PortraitofPassion (3 page)

She looked back at the silent man before her. His face had
relaxed into a composed, assessing countenance, the smallest smile pulling at
his lips. He leaned forward to rest his crossed hands upon the pommel of his
saddle.

“My lord?” she asked, for there seemed to be a question
waiting in his eyes.

He continued to regard her silently.

Bea laughed nervously as the breeze lifted a long lock of
her hair and blew it across her face, momentarily blinding her. She raised both
hands to gather the wind-whipped and tangled mass into a tail at the back of
her head. Lord Easton’s eyes dropped to her breasts, pushed up and forward by
the lift of her arms. She froze. His gaze seemed to caress her as he slowly
raised it from her breasts, to travel up her chest to her neck, to hesitate
upon her lips where the remnants of her laughter lingered, before arriving at
her eyes once more.

Bea knew she was blushing. How ridiculous. He was certainly
not the first man to look upon her with appreciation. Lust. She knew all about
lust and passion and desire, and the ways in which people, men and women, would
injure themselves and those they loved to satisfy it.

She had learned early how to deflect a man’s advances with
smiles and laughter. She had learned to tease him into joining her amusement
and leaving the lust behind. It had seemed the safest way, to pretend not to
see, not to understand what they wanted, to turn an amorous gentleman into a
friend with no loss of pride, no feelings of rejection.

But this was different, this man was different. She could
feel his desire, like a living thing, reaching across the space that separated
them, calling to her.

She would not answer it. She would not allow herself to fall
into that trap.

She looked away from him, back toward the path the horses
had trod only minutes before. She saw her hat, her new riding hat with its
narrow brim and tall body, styled to look like a man’s, lying upon its side in
the grass.

She looked back at Easton and forced her lips into a teasing
smile as she cocked an eyebrow.

And then, oh then, he was his father all over again. His
father whom she had loved nearly as much as she had loved her own. Simon
Carlisle, Viscount Easton threw his head back and laughed. And it was a great
booming laugh that shook his frame and startled his mount. It drew the other
two gentlemen’s surprised gazes and brought them over to join the laughing
viscount and his smiling companion.
My God
, Bea thought, it was so good
to hear that laughter, to know that she was in some way responsible for it. She
hoped that he would be like the others and allow the desire to be washed away
by the laughter.

Easton dismounted from his horse and walked away to retrieve
her fallen hat and Bea turned her smile upon Hastings, who dismounted to assist
her from her horse. She gathered her loose hair and pulled it forward to hold
it securely away from the wind’s grasp.

“That bonnet is ever so pretty, both in looks and price,”
Bea said, as she arched and stretched to loosen the muscles of her lower back.
The lady’s saddle was pure torture.

“And I am quite certain you shall look beautiful wearing it
perched just so atop your head,” he replied.

“Our Bea looks beautiful in whatever hat she dons,” Bertie
said, joining them on the ground, “but surely she is most beautiful with her
hair flying free behind her as she races toward the finish line.”

“So she is,” Hastings agreed with a smile. “I am only sorry
I could not stop to enjoy the picture she made. But alas, I was trying to beat
her to that finish line.”

“Perhaps you should paint yourself just so, my girl,” Bertie
suggested.

“Have you ever painted a self-portrait?” Hastings asked as
Easton walked up beside her with her hat.

She held out her hand but instead of the hat, he placed
three hairpins in her palm. She met his eyes briefly before she looked up at
Hastings. “No, I prefer to capture faces I find interesting. I have been
looking upon my own for far too long to find it of any interest.”

“But if you could capture that moment when your hair fell
back only to be picked up by the wind…what a painting that would be,” Bertie
exclaimed.

Bea laughed at his foolishness. “I have no idea how I looked
at that moment. How could I possibly paint it?”

“I can describe it,” Easton said quietly. Three pairs of
eyes swung in his direction. There was a beat of absolute silence.

“But surely you were too far away,” Hastings pointed out.
“And her horse was flying. You could not have seen the expression on her face.”

“I can describe it,” he said again. Bea turned and looked
away from him, from all of them, to gather her hair into a loose bun at the
base of her neck. She took her time securing it with the hairpins. She needed a
few moments to gather her wits. The way he had said it, so sure, as if he had
the image captured in his mind. And perhaps he did. She closed her eyes and
there he was, sitting on his horse, his eyes intent, his jaw hard, his face a
picture of—what? She wondered. Desire she had recognized but there had been
more. Shock? Restraint? Contempt? Perhaps some combination? She didn’t know.
She told herself she didn’t want to know.

With her hair confined to her bun and her wits restored to
some semblance of normalcy, Bea turned back to address the gentlemen. “I for
one would certainly enjoy a lemon ice right about now.”

“By all means, Miss Morgan.” Hastings threw out his arm,
motioning her to precede him. The little group walked along the path, leading
their horses along with them.

Bea smiled and laughed at the comments exchanged between
Bertie and Hastings as they recounted the more memorable moments of the race.
She was mindful of a quiet Easton following behind them. She reached one hand
behind her to massage the cramped muscles of her lower back. She imagined she
could feel his gaze, hot and hard, following the movement. She dropped her arm
to her side self-consciously. Then a mischievous urge to provoke him rose up in
her. Rarely one to avoid such urges, she exaggerated the swing of her hips. She
couldn’t be sure but she thought she heard him utter a curse, low and hard.

She looked back over her shoulder to find him stopped cold.
He whipped his gaze up from her swaying bottom to her eyes. She laughed softly
before asking, “My lord, is there a problem? You seem to be lagging behind. Is
the walk too much for you? Perhaps you would rather ride?”

“Come on, old man,” teased Hastings before continuing on
with Bertie.

Bea slowed her pace until Lord Easton was beside her,
leaving Bertie and Hastings to their talk of horses and races gone by.

“You, Miss Morgan, are trouble,” Easton said. His voice was
quiet, just above a whisper.

“Please call me Beatrice,” she responded, peering at him
from below her lashes. “We are friends, after all.”

“Friends?” he asked with an arch of his brow.

“I certainly hope so,” she answered. “I am quite short of
friends in London, and even if I weren’t, I would still wish to count you my
friend.”

“As you count Hastings your friend?” he asked.

“You wonder about my fondness for your cousin.” She knew he
did. She had seen the way he watched her last night. That exaggerated curtsy,
that moment when she and Hastings had stood, hands clasped, smiling at one
another.

“The thought has crossed my mind that the two of you are
quite familiar.”

“Too familiar?” She knew the answer. She wanted to hear him
say it. She wanted to bring it out into the light, to a certain degree, of
course. She would not share all with him. But she truly wanted them to be
friends. For his father. For herself. And for him. He seemed in need of a
friend.

“Much too familiar.” She waited but he said no more. So it
would be up to her.

“Henry is not my lover.” She said it boldly, knowing he
would find her words and the use of Hastings’ given name shockingly improper,
perhaps even vulgar.

His gaze shot to her face but she continued to look straight
ahead, willing herself not to blush, or laugh. From the corner of her eye she
could see the look of absolute shock that flashed across his face. He coughed,
and she couldn’t hold the laughter back any longer. But when it came, it was
softer than she would have wanted, uneven and choppy. She heard the catch in
her breathing and hoped he missed it.

She waited impatiently for him to speak. Surely he was not
going to force her to do this alone. He must have questions. He was clearly
protective of his younger cousin.

“I am sorry if I have shocked you,” she began.

“No, you are not,” he interrupted. “You did it
intentionally.”

She waited a beat before shrugging one shoulder. “Perhaps,”
she answered.

“Why?” he asked. There was a note in his quiet voice, a note
she had not heard before. It sounded like more than curiosity. It sounded
suspiciously like confusion.

“I don’t know,” she answered before honesty compelled her to
say, “No, that isn’t true.”

He continued walking quietly beside her.
He has the
patience of a saint
, Bea thought. It was exasperating!

“I think you are a man who needs to be shocked,” she finally
admitted.

“I see.” He seemed to ponder her words. At least she thought
he must be pondering her words. He walked on beside her, looking straight
ahead, no discernible expression upon his handsome face.
Say something
,
she felt like shrieking.

“Oh for goodness sake!” She threw up her hands, startling
Lancelot, who bumped into her. She stumbled and would have fallen into the
quiet, annoyingly patient man beside her had he not reached up with his free
hand to grasp her firmly by the shoulder. Unfortunately, in an attempt to catch
her balance, Bea shifted ever so slightly toward him. His hand glanced off her
shoulder and fell to land on her breast. And as if that weren’t quite shocking
enough, for both of them, he had been about to grab her shoulder to steady her,
so when his hand landed, it didn’t just rest there. It grabbed. His hand
squeezed her breast, not hard enough to hurt, but certainly hard enough that
she felt it clear through the layers of her thick velvet riding habit, stays
and chemise.

Bea froze. Easton froze. His hand froze upon her breast.
True, he was no longer squeezing. But he did not remove his hand. Her gaze shot
up to his face.
My God,
his eyes.
They were hot, hot and dark,
and boring into hers. And before she could stop herself, she leaned ever so
slightly forward, fitting herself more firmly into the palm of his hand.
Glorious, she thought with a sigh. The warmth of his hand upon her breast, the
warmth of his eyes upon her face was simply glorious.

Easton blinked once, twice, and then she watched in fascination
as his eyelids fluttered closed. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment,
let it out slowly so that it caressed her face. His eyes opened. There was the
smallest of smiles pulling at the corners of his lips as he gently, oh so
gently, squeezed the flesh that still rested in the palm of his hand.

Bea found herself starved for air. She dragged in a quick
breath, filling her lungs and forcing her breast hard against his hand. She
held herself still, not daring to move for fear that he would lift his hand
from her. Her eyelids grew heavy but she was afraid to break the connection,
afraid if she closed her eyes he would remove his hand. She imagined that she
held it there with her gaze. She felt nearly faint with the pleasure of his
hand upon her, and that smile teasing his lips.

He relaxed his hand and she released her breath with a soft
moan. He groaned in response, deep in his throat, so that she felt it more than
heard it. His fingers flexed, kneading her aching flesh, sending an arrow of
shivery heat from her breast to her womb. Instinctively, she clenched her
thighs together, trapping the delicious sensation, savoring it.

He dropped his gaze to her lips and bent his head toward
her. Instinctively, she tilted her head back to receive his kiss. She watched
his lips descend toward hers, slowly, oh so slowly, giving her time to withdraw
if she chose. She didn’t. She wanted his kiss. Oh how she wanted his kiss. She
felt his breath on her lips and finally her eyes closed.

His lips had barely touched hers when Bertie’s booming laugh
penetrated the quiet. Bea’s eyes flew open to see Easton jump back, his hand
plunging to his side. As she watched, a pink flush crept from his neck, visible
above his cravat, to cover his face.

“Christ,” he growled.

Bea was mortified. She had let Simon Carlisle, Viscount
Easton, William’s son, fondle her in broad daylight in the middle of Hyde Park.
Anyone could have seen them. Henry could have turned back to look at them at
any moment. Dear God. She had lost her mind.

“You must forgive me, Miss Morgan.” He had moved a few paces
away and was straightening his cravat.

“No, please, Easton,” she managed to say. “It was entirely
my fault.”

“Yours?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes.” She couldn’t allow him to take the blame. “It was me,
flaunting my hips before you. My goodness, I practically threw my breast into
your hand and then…oh my God, and then I willed you to kiss me!” She turned
from him and buried her burning face against Lancelot’s smooth neck.

“You willed me to kiss you?” he asked on a groan.

She couldn’t look at him. She was too embarrassed to face
him. She threw her arms around the horse’s neck and nodded, bumping Lancelot in
the process. The horse turned his great head and she felt his cold muzzle
prodding her shoulder. And still she held on. She could never meet his eyes
again.

“Beatrice.” She heard his soft voice directly behind her and
knew he was standing close. Too close.

She released her grip upon Lancelot and gently shoved the
horse to arm’s length. She needed room. She needed air. She needed to be as far
away from Easton as she could get.