passed off as a marble statue without anyone’s ever knowing any different.
And then she slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a shriek. Windmills
in
her head? She looked very much as if windmills had been busy
on
her head. Her hair was in a wild, tangled bush about her head. And her cheeks were like two shiny, rosy red apples after being exposed to the wind. Her nose was as bright as a cherry.
Heavenly days! The man must be made of marble, all funning aside, if he had been able to look at her like this without breaking out into great guffaws of mirth.
While her cells had been merrily pulsing away with sexual attraction, his must have been cringing with distaste.
Mortified—and far too late—she grabbed her
Just
to prove to herself that she could do it. Right from the first moment she had had no intention of dashing back to the house after the hour was over to claim her prize. She did not need the prize or the envy of her fellow-conspirators. It was just that she was at the nasty age of twenty-nine, and all the young ladies, almost without exception, had looked on her with pity and scorn as if she were positively
ancient
.
She still could not quite believe she had done it—and that he had agreed to accompany her.
And
that, even on the hill, when she had been assaulted by conscience and had given him a decent chance to escape, he had chosen to continue on the way with her.
She was enormously glad the hour was over. A more toplofty, chilling man she had never known. He had talked of Lindsey Hall and his other properties, and he had talked of his brothers and sisters and nephews and nieces without a single glimmer of emotion. And then he had spoken scathingly of love when she had asked him about it.
If the full truth were told, she would have to admit that she did find him fascinating in a shivery sort of way. And he did have a splendid profile—and a physique that more than matched it. He ought to be cast in marble or bronze, she thought, and set atop a lofty column at the end of some avenue in the park at his principal seat so that future generations of Bedwyns could gaze at him in admiration and awe.
The Duke of Bewcastle was a handsome man and easy on the eyes.
She stopped suddenly in the middle of her small room and frowned. No, that was not his appeal. Oscar had been a handsome man—quite breathtakingly so, in fact. It was his looks that had bowled her right off her feet and right out of her senses. She had been a typically foolish girl nine years ago. Looks had been everything. One glance at him and she had been head over ears in love. Only his looks had mattered. She had been quite unawakened to any other appeal he might or might not have had.
But she was older now. She was awakened, knowledgeable. She was a mature woman.
The Duke of Bewcastle was definitely handsome in his cold, austere way. But he had something else beyond that.
He was sexually appealing.
The very thought, verbalized in her mind, set her breasts to tightening uncomfortably and her inner passage and thighs to aching.
How very embarrassing.
And alarming.
He was a dangerous man indeed, though not perhaps in any obvious way. He had not exactly tried to have his wicked way with her out there in the woods, after all, had he? The very thought was ludicrous. He had not even tried to charm her—even more ridiculous. He had not even cracked a smile the whole time.
But, even so, every cell in her body had pulsed with sexual awareness while she had walked with him.
She must have windmills in her head, she thought, giving herself a firm mental shake as she sat down before her dressing table mirror, to be feeling a sexual attraction to the Duke of Bewcastle, who could be placed bodily atop that lofty column at the end of that avenue in the park at Lindsey Hall and passed off as a marble statue without anyone’s ever knowing any different.
And then she slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a shriek. Windmills
in
her head? She looked very much as if windmills had been busy
on
her head. Her hair was in a wild, tangled bush about her head. And her cheeks were like two shiny, rosy red apples after being exposed to the wind. Her nose was as bright as a cherry.
Heavenly days! The man must be made of marble, all funning aside, if he had been able to look at her like this without breaking out into great guffaws of mirth.
While her cells had been merrily pulsing away with sexual attraction, his must have been cringing with distaste.
Mortified—and far too late—she grabbed her
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