The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel (10 page)

The thunder of paws grew softer and softer until one could hear a howl only now and again. “I’m sure that the ladies will want to say hello, but beyond that they’ll be of little help with the cub hunt,” Bennington answered casually. “Sherry will be served on the terrace. Please go on ahead,” he suggested, gesturing down the hall to where a set of glass-paned doors stood ajar. “I’ll just check in on the ladies—make sure that Titus hasn’t swallowed a servant. Or worse. I’ll be but a moment.”

Marcus threw him an amused smile before Bennington took the stairs two at a time, disappearing onto the upper floor.

He walked slowly down the hall, peering in several open doorways as he went. The house was well appointed and in perfect order, nary a speck of dust to be found in sight. He reached the open terrace doors, noting the expanse of manicured lawn and gardens that lay just beyond.

There was something lighter—airier—about Bennington’s home than his own, though Marcus couldn’t be sure what precisely caused him to think such a thing. Bennington himself, perhaps, whose good nature was infectious. Or maybe it was the man’s pregnant wife.

“Woof!”

Titus’s deep bark echoed through the house. Marcus noted the sound wasn’t coming from the front, where the stairs were, but somewhere off to his right.

He wandered in the general direction of the noise, passing through several rooms until he found himself at the foot of the servants’ stairs.

“Please, Titus. Do behave yourself,” a female voice urgently whispered.

“Woof.”

Clumsy footsteps sounded on the stairs, followed immediately by the loud, untidy gait of one enormous dog.

“Titus!” the voice implored in another loud whisper, followed quickly by “Bad dog!” as the footfalls turned to a rhythmic bumping.

“Woof!”

“Drat!”

Marcus jumped back as Titus slipped, tumbled, and crashed down the stairs, Miss Tisdale sliding down closely behind.

“A pleasure to see you, Miss Tisdale,” Marcus said with amusement, hiding a smile at the surprise on Miss Tisdale’s face.

She’d clearly slid nearly the entire length of the staircase on her bottom, landing with her printed walking dress pushed to her knees. Her attempt to stop herself before crashing into the rear of the big dog had her stretched out on the stair treads so that her head now rested on the fifth step from the bottom. Hairpins were scattered on the upper steps. What once was surely a presentable chignon was now reduced to a cascade of long shining auburn curls.

Marcus could not recollect ever witnessing a lady in such a state.

Nor could he recall being quite so aroused.

Her eyes went round as saucers as she surveyed the damage. “Lord Weston?!”

He bent to assist with her dress, though he secretly hoped to accidentally skim the creamy expanse of her leg in the process. “Is that a question, Miss Tisdale, or a proclamation?”

“My limbs!” she choked out, apparently in shock.

Marcus bent down so that they were face-to-face. “Miss Tisdale, is there something wrong with your legs?”

She reached for her skirt and awkwardly attempted to
cover herself. “I cannot imagine what you must be thinking. I really—”

Marcus impulsively reached out and touched his forefinger to her lips, quieting her instantly. “Miss Tisdale, my only thought is for your safety.”

Her eyes, no longer saucers, had gone all dewy, and Marcus feared his ability to control his body’s urging. He took his finger from her soft mouth and held out his arm.

“Seems a rather dangerous way to amuse oneself, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked mildly as she grasped his arm and allowed him to pull her upright.

The moment she was on her feet, Miss Tisdale snatched her fingers away from Marcus’s arm and set about straightening her attire and hair. “You’d do better to ask Titus, Lord Weston, as I had very little to say in the matter. I typically make use of my feet when leaving Bennington House, rather than my—” She halted, her brow furrowing as she searched for the right word.

“Were you hiding again, Miss Tisdale?” Marcus asked suddenly, deftly taking a hairpin from her hand and gesturing for her to turn.

She looked to refuse him and, really, Marcus wouldn’t have been surprised. The request was completely improper. But she obeyed, slowly revolving until she stood with her back to him. “From what, Lord Weston?” she asked hesitantly.

“From me.”

Her breath caught as he gently twisted a curl and effortlessly pinned it into place.

He reached for more pins, his fingers brushing her forearm lightly, stirring the heat low in his belly. “I apologize, Miss Tisdale, if I’ve offended you. Your nature seems to elicit the most unexpected behavior from me.”

“Is that so?” she asked, turning back to face him.

He surveyed his handiwork, adjusting one final curl,
which slid seductively near her chin. “Honestly? Yes, quite,” he countered, the feel of her hair making him want to reel her in, inch by inch, and take her in his arms.

“Interesting,” she said simply. “And I was not hiding from you. I was avoiding you. Two different things altogether.”

He could not help himself. Her complete lack of guile was entrancing. He gently tugged until there was no more than a breath between them. “Why?”

“Because of this,” she answered, then closed the distance between them with a kiss.

She was unschooled in the ways of sensuality, that much was obvious. But her innocent boldness captured Marcus instantly, the feel of her lips against his—so eager, so true—urged him on, his arm wrapping around her waist with instinctive possession.

She murmured incoherently and pressed closer, her breasts tight against his chest.

“Weston?” Bennington’s voice echoed from the front of the house, breaking the spell.

Miss Tisdale pulled back, shock and surprise in her eyes. “And I do not hide, Lord Weston. I run, and it just so happens that no one to date has been able to keep up.”

And with that she turned quickly and fled, Titus galloping behind.

It was a lovely day to be out-of-doors, though Sarah suspected the quick clip of her escape from Bennington House would be felt ever so sorely by her muscles in the morning.

It was just that: an escape. But from what—or, perhaps more accurately, from whom?

Sarah forced herself to slow to a walk, Titus bumping her with his head in approval.

She’d kissed him. There was no point in denying the fact. He’d in turn pulled her close until her breasts pressed up against his chest in a most delicious manner. And deepened the kiss in an expert fashion. And nearly coaxed a moan of pleasure from her throat that would have, in all likelihood, set Titus to barking.

But she’d started it all.

Sarah anxiously pulled the pins from her hair that Lord Weston had carefully put back into place. If experience had taught her anything, it was that following through on sudden desires almost always ended badly.

Suggesting that Lord Blackwood find a hat that housed both his head and his enormous ears, if only to keep them from the sun. Advising Lord Bishop as to the miraculous effects of peppermints on noxious breath. Both said with the utmost of care, yet taken, well, in a word, badly.

She touched her lips, still tingling with sensitivity. Sarah could not classify the kiss itself as bad—quite the opposite, actually. And Lord Weston’s willing participation surely was a good sign. Wasn’t it?

She forcefully ran her fingers through her mussed locks, the sensation so stimulating as to be nearly painful. “What do you want, Sarah Tisdale?” she asked herself out loud, kicking viciously at a rock in the path.

And what does Lord Weston want?
she thought, kicking the rock a second time and sending it skittering off into the trees.

True, the man had not been deterred by Titus at the lake. Nor by Sarah’s flight from Dixon. Even her fall down the stairs barely elicited a response from the man—well, a negative one anyway. And he’d failed to mention her silly blunder with regard to her mother’s intentions—which Sarah was immensely grateful for.

Any other suitor would have run for his life somewhere between the first and second incident.

Titus retrieved the rock and loped back onto the path, proudly dropping the treasure at Sarah’s feet.

But Lord Weston is no suitor
, she reminded herself. There had been no declaration of interest. Only fleeting moments. And though one of those had involved a kiss, it was hardly a proposal for something more.

Something more?
Sarah stared down at the rock, Titus’s panting the only sound she could hear.

“Bloodiest of bloody hells.”

She kicked the rock with all of her might and watched as it flew down the path.

What did she know of Lord Weston, really? That he was handsome and wealthy, with—one must assume of such a man—some experience in the ways of love. Sarah had lived a sheltered life. But she’d heard enough gossip to know that men of Lord Weston’s ilk did not, as a general rule, wait for their wedding night to dip their wicks.

What had she gotten herself into?

Feeling dizzy, Sarah bent at the waist and dropped her torso, closing her eyes tightly.

“We’ll lighten you of your jewels now, mademoiselle,” a voice said in a low tone, the feigned French accent more comical than frightening.

Sarah opened her eyes to discover the dusty toes of a familiar pair of boots in front of her. She rose slowly, taking in the faded breeches and untucked linen shirt, then finally the endearing face of her brother.

Sarah smiled and planted a kiss on the boy’s forehead. “Nigel, dear, I’ve no jewels to be taken, as you well know.”

“Ew.”

“Blimey.”

Sarah smiled sweetly at Nigel, whose cheeks were turning red before her eyes, then looked behind him. Jasper Wilmington and Clive Burroughs, Nigel’s fellow
highwaymen, stood in aghast wonder at the kiss their poor friend had just endured.

“Boys, do any of you wish to lighten me of my belongings?” Sarah asked, taking a step toward them.

Nigel and Clive leapt back in fear.

“You wouldn’t,” Jasper asserted, holding steady, though he looked to be wavering.

Sarah took another step forward. “Wouldn’t I?”

“Oh, hell, it’s not worth it,” Jasper said before lunging out of Sarah’s way just as she began to pucker her lips.

The other boys broke out in laughter until all three were wrestling good-naturedly on the dirt path.

Sarah watched them for a moment, wondering at the way in which the males of her species seemed to so easily be taken off course.

“Boys?” she asked, the sound of grunts and such drowning out her voice.

“Boys?” she shouted, this time capturing their collective attention.

One by one they stopped, until the dust settled around them. “What is it, Sarah?” Nigel asked, clearly having forgotten that it was he who had sought her attention in the first place.

“Did you come looking for me or was your attack purely serendipity?”

All three of the boys uttered a forgetful “Oh” in unison, Nigel standing first then lending a hand to the rest. “Right. We’ve come for Titus, actually.”

The dog, who until this point had been happily rolling in the remains of a dead animal, stopped what he was doing at the sound of his name and came running to Sarah.

Sarah pinched her nose with two fingers and began to breathe out of her mouth. “You won’t be getting up to no good, will you?”

All of the boys in Lulworth—and most of the grown
men as well—had dealings with the smugglers who ran goods from France across the Channel. It was more of a game to them than anything else and, as far as Sarah could tell, it was a harmless one at that.

Her own father bought vast quantities of fine French brandy from the men, many of whom made their homes up and down the Weymouth coast.

No one had been taken into custody for smuggling in as long as anyone could remember. And Sarah hardly wished for Nigel to be the first.

“Titus will see to that, Sarah,” Nigel assured, making to pat the brute on the head, then, as the wind shifted, thinking twice and pinching his nose instead.

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Remember, he’s a colossal coward. He’ll be the first to run at any sign of danger,” she warned, looking down at the slobbering dog.

“I know, Sarah. It’s his size that matters,” Nigel replied, adding “Though I think the stench will serve him well today.”

“Come on then, we’ll be late,” Jasper pressed, turning to head south. Clive followed him, but Nigel hesitated.

“You’re going straight home, aren’t you?” he asked, looking toward the setting sun.

Sarah shooed him off teasingly. “Of course. And if anyone dares bother me I’ll simply threaten to kiss him.”

Nigel made a disgusted face then loped off after his friends, calling for Titus to join him.

The big dog licked Sarah’s hand then took off down the path toward adventure.

Leaving Sarah to wonder at the irony to be found in a kiss.

Marcus had never enjoyed the hunt. Be it stag or fox, the Highlands of Scotland or the coast of England, the
excitement that most men found in the act left Marcus cold.

Trips with his uncle Calum, where he’d learned the nuances of tracking and cleanly killing the beast—well, that had been altogether different. Of course, it had just been the two of them, and he’d not been on assignment.

As he surveyed his fellow hunters from his saddle, Marcus wondered what would be revealed today. People tended to let down their guards in a hunt, all sorts of unsavory aspects of their personalities tumbling out amid the noise and action of the event.

“Sizing up the competition, Lord Weston?”

Marcus peered over his right shoulder to where Lady Bennington approached. “Should I be?” he asked, nodding in greeting.

“No, not really,” she answered with a mischievous smile. She lovingly petted Pokey’s neck, cooing to the Thoroughbred as if he were a puppy.

“And how will the ladies be spending their day?” Marcus asked, looking to where the female houseguests milled about on the expansive lawn just beyond.

Claire gave Pokey one last pat then turned her attention to Marcus. “Far from the hunt, my lord. It’s a fine day for a bit of watercolor painting, I believe.”