Regency Rogues: Outrageous Scandal: In Bed with the Duke / A Mistress for Major Bartlett. ANNIE BURROWS
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if only she hadn’t gone so damned quiet, leaving him to stew over his own principles to the extent that he was now practically boiling over.
What was the matter with her? Earlier on she’d been a most entertaining companion. He’d enjoyed watching her haggle her way through the market. She’d even induced many of the stallholders to let her sample their wares, so that they’d already eaten plenty, in tiny increments, by the time they’d left the town with what they’d actually purchased.
But for a while now she’d been trudging along beside him, her head down, her replies to his few attempts to make conversation monosyllabic.
Had he done something to offend her?
Well, if she thought he was going to coax her out of the sullens, she could think again. He didn’t pander to women’s moods. One never knew what caused them, and when they were in them nothing a man did was going to be right. So why bother?
‘How far?’ she suddenly said, jolting him from his preoccupation with morals and the vexing question of whether they were inconvenient encumbrances to a man getting what he wanted or necessary bars to descending into depravity. ‘How far is it to wherever you’re planning to take me?’
‘Somewhat further than I’d thought,’ he replied testily. When people talked about distances as the crow flies, the pertinent fact was that crows could fly. They didn’t have to tramp round the edges of muddy fields looking for gates or stiles to get through impenetrable hedges, or wander upstream and down until they could find a place to ford a swiftly running brook.
‘So when do you think we might arrive?’
He glanced at the sky. ‘It looks as though the weather is going to stay fair. It should be a clear night. If we keep going we might make it some time before dawn tomorrow.’
She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob.
‘Prudence?’ He looked at her. Really looked at her for the first time since they’d left the outskirts of town. ‘Prudence, you aren’t crying, are you?’
She wiped her hand across her face and sniffed. ‘No, of course not,’ she said.
‘Of course not,’ he agreed, though she clearly was. Which gave him a strange, panicky sort of feeling.
There must be something seriously wrong for a woman like Prudence to start weeping. A woman who’d been abandoned by her guardians, left to the care of a total stranger, had thought up the notion of singing for pennies with which to buy provisions so he could keep back his gold watch for emergencies, and then gone toe to toe with him about how to spend money she was proud of having earned herself—no, that wasn’t the kind of person who burst into tears for no good reason.
Was it?
‘Look, there’s a barn over there,’ he said, pointing across the rise to the next field. ‘We can stop there for the night if you like,’ he offered, even though he’d vowed only two minutes earlier not to pander to her mood. After all, it wasn’t as if she was crying simply to get attention. On the contrary, she looked more as though she was ashamed of weeping, and was trying to conceal her tears behind sniffles and surreptitious face-wiping.
‘You will feel much more the thing in the morning.’
‘Oh.’
She lifted her head and pushed a handful of wayward curls from her forehead in a gesture that filled him with relief. Because when they’d first set out she’d done so at regular intervals. Without a bonnet, or a hairbrush to tame her curls, they rioted all over her face at the slightest provocation. But as the day had worn on she’d done so less and less. She’d been walking for the last hour with her head hanging down, watching her feet rather than looking around at the countryside through which they were trudging.
‘Well, I don’t mind stopping there if you wish to rest,’ she said.
She was drooping with exhaustion, but would rather suffer in silence than admit to weakness.
All of a sudden a wave of something very far from lust swept through him. It felt like...affection. No, no—not that! It was admiration—that was all. Coupled with a completely natural wish to put a smile back on that weary, woebegone face.
As they got nearer the barn he started casting about in a very exaggerated manner. Tired as she was, she couldn’t help noticing the way he veered from side to side, stooping to inspect the ground.
‘What are you looking for?’ She turned impatiently, as though getting inside that barn was crucial.
‘A rock,’ he said.
‘A rock?’ She frowned at him. ‘What on earth do you want a rock for? Aren’t there enough in your head already?’
‘Oh, very funny,’ he replied. ‘No, I was just thinking,’ he carried on, with what he hoped was an expression of complete innocence, ‘of giving you some practice.’
‘Practice?’
‘Yes. You claimed you weren’t able to hit a barn door when you threw that rock at me. I just thought that now we have a barn here for you to use as target practice you might like to...’
‘In the morning,’ she said, her lips pulling into a tight line, ‘I may just take you up on your generous offer of using this poor innocent building as target practice. For now, though, all I want to do is get inside, get my shoes off and lie down.’
So saying, she plunged through the door, which was hanging off its hinges, and disappeared into the gloomy interior. Leaving him to mull over the fact that, in spite of deciding that coaxing a female out of the sullens was beneath him, he’d just done precisely that.
With about as much success as he’d ever had.
The barn was almost empty. It looked as though the farmer had used up most of last year’s crop of hay over the winter. Though there was enough, still, piled up against the far wall, to provide them with a reasonably soft bed for the night.
Clearly Prudence thought so, because she made straight for it, sat down, and eased off her shoes with a little moan of relief.
His own progress across the barn was much slower. She was too tempting—in so many ways.
‘Miss Carstairs...’ he said.
Yes, that was a good beginning. He must not call her Prudence. That had probably been where he’d gone wrong just now. He’d called her Prudence when he’d thought she was crying, and then he’d started trying to think of ways to make her smile, rather than ignoring her poor mood. He had to preserve a proper distance between them, now more than ever, or who knew how it would end? With him flinging himself down on top of her and ravishing her on that pile of hay, like as not. Because he was too aware that she had nothing on beneath her gown. That her breasts were easily accessible.
He’d tell her that he had her stays in his valise and beg her to put them back on in the morning—that was what he would do.
Though that would still leave her legs bare. From her ankles all the way up to her... Up to her... He swallowed. All the way up. Whenever he’d caught a brief glimpse of her ankles today that was all he’d been able to think of. Those bare legs. And what awaited at the top of them.
Now that she’d removed her shoes, her feet were bare, too. Whatever he did, he must not look at her toes. If thoughts of her breasts and glimpses of her ankles had managed to work him up into such a lather, then seeing her toes might well tip him over the edge. There was something incredibly improper about toes. A woman’s toes, at any rate. Probably because a man only ever saw them if he’d taken her to bed. And not always then. Some women preferred to keep their stockings on.
Just as he was thinking about the feel of a woman’s stockinged leg, rubbing up and down his bare calves, Prudence