Read Online When the Duchess Said Yes by Isabella Bradford - Free Book Online Page B

off herhead. Hawkesworth wasn’t about to let her go. This kiss was purposeful and relentless, with none of the sweetness she remembered from the last time. But to her consternation, the more she fought against him, the more arousing the kiss became. It was almost as if he’d magically taken her anger and turned it against her, changing it into something equally fiery but very different. Soon she realized she’d not only stopped fighting but had curled her hands possessively over his shoulders. She liked how he tasted, how he smelled, how he kissed, and how his body felt pressed against hers. She liked all that a great deal.
    What she didn’t like, however, was him , and with that as a reminder, she finally broke free, though she remained rocked back against his arm, her hands resting peacefully upon his red-silk-covered chest.
    “Why did you do that?” she demanded, though as demands went, it was quite pathetic, and more a breathy whisper.
    He smiled down at her with pure male triumph and happiness, the first real smile she’d seen from him that day.
    “I wasn’t sure you were the same woman I’d kissed before,” he said. “And thank God, you are.”
    “You’re—you’re vile ,” she sputtered, shoving hard against his chest. He let her go and didn’t try to stop her as she hurried away from him, her heels crunching on the shell path. She had never been this disgusted with herself.
    He might even have laughed.
    “Why, Lizzie, here you are,” Charlotte said as she reached the summerhouse. She sat with a teacup in one hand and surprise on her face—surprise, and questions, too. Self-consciously Lizzie reached up to smooth her hair. She hadn’t realized that her elaborately arranged hair was coming unpinned and that a tangled, heavypiece of it was flopping awkwardly over her left shoulder. She shoved it back behind her ear and folded her hands neatly at her waist as if nothing untoward had happened.
    “Lady Elizabeth,” Hawkesworth called, coming up behind her. “Your hat.”
    “Thank you,” she said with murderous civility. She snatched the hat from his hands and jammed it back atop her head. “Sir.”
    “How chivalrous of you, Hawke,” Brecon said, helping himself to another tea cake. “What delightful lovebirds! Have we determined a date for the wedding, then?”
    “Never,” Lizzie said, and before anyone could say otherwise, she turned on her heel and fled to the house.
    As much as Hawke enjoyed company, there were definitely times when solitude held a special allure.
    After yesterday’s unfortunate afternoon at Marchbourne House, he wasn’t sure he ever wished to venture into company again, leastwise not company that included his cousins or the woman he was ostensibly to wed. After a merciless night of unrest, he gave up on trying to sleep as the sun was rising, and to Giacomo’s dismay carried his coffee himself downstairs to the old ballroom.
    Since returning to London, he’d turned the ballroom into his makeshift picture gallery. In Italy, art wasn’t an ornamental flourish but a part of life, and Hawke had embraced it like one more lover. Even as a boy he’d been fascinated by the murky portraits and landscapes that had hung in their houses, and he’d secretly stare at them for hours; it had been one of the deeper conflicts with his father, who had wanted him to take an interest in something more useful if tedious, like politics.
    It wasn’t until Hawke had traveled to Italy that he’dbeen finally free to indulge himself. He’d collected pictures not like most Englishmen did—for their prestige and monetary value—but simply because he liked them. They amused him, pleased him, and brought him peace. He’d brought a score of his favorites along with him from Bella Collina, the ones he couldn’t bear to leave behind, and this morning they were all the company he wanted.
    He’d arranged the paintings himself, some on easels and others leaning against the walls of the vast,