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Authors: Daphne du Bois
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abduction!” her eyes were flashing furious fire at him as her voice became stronger in her anger.
“Abduction? I think not, Miss Barrington. We are merely taking a turn about the park. Now, do cease with the dramatics. The turn will do you good. You are much too tightly wound.”
“I assure you, I am getting no enjoyment out of this turn , my lord, and I request that you keep your opinions to yourself.” Araminta found that she was lying — the exhilaration of driving at such high speed, the derring-do of being seen behaving so scandalously sent a certain thrill through her. It was a thrill which she knew she had no business feeling and to which she would never admit. Her heart was pounding in her ears, the wind on her face was invigorating. She was a little disappointed when Chestleton slowed the horses to a reasonable trot.
“Now, Miss Barrington, that I have you all to myself, whatever should I do with you?” His voice seemed to caress her. His inflections twisted around Araminta as he turned to look at her, and she was lost in his wickedly suggestive eyes. Her breath grew shallow, and she had to forcibly shake herself out of the inexplicable daze, sternly reminding herself of the identity of the smouldering man next to her.
“I assure you, sir, that whatever impropriety you have planned for me, I will not succumb to it willingly,” she informed him with icy primness, looking away from his eyes. They were on a shaded drive now, out of view of other carriages and walkers. She wondered how much more of this proximity she could withstand before descending into madness.
His chuckle was a dark rumble in his chest. A leather-encased hand left the reins to take a gentle yet persistent hold of her chin, turning her face to meet his eyes once again. His eyes were dark as he looked her over intently, and she struggled to utter a single word of breathless protest as a gloved hand stroked her soft lips.
He leant closer to her and her eyes fluttered closed involuntarily. She was transported. She was no longer in the middle of a public park with a man dangerous to both her reputation and her sanity — she was somewhere else, a different world with all the usual rules suspended and forgotten. She let herself imagine she was a heroine in one of her adventure novels: a captive princess, and he the handsome pirate who had captured her. She waited for the feeling of his lips on hers, felt his warm breath ghost over face and a shiver pass through her. There was a strange warmth in her stomach at his proximity.
“I am not so sure,” he murmured, inches away from her lips, as she trembled slightly in anticipation.
It was like a bucket of icy water thrown over her, realisation as cold as snow down the back of her neck. She gasped and flung herself away, retreating to the furthest corner of the seat and pressing herself against the side of the vehicle. Her dark blue eyes wide with disbelief and shock, she stared at him as though expecting him to turn into a monster before her very eyes. Her breathing was laboured, her cheeks pink, and she felt as if her whole face was on fire where he had touched her. As if he had branded her, or laid some sort of claim she could not quite understand.
He regarded her with steady, impassive elegance as she gathered her wits about her. Araminta had just come face to face with the reason why this man had the reputation that he did. The phaeton had come to a halt. She looked about them, expecting to see gawking, outraged faces, but was met only with greenery. Allowing herself to sag with relief, she still stared up at him warily.
“I am,” she replied, the slight hitch in her voice counter-productive to the steady confidence she had hoped to convey. Chestleton had the good grace not to remark on it, though she found his impassive expression particularly humiliating. She would not become the next Violet Grey, even if his steely eyes compelled her to throw all propriety to the wind.
“You must
“Abduction? I think not, Miss Barrington. We are merely taking a turn about the park. Now, do cease with the dramatics. The turn will do you good. You are much too tightly wound.”
“I assure you, I am getting no enjoyment out of this turn , my lord, and I request that you keep your opinions to yourself.” Araminta found that she was lying — the exhilaration of driving at such high speed, the derring-do of being seen behaving so scandalously sent a certain thrill through her. It was a thrill which she knew she had no business feeling and to which she would never admit. Her heart was pounding in her ears, the wind on her face was invigorating. She was a little disappointed when Chestleton slowed the horses to a reasonable trot.
“Now, Miss Barrington, that I have you all to myself, whatever should I do with you?” His voice seemed to caress her. His inflections twisted around Araminta as he turned to look at her, and she was lost in his wickedly suggestive eyes. Her breath grew shallow, and she had to forcibly shake herself out of the inexplicable daze, sternly reminding herself of the identity of the smouldering man next to her.
“I assure you, sir, that whatever impropriety you have planned for me, I will not succumb to it willingly,” she informed him with icy primness, looking away from his eyes. They were on a shaded drive now, out of view of other carriages and walkers. She wondered how much more of this proximity she could withstand before descending into madness.
His chuckle was a dark rumble in his chest. A leather-encased hand left the reins to take a gentle yet persistent hold of her chin, turning her face to meet his eyes once again. His eyes were dark as he looked her over intently, and she struggled to utter a single word of breathless protest as a gloved hand stroked her soft lips.
He leant closer to her and her eyes fluttered closed involuntarily. She was transported. She was no longer in the middle of a public park with a man dangerous to both her reputation and her sanity — she was somewhere else, a different world with all the usual rules suspended and forgotten. She let herself imagine she was a heroine in one of her adventure novels: a captive princess, and he the handsome pirate who had captured her. She waited for the feeling of his lips on hers, felt his warm breath ghost over face and a shiver pass through her. There was a strange warmth in her stomach at his proximity.
“I am not so sure,” he murmured, inches away from her lips, as she trembled slightly in anticipation.
It was like a bucket of icy water thrown over her, realisation as cold as snow down the back of her neck. She gasped and flung herself away, retreating to the furthest corner of the seat and pressing herself against the side of the vehicle. Her dark blue eyes wide with disbelief and shock, she stared at him as though expecting him to turn into a monster before her very eyes. Her breathing was laboured, her cheeks pink, and she felt as if her whole face was on fire where he had touched her. As if he had branded her, or laid some sort of claim she could not quite understand.
He regarded her with steady, impassive elegance as she gathered her wits about her. Araminta had just come face to face with the reason why this man had the reputation that he did. The phaeton had come to a halt. She looked about them, expecting to see gawking, outraged faces, but was met only with greenery. Allowing herself to sag with relief, she still stared up at him warily.
“I am,” she replied, the slight hitch in her voice counter-productive to the steady confidence she had hoped to convey. Chestleton had the good grace not to remark on it, though she found his impassive expression particularly humiliating. She would not become the next Violet Grey, even if his steely eyes compelled her to throw all propriety to the wind.
“You must
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