Read Online The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount by Julia London - Free Book Online
Authors: Julia London
Tags: Romance
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of a lavender gown for Alice.
As her eye moved down the line of firs, she spied, much to her private delight, Lord Summerfield at the lake’s edge.
The feral horses were there.
Summerfield had his back to her, and was standing perfectly still. He was wearing buckskins tucked into a pair of Hessians, and a lawn shirt tucked into the buckskins. He had left off a waistcoat or coat, and by his foot was a hat, tossed carelessly aside.
Phoebe shifted around on the bench to have a better look. His shoulders were broader and stronger than she remembered, his back tapered into powerful hips and thighs. She imagined one of those thighs between her legs and released a quiet sigh of longing before turning the page of her sketchbook. She began to try to capture the image of Summerfield and the horse.
The large red stallion, standing a few yards away from the rest of the herd, ignored Summerfield as he nibbled a fresh patch of grass. Summerfield slowly raised his arm, palm up, and took a step toward the horses. Two of the horses standing nearby shied. But not the red, oh no—he did not even lift his head. Summerfield took another deliberate step, and another, until his hand was just below the horse’s nose. After what seemed hours instead of moments, the horse finally lifted his head and touched his nose to Summerfield’s hand.
Phoebe gasped softly as Summerfield stepped closer, his free hand going to the horse’s mane and neck, stroking it carefully as the horse chewed whatever offering he’d brought him. It was magical—it was almost as if Summerfield and the horse had formed an acquaintance.
And then, as if sensing the acquaintance, another of the wild horses came forward to sniff the viscount. A pregnant mare followed that one. Phoebe was mesmerized by the scene playing out before her—the man standing amid those wild beasts, befriending them so easily. But when a flock of birds suddenly rose from the trees, it startled the herd and the horses cantered away, disappearing over a rise in the land. Summerfield watched the horses until he could no longer see them, then stooped down and picked up his hat and walked away, through a path that led into the woods.
Only then did Phoebe look at her sketch of him standing before the horses. She quickly filled in the morning shadows and trees. It was a very rough sketch, but it captured the magic of…of his physique. The sketch would make a fine painting—the wild man taming the wild horse. Actually, Phoebe could imagine him taming any number of things. Children. Dragons. Women…
She closed her eyes and imagined him stroking her hair as he had stroked the horse’s mane. The image warmed her, made her feel strangely full. She often had such thoughts—more times than she supposed was decent. But she felt like something was building in her, something tall and massive from which it felt she could easily fall. Into what, she didn’t know, but she had a feeling it was something tantalizingly dangerous.
With a sigh, she opened her eyes, shut the book, and started back to the house.
When Phoebe walked through the main entrance, the sound of female voices reached her, and she noticed that someone had moved the flowers. As a pair of carpenters was hard at work near the main stairwell, Phoebe chose a different path to avoid disturbing them and encountering the women. That path led her down a corridor she had not yet seen.
This corridor had obviously been renovated. The paint on the walls was fresh, the carpet new. She walked by an open door. The room inside—a salon, by the look of it—had just been painted, too, judging by the smell of turpentine. But it was the color that caught Phoebe’s eye, and she frowned slightly, pausing to duck her head inside. The paint was the color of pewter, which she thought rather too dull in a room that received very little sun. It was too cold and uninviting for a receiving salon. As no one was within, Phoebe stepped across the threshold to have a
As her eye moved down the line of firs, she spied, much to her private delight, Lord Summerfield at the lake’s edge.
The feral horses were there.
Summerfield had his back to her, and was standing perfectly still. He was wearing buckskins tucked into a pair of Hessians, and a lawn shirt tucked into the buckskins. He had left off a waistcoat or coat, and by his foot was a hat, tossed carelessly aside.
Phoebe shifted around on the bench to have a better look. His shoulders were broader and stronger than she remembered, his back tapered into powerful hips and thighs. She imagined one of those thighs between her legs and released a quiet sigh of longing before turning the page of her sketchbook. She began to try to capture the image of Summerfield and the horse.
The large red stallion, standing a few yards away from the rest of the herd, ignored Summerfield as he nibbled a fresh patch of grass. Summerfield slowly raised his arm, palm up, and took a step toward the horses. Two of the horses standing nearby shied. But not the red, oh no—he did not even lift his head. Summerfield took another deliberate step, and another, until his hand was just below the horse’s nose. After what seemed hours instead of moments, the horse finally lifted his head and touched his nose to Summerfield’s hand.
Phoebe gasped softly as Summerfield stepped closer, his free hand going to the horse’s mane and neck, stroking it carefully as the horse chewed whatever offering he’d brought him. It was magical—it was almost as if Summerfield and the horse had formed an acquaintance.
And then, as if sensing the acquaintance, another of the wild horses came forward to sniff the viscount. A pregnant mare followed that one. Phoebe was mesmerized by the scene playing out before her—the man standing amid those wild beasts, befriending them so easily. But when a flock of birds suddenly rose from the trees, it startled the herd and the horses cantered away, disappearing over a rise in the land. Summerfield watched the horses until he could no longer see them, then stooped down and picked up his hat and walked away, through a path that led into the woods.
Only then did Phoebe look at her sketch of him standing before the horses. She quickly filled in the morning shadows and trees. It was a very rough sketch, but it captured the magic of…of his physique. The sketch would make a fine painting—the wild man taming the wild horse. Actually, Phoebe could imagine him taming any number of things. Children. Dragons. Women…
She closed her eyes and imagined him stroking her hair as he had stroked the horse’s mane. The image warmed her, made her feel strangely full. She often had such thoughts—more times than she supposed was decent. But she felt like something was building in her, something tall and massive from which it felt she could easily fall. Into what, she didn’t know, but she had a feeling it was something tantalizingly dangerous.
With a sigh, she opened her eyes, shut the book, and started back to the house.
When Phoebe walked through the main entrance, the sound of female voices reached her, and she noticed that someone had moved the flowers. As a pair of carpenters was hard at work near the main stairwell, Phoebe chose a different path to avoid disturbing them and encountering the women. That path led her down a corridor she had not yet seen.
This corridor had obviously been renovated. The paint on the walls was fresh, the carpet new. She walked by an open door. The room inside—a salon, by the look of it—had just been painted, too, judging by the smell of turpentine. But it was the color that caught Phoebe’s eye, and she frowned slightly, pausing to duck her head inside. The paint was the color of pewter, which she thought rather too dull in a room that received very little sun. It was too cold and uninviting for a receiving salon. As no one was within, Phoebe stepped across the threshold to have a
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